Autumn Lord (8 page)

torches. Dark and cold. She didn't like sleeping in rooms that were either. Jacques was sleeping on a

pallet on the floor, which made her feel guilty since he'd obviously given up his own bed. He'd told her he

was tough and stringy and used to sleeping wherever he lay his head, and obviously meant it because he

was already snoring. She still hated using what the old man probably thought was a luxurious bed. She

wished she had a decent pair of pajamas to sleep in. Instead she'd stripped down to the linen slip she'd

had to put on earlier to keep the wool dress from scraping her skin raw. The blankets she pulled up

around her ears weren't any too soft, either. And they smelled of mildew. She wished she was home.

She wished she'd never met Simon de Argent. He'd put her through more emotional trauma in less

than two days than anyone else she'd ever met. Emotional and physical trauma. He played with swords.

He played God.

I prefer to choose my own bed partners.

She had news for Simon de Argent: So did she. He was not among the candidates for the position.

Keanu Reeves, he was not. At least Keanu was Asian-American, which made him a far more likely

candidate for her fantasies than any blond, amber-eyed not-exactly-twentysomething lord of wherever

this place was.

Don't think about him anymore, she told herself. She turned over several times as she tried to find a

position that didn't press on some bruised spot. Just lie still and go to sleep, she thought. Maybe when

she woke up the nightmare would finally be over. What if it wasn't a nightmare? It was best to pretend it

was if she wanted to get to sleep, she decided.

Besides, she didn't have to be his lordship's pet— chattel—storyteller, if she didn't want to. She didn't

have to do anything for Simon de Argent. She didn't owe him anything.

Except her life, she thought as she drifted off to sleep with the image of a fierce gold angel pulling her

away from the fire.

"She said no, my lord."

Simon raised a skeptical brow at the servant. "I sincerely doubt that, Yves."

Yves blushed and shuffled his feet while the men with Simon laughed. The
geis
forcing Diane to be

silent except when performing had become common knowledge. "I meant to say that she indicated that

she would not attend you, my lord."

Again, Simon thought. Diane had refused every summons to his presence for the last two days.

Jacques had assured him that she had taken no great harm from the peasants' attack, though she was

spending her time curled up in bed while the bruises healed. Jacques said she was simply sulking for

some reason. Jacques also said that she was as good at sulking as Simon himself.

Simon had reserved comment on the old man's opinion. What he ought to do was ignore the fool

woman, but he found he could not. He had only called for her in the first place because he thought she'd

appreciate the chance to use her voice. But she would not come. Instead of proper obedience and

gratitude he had gotten repeated refusals. She didn't have a voice to make excuses with. She simply

didn't come when ordered. He was beginning to be annoyed with such queenly haughtiness.

"That's an odd entertainer your wizard presented to you, my lord," Joscelin deBroc commented.

"Normally they enjoy performing. Perhaps she has some private reason for not coming down."

"You promised us a tale from the woman, my lord," Sir Thierry Turpeney reminded him. "Something

to ease our spirits before we ride out with the dawn."

Thierry was not actually riding out on patrol. He was being left in charge of Marbeau while Simon

took most of his force on patrols of his land. Simon didn't point out to the man that he was going to

continue to enjoy hot food and a warm bed, and hence did not need his spirit eased.

Her other refusals had been delivered to the privacy of his chamber. No one had known about Diane's

behavior but Jacques and Yves. He'd been displeased, but had let the matter go. This time he could not,

as Yves had brought the answer to him in the great hall where he'd gathered his men together for a

midday meeting. He could not allow defiance from anyone in front of his knights.

"Did you tell her I wish her to amuse not just myself but my men?"

"Yes, my lord," Yves answered.

Joscelin leaned forward in his chair. He was an easygoing lad, newly knighted, and always eager to

think the best of everyone. "Perhaps the minstrel is a modest sort."

"Modest?" Thierry asked. "How could that be?"

"Well—" Joscelin rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps she is yet a maid, and takes offense or

misunderstands what Lord Simon meant when she was told to entertain his men. Perhaps she fears for

her chastity, and so refuses to attend us on those grounds."

"Chaste? Maidenly? A common traveling storyteller?" Thierry gave a jeering laugh. He gestured with

his winecup at the other men in the hall. "Did you hear this fool?"

Simon was thoughtful as he watched the boy's cheeks color bright red. He frowned as the hall Filled

with laughter and lewd comments at Joscelin's suggestion. Simon was not among those who found the

notion of a maiden modest entertainer amusing. In fact, he stood and glared his men into silence.

