The Alchemist's Daughter. Elaine Knighton
“I only do as God allows, my friend.”
A gust of freezing wind skittered across the pond and the Arab began to shake from head to toe. Lurching and slipping, Lucien guided him until they regained the shore at last.
Lucien wrapped a cloak around the man and helped him back onto his steaming, shivering horse. He tried to untie the rope from his belt, only it was not a rope, but a long length of cloth, and his stiff fingers could not undo the wet knot.
Climbing up behind the man, Lucien took the reins and halted the horse before Isidora. “This Turk belongs to you?”
She nodded, her face white even with the snow as a background. “He is not a Turk. But, aye, that is his turban. I gave it to your men, for there was no rope.”
“Larke!” Lucien called out, his gaze sweeping the crowd.
The troubadour girl came running. “Are you all right, Lucien? Is the man all right? And the horse?”
“Aye, aye, have no worry.” He indicated Isidora with a nod. “This is my friend. Take her to the hall and get Mauger to go with you. Isidora, my sister, Larke, will attend you. Kindly do as she says.”
Isidora stared. “You have a sister? And in all the time with us you never told me? What is the matter with you, Sir Lucien?”
“Never mind, we’ll talk later. This man needs to get warm, and my cuddling him atop his horse is not going to do much good.” Lucien then turned to address his people. “This was but a minor mishap. All the revels will continue as usual, and I congratulate the fools who routed us!”
A cheer rose and Lucien breathed a sigh of relief. At least this farce was over for the year. But Isidora? In England? With a Saracen escort? He needed some hot mulled wine before he could take on such a puzzle.
Isidora sat before the fire in Lucien’s solar, sipping warm wine from a wooden bowl that still rattled against her teeth, she was yet so cold. As was Faris, no doubt.
He dozed in Lucien’s bed, dark against the white linens. No wonder Faris was exhausted. He must have found the strength of many men, to have risen in the water despite the mail coat he’d worn.
She felt a stab of fear for him, that he might be singled out and targeted by someone for the color of his skin. But so far, though many had stared, no one had said a word against the guest of their lord. He was yet safe, his sword but an arm’s length away.
And, his mail now hung from a rod, Lucien having made certain it was dried and oiled. Faris would be glad.
But to her, the situation was utterly overwhelming. The journey, the dangers, the weather, the English themselves, and now this place, Lucien’s home. It offered slender comfort, by eastern standards. Though clean enough, it was rudely furnished and only vaguely warm despite the roaring fires. Still, in any event, she did not belong here. Did not want to be here.
But perhaps he was merely a land baron now, and no longer possessed by alchemy. Perhaps she need not give him the things she had come so far to give him. Things she did not understand and that were certain to be dangerous.
“Isidora.”
Lucien’s voice, smooth and rich and heady. He was here with her, as if summoned by her thoughts of him, just as spirits—and devils—were summoned. Despite his coming up behind her, she did not jump in startlement.
Instead she was suffused by a flood of warmth. Nay, this was all wrong! She must stay strong and keep her heart her own….
“Isidora?”
The weight of his hand upon her shoulder. She closed her eyes. She would not speak, would not move, was glad she was already sitting. Maybe he would go away.
“Isidora, I do not know why you are here, or why you are garbed as a man, or who this person in my bed is to you, but…”
The intensity in Lucien’s resonant voice made her open her eyes. Now he was on his knees before her. His eyes shone in brilliant blue contrast to his blood and dirt-darkened skin—indeed, his face appeared little better than it had the last time she had seen him, but was still so handsome that he was almost painful to look upon. She shifted her gaze to the bed where Faris lay heaped with furs.
Lucien plucked the bowl of wine from her fingers and engulfed her cold hands in his even colder ones. “You shield yourself in silence, Isidora. It is not necessary.”
“Is it not? Silence reveals much, if one is patient.”
“But you must have news…an explanation?”
“I am on a grim errand, Lord Lucien. I will explain it when I am ready. Not before.”
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