Remember this picture? I've shared it here, on
Pinterest, and elsewhere as one of my inspirations for
The Lady and the Minstrel. Now that
The Lady and the Minstrel is available for pre-order, I thought I would share with you the scene from the book that I always think of when I see this painting of
The Kiss, by Francesco Hayez:
It had not entered her mind to fear him. Why did she not
back away, shout for help? ’Twas no insubstantial romantic dream that stood
before her, but a very solid man who had scaled a tree with such swiftness that
he could surely overpower her in an instant if he wished to. Was it wise to
trust from a single chance meeting that he would take no advantage of her now?
Especially when nothing in his voice betrayed a memory of
her. The shadows of the chamber closed in around them, shading the features she
had committed to heart, but a flicker from the sputtering fire flashed against
his scarlet tunic and dully lit the rough, threadbare cloak that he had tossed
over it.
“Ah,” he murmured, “I thought you lovely in the village, and
dazzling in the hall all dressed in gold, but to see you thus, clad in white
like some angel ... ”
His hand jerked up, stretching half-way across the space
between them before she saw his fist clench and drop quickly back to his side.
He had almost touched her. She could not have stopped him. His restraint
encouraged her. She realized that she had allowed the blanket to grow slack,
revealing more of her white nightgown than was proper. Proper! An ironic little
laugh rose up in her throat. There was nothing proper about being alone with a
minstrel in her bedchamber! She should command him to leave and scream if he
refused. Had it been anyone, anyone
else— But it was him, and instead of
screaming, she found herself fighting a temptation to inch closer and
comforting herself that at least he remembered gazing at her across a dusty
village road.
The ironic laughter quenched on a lump of frustration. It
was not enough. She did not care that she had only been a child, that it was
unreasonable to expect him to see in a seventeen-year-old woman the
ten-year-old girl who had helped him all those years ago.
She tugged the blanket back into its modest place and masked
her hurt by demanding coldly, “What, pray tell, is your name, sir?”
“’Tis Robert Marcel. I brought my lute should you crave a
song.”
She refused to let his playful tone disarm her resentment.
“I have heard that verse you sang tonight dozens of times.”
“And yet it made you smile such a smile as to send a man’s
head spinning. Still, if you like it not, I know many another tune.”
In truth, she could not have recited a single word of the
verse, for his own flashing grin had sent everything out of her mind except
him. She shifted her position to force him to turn so that the firelight fell
across his fiercely handsome face, a face worthy of a man reckless enough to
climb an oak tree to invade a lady’s chamber. The same jolt of attraction that
had pounded through her in the village and again a few hours ago in the hall,
blazed through her again. She tried to distract herself with the instrument
slung over his shoulder, shrouded in the same supple cloth covering that would
never have protected it from the warping surge of a river. Almost she felt its
weight in her hands again. And the other. What had become of the other bundle
she had carried?
Her heart tripped afresh when he launched softly into verse.
“How merry the summer
while it lasts,
With bird song and the
mirthful stream,
And lover’s heart
that’s true.
The memory warms in
winter’s age,
When song is gone and
streams are still,
And love has passed
away.”
This little poem she well knew, too. She had heard it sung
merry, melancholy, sardonic, even bitter, but never in such fluid tones as his,
or to a melody so plaintive that it hung shivering in the air, a poignant
reminiscence for moments after his voice had ceased.
“Does that please you better, my lady?”
Did he banter again? She could not tell what he thought from
his impassive expression or the low spoken words.
“Why are you here? What do you want?” She wished to chill
him again with her dignity, but the questions instead came out barely more than
a whisper.
“To see you. To talk with you. To—” His voice snagged as the
truth swept the impassive mask from his face. “Oh, heaven forgive me, to kiss
you!”
His hand reached out again, then hesitated, hovering just
below her chin. Instead of rebuffing him, she felt herself sway towards him
ever so slightly. His fingertips, calloused from his lute’s strings, brushed
against her cheekbone. Then her cheek cradled gently in his palm and the midnight
eyes, no longer veiled, gazed into hers with a longing that took away her
breath.
“I have thought of nothing but you since you gazed at me in
the village today.” His voice shook slightly as the words spilled out in a
rush. “Then when you smiled at me in the hall, I knew I was lost. I cannot hope
to court you. I am only a poor minstrel, and you are betrothed to the Earl of Saxton.
But one kiss—just one!—I would cherish to the end of my days. Just one, if you
will grant it—and then I will be gone.”
Gone? Let him go now, when she had only just found him?
Heaven could not be so cruel as to ask her to send him away so soon! If it took
a kiss to bind him—
He must have taken her silence as assent, for he pulled her
against his chest. He held her firmly, yet so gently that the embrace brought
no pain to her back. Marguerite had never been in a man’s arms before. Her
heart raced so hard a pleasurable little buzz of dizziness hummed through her
mind and body. He did not look like a man who often hesitated to take what he
wanted and yet when he bent his head towards hers, he checked himself just
short of her lips. It was that instant of uncertainty in him, briefer than a
heartbeat, that nudged her leap of faith in his honor and lifted her willing
mouth and drifted shut her eyes.
And then she felt his mouth on hers, gentle, warm, strong,
yet somehow cautious, as if weighing something in her, as if waiting ... for what? Outrage on her part? Resistance? Oh,
heavens! If Marguerite had felt dizzy before, her senses now swam in earnest,
and she wound her arms around his neck and let her body melt against him and
kissed him back as if all her future hung on this one moment.
Pre-order your copy of The Lady and the Minstrel now for only $1.99. (The price rises to $3.99 after the book releases on January 29.)
