He took a deep breath. “My only hope is that one day you don’t come to know the truth of me.”
And with those words haunting her, he stepped back from her and led her the rest of the way to the camp.
Emily tried several times to speak more with him, but he would have none of it.
Just before dusk, Alys and Simon returned.
Alys sauntered up to her with glowing eyes and a rosy hue about her face. She leaned over Emily who sat before the fire and whispered, “All I have to say, milady, is if Lord Draven is half as talented as his brother, you are in for one marvelous ride.”
“Alys,” Emily chided.
Her maid smiled. “Just you wait. You have no idea how—” Alys broke off as one of the knights walked by.
When they were alone again, Alys wrinkled her nose. “Just you wait,” she whispered, then went to help serve dinner.
While they ate, the knights in the company exchanged tales of adventure, but Emily didn’t listen. They spoke of the same timeless tales she had heard countless times. Besides, she had other matters to attend.
Such as making Draven laugh.
She’d spent the entire time thinking up ways to go about it. Chewing her roasted hare, she watched as Draven listened to Simon talk about the king’s policies with the French. No wonder the man never laughed. She’d always found such topics dry and boring.
What Draven needed was a jest. Aye, that might bring a sparkle to his eyes.
She waited until they had finished their discussion, then leaned forward.
“Milord? Know you how many Byzantines it takes to light a fire?”
His look hovered between boredom and skepticism as he reached for his goblet. “I cannot imagine.”
“Three. One to start the fire and one to confuse the issue.”
Simon burst out laughing, but Draven merely glanced askance at her.
Failure.
Emily drummed her fingers as she thought of another. “Very well. How many Norsemen does it take to light a fire?”
“Three?” he asked glibly.
“Nay, why bother with a fire when there’s a monastery over the next hill.”
Several knights joined Simon’s laughter that time. But still Draven showed no sign of mirth. If anything, it only served to make him more stoic.
“Come now, Draven,” Simon said, “that was funny.”
Draven said nothing as he took a drought of wine.
“Do you have another one, milady?” one of the other knights asked.
“Aye.” She turned to look at him. “How many Romans to start a fire?”
Draven tried to block her voice out of his mind, but for some reason he couldn’t. Indeed, he was attuned to everything about her. The way the breeze caressed the blond tendrils of her hair and carried the scent of her to him. The way the firelight played in the crevices of her face and added a rich sparkle to her eyes.
He knew what she was about. Still, he wouldn’t keep himself from being amused by her.
“I have no idea how many Romans it takes to start a fire, milady.”
“One thousand and one.”
