|Summary:||Kittridge takes advantage of the rain to get Roslyn to kiss him. Are you all happy now?|
|Date:||18 May 2012|
|The Tourney at the Twins|
|The encampment field, and then the main Groves pavilion.|
|18 May 289|
Kittridge grins as Roslyn laughs and takes off towards the tents with her. Running with armor is not the easiest thing ever, and as that wall of rain sweeps across the field and over them, the ground, already churned up by horses and tamped down by feet, turns quickly to mud. Rather than try to keep arm-in-arm, he takes Roslyn's hand. "So much for not getting wet!"
It is just the slickness that that rain causes between them, surely, that has Roslyn's fingers slipping between Kittridge's instead of pulling away from so intimate a contact. "This is just going to make it worse," she mourns, calling the words to him over the sound of rain and movement, breathless already as her trek is made more difficult with mud. She tries to squint through the rain, judging the distance ahead of them to her own tents.
"I'm sorry!" Kittridge says back, loudly enough to be heard over the pounding rain and roaring thunder and winds and things. He does his best to assist in keeping her upright, and step a bit in front to block some of the wind, if he can, though there is nothing to be done about the rain. "Our tents are closer!" he tells her, pointing ahead at the Groves encampment, "If you want? You should get dry!"
"Yes, please," Roslyn replies, her breath catching as she flashes a smile towards the man without regards to the rain. It is no longer really a sprint that takes her to the Groves' main tent, struggling through mud but at least still attempting to hurry. Once within shelter, a relieved sigh slips from her lips, her skirts let go to fall damply around her legs where the rest of the bright blue fabric clings to her frame.
Kittridge pushes open the tent flap to let Roslyn into the pavilion first, and then ducks in after, letting out a breath in a quick huff. The rain pounds on the canvas, and he heads to the center table, pulling out a chair, and directing Roslyn to it with a touch of her elbow, "Please, sit. Let me find a blanket for you," he says. He pauses briefly to rustle the coals in the brazier and then starts rifiling through a trunk, blanket-hunting.
Roslyn is quick to reply, "You do not have to trouble yourself." She takes the seat anyways, her fingers attempting to brush back wet curls as her teeth start chattering already as the warmer air of the tent brushes against cool skin. Her gaze traces after Kittridge, a small smile filtering for a moment into her expression before it is replaced quickly.
"What, I should let you sit there and shiver?" Kittridge asks over his shoulder, laughing, "Don't be silly. Aha!" He comes up with a spare blanket, finally, and crosses back to offer it over. After a second he thinks better of that, and solicitously wraps it around her shoulders himself, instead. It's not like there's actual touching involved, anyways, chill out. He draws the corners together and asks, "Any better? I can go get another from my tent if you like."
How could such a gallant gesture not earn another smile? It certainly tugs insistently at Roslyn's lips as she peers up through a fan of dark, wet lashes, her fingers lifting to capture those ends together with perhaps a bit of touching where they brush against his. "No," she insists firmly, flushing red. "No, Ser Kittridge, thank you. This is much better."
Kittridge smiles back, until his fingers brush hers and he frowns, "Your hands are freezing," he says, starting to reach to take them and draw them closer, so he can enfold them in his. Her firm tone and flush, however, have him drawing back, reluctantly releasing. He nods, and smiles crookedly, "If you say so."
"I did not mean—," Roslyn starts, wincing lightly at herself before she continues. "I only meant that I would not wish for you to go back into the rain for my sake, my lord." She pauses, her smile unsure but offered earnestly. "The blanket is much better, though, thank you."
Kittridge inclines his head in acknowledgement and then shrugs, "I am soaked through already, it wouldn't make much difference. I don't mind. But if you are warm enough, I'm glad." He returns her smile a bit, and then sets up removing his armor, struggling with the occasional leather strap shrunk by the rain, or awkwardly placed. This is a job for a squire, after all.
Her lips pressing thinly, worry reflects in Roslyn's gaze where it lingers on Kittridge, her throat working against a knot. As he struggles, she finally tries instead, asking quietly, "Do you need help, Ser Kittridge? I have done as much for my brothers, when it was necessary."
Kittridge is focused on his attempts to get out of his armor, at the moment, and doesn't notice Roslyn's expression. Until she speaks, and he looks up, and then gestures, "If you wouldn't mind? It's at an odd angle and seems to've gotten stuck." He gestures at a buckle on his side, around towards the back of his ribs, and then adds, "But I'm sure Brynner or someone will be here soon enough, I can wait. I wouldn't want to impose."
