Dienwald had to pause a moment on that one. He saw her dimples deepen again, and realized she was enjoying herself mightily at his expense. One could not allow a woman to have the last word. It was against the laws of man and God. It was as intolerable as a kick to the groin.
He shook himself. “What wear you beneath that gown?”
A man, Philippa thought, used whatever weapons available to him. Her father was a master at bluster. His nose turned red, his eyes bulged, and he raged long and loud. Her cousin Sir Walter de Grasse, if she remembered aright, turned sarcastic and cold when he was in a foul temper. Her father’s master-at-arms never thought, just struck out with his huge fists. As for this man, at least his dagger still lay snug in its sheath at his belt, so a show of violence wasn’t on his mind. It relieved her that he wished to best her with words, even though they were meant to shrivel her with embarrassment. Unfortunately, she’d taken a sip of the strong ale when he’d spoken, and now she choked on it. He slapped her on the back, nearly sending her face into a wooden platter of boiled capon.
“I can feel nothing,” Dienwald said as he leaned down close to her. His fingers splayed wide over her back. “No shift? No pretense at modesty?”
Philippa felt the urge to violence—after all, she was her father’s daughter—and she acted instantly. Quick as a snake, she reached for his dagger. She felt his hand lock around her wrist until her fingers turned white from lack of blood.
“You dare?”
She’d thought with her feet again, and the result had brought his anger on her head. She shook her head.
“You don’t dare?”
But there was no anger in his tone, not now. He seemed amused. That was surprising, and vastly relieving as well. He loosened his grip on her wrist and pressed her hand palm-down against his thigh. Her eyes flew to his face, but she didn’t move.
“I have decided to give you a choice, lady,” Dienwald said.
Philippa wasn’t at all certain she wanted to hear of any choices from him.
“Not a word? I don’t believe it.” He paused a moment, cocking a brow at her. She remained silent.
“You tell me your father won’t ransom you. You also refuse to tell me the name of your unpleasant suitor. You balk at telling me the name of this cousin you were running to. Very well, if you aren’t able to bring me pounds and shillings and pence, the very least you can do is repay my hospitality on your back. It is doubtful, but perhaps I’ll find you acceptable in that role, at least for a limited time.”
She’d been right: she hadn’t wanted to hear his choices.
“You don’t care for the thought of me covering you?”
Surely a man who allowed children, dogs, and a chicken to follow him about couldn’t be all that bad. There were still no words in her mind.
“Wrapping those long white legs of yours around my flanks? They’re so long, mayhap they’ll go around me twice. And plucking your virginity? Doesn’t that give you visions of deliriou
s pleasure?”
“Actually,” she said, looking out over the noisy great hall at all the men and women who sat at the trestle tables eating their fill, laughing, jesting, arguing, “no.”
“No, what?”
Philippa reached for a capon wing with her left hand and took a thoughtful bite. She couldn’t let him see that he’d stunned her, demolished her confidence, and made her nearly frantic with consternation. Wrapping her legs around his flanks? Plucking her . . . Philippa wanted to gasp, but she didn’t; she took another bite of her capon wing. Dienwald was so surprised at her nonchalance, her utter indifference, that he released her wrist. She shook her hand to get the feeling back, then reached for another piece of capon. Before she brought it to her mouth, she dipped it deep in the ginger-and-cinnamon sauce.
Dienwald stared at her profile. More thick tendrils had worked loose from her braid, a braid as thick as Edmund’s ankle, and curled around her face.
She turned back to him finally, dipping her fingers into the small wooden bowl of water between their places. “ ‘Tis very good, the capon. I like the ginger. No, my father won’t ransom me. I should have lied and told you he would, but again, I didn’t think, I just spoke.”
“True. Your point, lady?”
“I don’t want to be your mistress. I don’t want to be any man’s mistress.”
“That won’t be up to you to decide. You are a woman.”
“That is a problem I share with half the world. What will you decide, then?”
“Must you persist in your picking and harping? Must you nag me with questions until I am forced to put my dagger point to your white neck?”
“Nay, but—”
“Swallow your tongue! I shall have the name of your betrothed, and I shall have it soon. I will even demand less ransom if he will have you back.”