Immortal Warrior by Lisa Hendrix Page A

the open meadow that sloped down to the bridge and the desmesne lands beyond the river. He studied the view for a long while before turning back to her. “You know a great deal about the workings of the manor, my lady.”
    “Alnwick has been mine to keep in my grandfather’s absence, though I thought I was keeping it for him and not a husband.” A filthy dog of a husband.
    “I will gladly take whatever advice you would share,” said Ari. “It has been too long since I oversaw either men or lands.”
    “My advice will come dearly after your abandonment.”
    “My apologies, my lady, but my duties took me away. I returned only in time to come up here.” His glance flickered toward the bed then back to her, and his lips worked as he fought a smile. “I trust you didn’t find it necessary to flee to Rome.”
    “Not yet, at the least,” she allowed. “But where were you if I had? You owe me a forfeit for decamping, sir.”
    “And the price of this forfeit?”
    Alaida thought a moment. “I heard you humming as we walked yesterday. Do you sing? We have not had a jongleur come to Alnwick in many months.”
    “I am better poet than singer, my lady, and better storyteller than poet. And no poet at all in French.”
    “Then you shall tell me a story as your fine. Something with dragons. I greatly enjoy tales with dragons.” She smiled at the way his brows suddenly knit in concentration. “Do not look so pained, steward. You needn’t pay your debt today. I will wait a little.
    “As to the advice, it is simple,” she continued. “We have good officials at Alnwick. Put your trust in them and you will not go far wrong. But not too much trust. A careful eye to the accounts will serve you well, for all that Wat keeps his with marks cut on sticks.”
    “I know the method well, my lady.” He grinned widely, his straight white teeth flashing in his comely face. “We will get by.”
    It struck Alaida that her husband and his men were all fairer than most. She had not seen them all side by side yet, but Ari clearly bore the finest features of the three, so well formed he was almost pretty—especially when he smiled, as he did so much of the time. Towering Brand, despite his untrimmed hair and beard and the scar marking his cheek, had a sparkle in his sky blue eyes that could make a maid sigh. And Ivo, of course, bore that chiseled face, all angles except for the curve of his full lips.
    Desire crackled through her body at the thought of those lips and where they had traveled, an echo of the spasms that had racked her as he put his mouth to her. Dismay followed close behind, followed by anger at herself. What was she, that even in her humiliation her body warmed for him?
    “I will take my leave, my lady,” said Ari, drawing her attention back. “I only stayed to say I will be taking Geoffrey and Wat with me to ride the bounds while the weather holds.”
    “That is usually done on Saint Mark’s Day,” said Alaida.
    “And so the proper riding will be. Today is merely for my knowledge. Also, your lord husband left a message. He says”—he looked up, as though Ivo’s words might be carved into the beams—“ ‘Tell my lady that my absence could not be avoided. Say that I will return soon after sunset, and ask her to wear something pretty tonight at supper, for I have a gift to give her and it would not look well on a nun.’ ”
    Tell him he can piss on his gift, for all I care. The words leapt to Alaida’s tongue, but for once in her life she took Bôte’s good advice, bit them back, and merely smiled. “My thanks, messire . Be good enough to send Hadwisa up as you go.”
    There was a breath when she thought he would say something more, but he simply nodded. “Yes, my lady. I will put my mind to your dragon. By your leave.”
    Bôte turned to her as the door shut, nodding sagely. “See, Lord Ivo is no happier about going than you are at having him gone. He will return as I said he would, and then you will have a gift and all will be aright.”
    “ Phfft. He will not