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“You are…Irish,” she announced her discovery triumphantly.
“That I am.”
She turned toward him, eager for the newness. “We do not meet many Irishmen here.”
“Oh, aye, I’m a rare bird.”
She smiled. She had no idea why this fact pleased her, except that Irishmen did not belong here.
But why that should please her, she had even less notion.
But when he smiled, a slow, half-formed smile, lifting one side of his mouth, denting the hair-roughened cheek, she felt the heat of him again—this time inside her. A swirling thread of excitement through her belly…and lower down.
Entirely not proper.
It was enough to prompt her to gather her skirts and get to her feet. Time to leave the rogue behind.
“Would you like a strawberry?”
His question rumbled out behind her. She froze mid-rise and cast a hesitant glance over her shoulder.
On his palm sat a small, friendly huddle of berries. They were rosy-colored, dimpled, and gorgeously plump. In the hot morning sun, they seemed to glisten with water.
“Where did you get them?” she exclaimed, taking her seat again without realizing. ”I saw none in the market square.”
“These are not from the market, lady.”
“They are wild,” she murmured, looking at their glistening pink redness.
“Very.”
The fat little berries rolled around in his palm, tiny green stems poking out the top. She thought of all the dishes served at the feast last night, course after course of frumenty and custards and cheeses and heavily spiced fish.
And now…this simple clutch of red-ripe strawberries.
She cast a surreptitious glance behind her, up the walkway behind the seats, where her father stood, near Lord Yves’s box. His head was bent, deep in conversation with a few other noblemen.
She looked back at her seatmate, the rogue with blue eyes and a handful of strawberries on his palm.
In a rush, she reached out. With a faint smile, he tumbled them into her hand. She picked one up delicately between her thumb and forefinger and bit into it.
It was luscious. Sweet and so plump, the juice would have run down her chin had she not lifted her hand and dabbed it with her knuckle.
Not proper.
“You are welcome, lady,” he said quietly.
In startled embarrassment, she looked up. “Oh, yes, I— I thank you, sir.”
That brought another slow smile.
And that brought another strange, improper flush.
Two more strawberries curled in her hand, she quickly lowered her eyes and turned to the parade of knights. Some of the men were beginning to exit, Sir Bennett in their midst.
“Admit it,” murmured the strawberry-wielder. “His legs are spindly.”
She kept her face angled away. “I do not know what you are talking about,” she said, then plucked out the stem from the second strawberry and popped it into her mouth. “But if you know so much about the ways and means of jousting, then you should indeed fight. Everyone here fights.”
