“I bear him no malice,” she said truthfully.
He nodded. “Good. Now, here he comes. Pretend there’s nothing amiss.”
Draven frowned as he crossed the hall to see Simon, Christina and Emily together in a tight circle as if plotting some mayhem.
At his approach, Simon began whistling, his gaze darting about while the women seemed engrossed in a conversation about veils.
Emily twined her fingers together as she talked to Christina. “The green is the best color for...for...for... things.”
“Oh, aye. ‘Tis good for lots of things, like... things.”
“What is going on here?” he asked suspiciously.
Three faces turned to him with such a look of innocence it would have made any other man laugh.
Draven cocked his head and suddenly felt like a cat cornered by three mice. “What sort of conspiracy is this?”
“Conspiracy?” they asked almost in unison.
Simon clapped him on the back. “You’ve served the king so long, you’re now imaging evil where it doesn’t exist.”
Did they think him a fool that he couldn’t see through them?
Obviously so.
“Come.” Christina took Simon’s arm. “Let us adjourn to the table and partake of the culinary mastery of our cooks. You should like the roasted pheasant,” she said to Draven. “The elderberry sauce is the tastiest in all of Christendom.”
Reluctantly, Draven followed, still unable to shake the uneasy feeling that his own goose was the only thing thoroughly cooked in the hall this night.
Christina sat him at the table between Emily and Simon. He felt trapped, unable to escape. His throat tight, he remained silent as the servants served the meal.
Simon leaned over. “Are you all right?”
Draven took a deep breath and nodded, though he could feel himself beginning to perspire.
“Milord?” Emily asked, drawing his attention to her.
When he met her gaze, he saw a gentleness in her features that eased the knot in his gut.
“Forgive me for my forwardness, but Christina tells me there will be dancing after the meal. Would you care to join me?”
An image of her dancing around the maypole flashed in his mind. There was nothing he could think of that would give him greater pleasure than to dance with her.
“Nay, milady, I cannot.”
Disappointment darkened her brow.
“I would love to dance with you,” Simon said, leaning across Draven to talk to her.
A stab of jealousy sliced his heart, but he said nothing. Instead, he focused his thoughts on serving food to Emily. He watched the grace of her movements as she ate. And when she reached for the goblet and placed her lips to the very spot he had drank from, chills went through him. There was something so very intimate about the gesture. Almost as if they had shared a kiss.
“Is the food not to your liking?” she asked in a hushed voice when she noticed he hadn’t eaten anything.
Draven shook his head. “The fare is fine.”
“Then why do you not eat it?”
“I am not hungry.”