Attempting to wrap the blanket about her shoulders where it will stay, Roslyn rises and draws to Kittridge's side with a silent shake of her head and another offered smile. "It is no imposition," she assures him, fingers dropping to the buckle and attempting to loosen it carefully. Her fingers are cold, and it will take her a while. "I am sorry if I offended you. I can't seem to do anything but that, can I?"
Kittridge stands still, arm lifted out of the way so Roslyn can fight with that buckle. "You have never offended me, lady," he says, looking at her with a slightly puzzled expression, "I am not sure when you think you would have."
"When we talked in Stonebridge and just now, I thought—. I am sure I am only overly sensitive, and I still bear a fever," Roslyn replies, apology still on her tone despite her words as she bows her head intently over the buckle. Eventually, wet leather gives way and loosens, allowing her to unbuckle it.
"I don't recall being offended in Stonebridge," Kittridge replies after a moment of trying to recollect what she might mean, "And just now… I was not offended. Maybe a bit disappointed," he admits with a crooked, self-deprecating sort of smile. "I had not intended to offend you, or make you uncomfortable. If my sister doesn't return soon I can go in search of your maid, if you would like," he offers, "I wouldn't wish to damage your reputation."
"You did not, ser." The words are half of a sigh of relief, Roslyn's smile lifting her expression as her fingers draw back to the blanket to capture it closed again. At his suggestion, she seems momentarily unsure again, her lips opening without a sound. Finally, she dredges up a wry, "That would probably be for the best, before I find myself completely unmarriable." Disappointment does touch subtly at that wide gaze, however, as she watches Kittridge.
"I am glad," Kittridge replies. He shucks off the brigadine coat and hangs it over the back of a chair to dry, the padded tunic beneath following after it. He plucks at the shirt that leaves, and smiles, lips curving faintly, "Well. I won't rush out," he says, "Unless you'd like me too." He pauses, and then asks, "Do you think in the meantime, however short, you might call me Kit, instead of ser?"
"Only if you will call me Lyn, Kit," Roslyn replies, savoring the single syllable on her tongue with a quick, impetuous grin. She remains on her feet, only shifting slightly to watch him as he moves to hang his armor. "I must admit, I would enjoy having a moment to speak to you without the trapping of… everything. As commoners must, where they can simply follow their," her breath catches slightly, dropping to almost a whisper, "hearts."
"Lyn," Kittridge tries it out, and then nods, flashing her a grin in return, "Deal." He fiddles with the coat of plates for a moment, flipping it over and then back again, frowning a bit, and then turns back to Roslyn to smile. "And what would you say, with that moment?" he asks, "You can have several, if you like. I'm in no hurry." Her brothers will beat him as soundly for five minutes as ten, after all.
"If you are in no hurry—." It takes Roslyn a moment, drawing in as deep a breath as she can manage as she takes time to order her thoughts carefully as if she were speaking diplomacy and not simply her feelings. "Only that you are perhaps the most handsome knight that I have ever met, and the most charming," she answers slowly, her lips twitching in a self-deprecating smile for her turn. "I have always been a sensible woman, but I think you make me rather silly. Like a young girl with a crush, though I am surely not the only one to admire you so."
Kittridge lifts a brow at the thought-gathering, apparently not having expected a serious response. Certainly not one like he gets, brows inching higher as Roslyn speaks. After a moment, he replies, "Is that why you suddenly go all serious sometimes when we're speaking?" he asks, "Because you're trying not to seem silly or something?" This apparently clears a few things up for him, and he nods slowly, and then his lips tilt and he teases, "What of that hedge knight you thought was so handsome, hmm? You were ready to marry him, common and all. Clearly he has me beat out," he jokes. Half-jokes.
"I think only beat out in that it is a possible match, Kit. It would be really silly to believe that your family would think to marry you to me," Roslyn replies softly, a smile of her own touching her lips where she attempts lightness of her own now. "Should I assure you of how handsome you are? Perhaps I should write poems for your beauty, instead of seeking some to my own."
