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She beamed at him. “How exciting.”
His gaze traveled over her face. “Will you attend?”
“Oh, no, I cannot.”
“Why not?”
“My father does not think it appropriate for me to attend the sword fighting.”
His eyes held hers. “And yet others have done things far less proper and lived to tell the tale, aye?”
She stared at him, speechless, then stammered, “I- I could not.”
“Aye, you could.”
She felt the little rush of bee-pollen excitement again.
It lasted precisely three seconds, for the trumpets blared, breaking the moment. She jumped. Then, from behind her, came the sound of her father’s voice.
Always, her father’s voice, keeping her in check.
She half-turned in her seat, flushed with conflicting emotions. Guilt at having been speaking to a rogue who bore strawberries. Pride at having turned said rogue half-chivalrous. Excitement at having considered, for even an instant, doing something her father did not approve of.
She turned to find him looming behind her, his hand out, impatiently beckoning. “Come, Cassia, it is time to—what in God’s name is that?”
He was staring at the last strawberry in her hand.
“Oh.” Guilt flashed through her. “I—“
“Don’t you know raw fruit is bad for you?”
“Yes, I—”
“W
here did you get it?”
She glanced beside her. The rogue was gone.
“Sir John, Father. Sir John of…York,” she added vaguely. It was a common enough name. Indeed, she’d met two Johns who hailed from York already this morning.
Her father nodded absently. “Well, come. Sir Bennett will be jousting in the second arena in a bit, and you need to attend.”
“Father…I thought I might watch the sword fighting.“
He gave a bark of laughter. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, but I thought perhaps this once—”
“You’ll go to each of your suitors’ matches,” he said in a way that brooked no argument as he escorted her out. “By the way, did you give each of the men one of your sleeves?”
She clutched the pouch of her precious sleeves, sleeves intended to be stitched onto her gown…or hung on the lance tip of a knight to claim him as her favorite. To show he was fighting for her.
“No, Father,” she replied, stepping carefully as she descended the stairs. “I decided it would be wiser not to show favorites. After all, we do not know who will win the joust.”
Her father grunted in approval as they reached the ground. “Perhaps you’re starting to show some sense after all, girl.”
He plucked the strawberry from her hand as she passed by and tossed it to the ground. His boot crushed it as he reached for her arm.
