His steps faltered as the ethereal scent of rosemary raked like tender claws down his spine. He closed his eyes briefly, letting the scent envelop him as it had the night before when his stepmother had curtsied to him in the dance. Her raven curls had brushed his cheek, unmanning him with their softness as she taught him each step of the carol with the sweetest of patience. He opened his eyes; dark lashes fringed their bleak depths.He should not have come here. Writing music could be learned at his father's desk. Courtesy, in the great hall. What knightly skill might he learn in his stepmother's chamber? His father would be home from battle within the fortnight. He only wanted to see her— to offer his thanks for her kindness and attention in his father's absence.Lances clashed outside the open window, followed by a roar of laughter. The courtyard below where the squires played at tilting seemed a world away. Before him, sunlight bathed the empty chamber. Disappointment and relief gripped him as he slipped forward with a grace beyond his fourteen years.Damask curtains the same deep, rich blue of her eyes were drawn back from the rumpled bed.