Kittridge laughs a little. "You overvalue me, I think," he says, before laughing again, more easily. "Please! I love good poetry, especially about me. I've tried writing some about myself," he jokes, "But it's just not the same, I find." He grins, and then reaches out to adjust the blanket where it has slipped around her shoulders.
A laugh spills brightly from Roslyn as Kittridge actually takes her up on such an offer, her smile easy as she draws closer to allow such adjustments. Then, she is all thoughtfulness again, for all that amusement plays behind her gaze as she attempts to think of such poetry on a whim. "Dark as a winter's day, and a smile twice as warm. I can only thank the Mother, for her son so blessedly born, with looks that move seas to—mountains and the Warrior himself—," she starts reciting, only getting so far before she falls into a fit of giggles instead at the attempt. "Ah, gods. I am sorry."
Kittridge laughs, and drops his hands from adjusting the blanket to applaud politely. "A valiant effort," he grins, "To elevate me to poetry." He chuckles and grins some more, and then shakes his head a little, lifting a hand to shove hair back from his brow. He tilts his head, and looks at Roslyn straight on, full in the eyes. "Can you keep a secret, Lyn?" he asks.
Hazel eyes trace that gesture appreciatively, a smile tugging at her lips even as Roslyn tries to appear contained and calm. She answers, carefully, "I am sure I could, Kit."
Kittridge lifts a brow. "Are you sure?" he asks, lips curving in a teasing sort of challenge, or at least partly-teasing, "Even from your family? Your brother?"
"Would such a secret affect my brother or family?" Roslyn challenges in turn, her head tipping slightly and her expression growing all the more curious for that.
"I don't think so," Kittridge replies, smirking faintly, "I think it would be our secret, personally."
"Then I could keep it," is assured again, Roslyn's lips lifting into a smile of her own. "What is it, then?"
Kittridge's smile crooks a little further sideways, and rather than speak, he leans forward (not so far forward, really) to kiss her.
Roslyn still manages to be somehow surprised by this, but she does not turn away from the kiss. Instead, her lips move hesitantly against his, inexperienced and unsure as she draws inately closer to him. "Kit," escapes from her lips.
Kittridge is surprising, score. He is, uhhh. More experienced? Yeah. Let's just leave it at that. He seems more comfortable, anyway, and lifts a hand to lightly touch Roslyn's cheek, head tilting slightly as he kisses her again, more deeply this time.
The kiss certainly earns a response, Roslyn tipping into it eagerly as she lifts her fingers to his shoulders, only a light press of nails and fingertips to steady herself. Her cheeks are still warm with fever under Kittridge's touch, though her lashes flutter shut as she leans into the kiss.
Kittridge is probably dooming himself to illness right now. Almost certainly, given the fever and sniffling and such Roslyn's had going on so far today. This is actually a terrible idea for even more reasons than usual, then. But even so, he continues kissing her, light pressure on her chin encouraging her head to tilt so that the kiss might be drawn out longer still.
It certainly is a danger, when kissing someone that is sick. Roslyn may be feverish, but it makes no impact on her willing response to such quiet encouragements. She tilts up, her fingers pressing more firmly into him as she gains some measure of comfort and presses onto the balls of her feet. Unfortunately, all things must end and even she can come to her senses to start to draw away, her words quiet and breathless where she says, "We shouldn't."
When Roslyn draws back, Kittridge makes no move to try to force her to continue, instead letting his hand on her cheek drift away as his lips curl into a sideway smile. "Probably not," he agrees.
"I will find my maid, and my camp," Roslyn says slowly, worry warring with desire and happiness in her expression before she finally moves to slip the blanket from her shoulders. She folds it simply, holding it out in offer to Kittridge. "I shall see you at the joust, Ser Kittridge. Ride well."
"Please don't," Kittridge says, stretching out a hand to stop her, "Let me go find someone, you shouldn't go back out in the rain, ill as you are. Your brothers would never forgive me for that," he says, smile quirking faintly. "Sit," he says, "I'll return shortly."
"As you say, my lord," Roslyn allows, for all that she smiles wryly at the man. "I would not want my brothers upset with you." But, she does move to take a seat, doing little to smooth out her skirts given how damp they are. Instead, she holds the blanket to her chest to wait on him.
Kittridge smirks faintly as he replies, "And why should they be? So long as I do not let you out in the wet longer than necessary." He winks, and finds a coat, shrugging it on before ducking out of the tent to find a maid. Maybe Day is nearby.