"We'll see," he said, and strode off toward the tower stairs with one hand on his sword hilt.

How was he to know what the woman was in her own place and time? Perhaps it was as Joscelin

suggested, and she misinterpreted his commands. Or perhaps she was just sulking. In any event, he

would not allow her to disobey him in front of his men.

The effect when he banged open the door of Jacques chamber was all he could have wished for.

Diane jumped up from the bed and whirled toward him, startled as a doe. The comb she'd been using on

her thick black hair dropped from her hands. Simon walked forward, she backed away.

He retrieved the ivory comb from the rushes. "Did I startle you?" he asked as he held the comb out to

her.

Diane stared at his hand while she absorbed the rich sound of his voice. Oddly enough, she'd missed

hearing his voice in the last couple of days. Maybe because she had no voice of her own, or because

Jacques spent more time reading than speaking when he was even in the room at all. Maybe because

Simon's voice was the most beautiful thing she'd yet encountered in this horrible place.

His hand, she noticed now, was almost as beautiful as his voice, long-fingered, and elegant even

though a thin scar marked the skin just below his knuckles. A barbarian's hand, she reminded herself

even as he gallantly offered her the comb.

When she put out her hand to take it he let the comb drop back to the floor and reached for her

instead. She looked up at his face as he grasped her fingers and pulled her forward. "I've missed hearing

your voice."

A shock went through her, from his touch, and from the echo of her thought in his words. She would

have pulled away, but his hand was as strong as it was beautiful. His grip wasn't painful, but it was

implacable.

He drew her a step closer. She wished she could run. She wished Jacques were here. She wished she

could do anything but be trapped in his grasp, forced to meet the sardonic light in his eyes and the faintly

mocking smile that transformed the normally grim set of his lips. Since no wish of hers was likely to come

true she supposed all she could do was face Simon de Argent as bravely as she could. So she squared

her shoulders and glared at him.

"You have a beautiful voice," he told her.

Simon did not know what had compelled those words from him, though they were nothing more than

the truth. He had come in meaning to drag Diane out by the hair if he had to. Instead, he found himself

willing to persuade when a command should have been enough. It had to do with the sad, lost look he'd

seen on her face before surprise at his entrance drove her up off the bed. There had been that moment of

fear, quickly replaced by defiance. Though he should have been angry at the defiance he found that he

admired it instead.

"This would be easier if you cowered, you know."

She tilted her head to one side. The simple gesture conveyed a wealth of sarcastic bravado.

"So you refuse to fear me, do you?"

She gave an emphatic nod.

He ran a finger along her stubbornly set jaw. Her skin had the look of pearl mixed with gold, but far

from being made of hard gem and metal, she was soft to the touch. His fingers wanted to turn the touch

to a caress even as she sharply pulled her head away.

He denied the impulse and kept his voice light as he said, "Another man would beat you for such

insolence."

The look of feigned innocence she gave him at this statement almost made him laugh.

"Don't talk to me like that," he warned, and was warmed by the startled smile that broke like sunrise

over her face. "Fortunately for you, I'm too lazy to beat you. Come with me," he requested mildly. He

released her hand, to let her know he would not drag her away, and to kill the temptation to draw her

even closer. "Come down to the hall and tell a story. You'll enjoy using your voice."

Diane had the distinct impression that the man didn't know the word
please,
but that he was doing the

best he could with his limited vocabulary. He was, in fact, being charming. She didn't like it a bit. Charm

was harder to deal with than despotism. Besides, he was right. She put a hand to her throat. Her vocal

chords' refusal to work was driving her crazy. She did want to talk. The ache to speak grew worse with

every passing minute.

"Will you tell me a story, Diane?"

His rich voice flowed over her like honey, persuasive and pleading. His expression was full of

understanding. With her hand still touching her throat she turned her back to him. She wished she could

plug her ears against that seductive voice. She looked at the rough stone wall before her and tried to

pretend his large, solid presence had no effect on her.

He thinks he owns you, she reminded herself. Jacques brought you here to amuse him. You're no

more than an organic film projector to him. Just a VCR he plays and pauses and turns off at his whim. He

wasn't trying to turn her off now, another part of her argued. He was politely asking her to do the one

thing she could do. He also wasn't the person responsible for her problems, even though he was the

reason she was here. Jacques's reason, not Simon's. Still, she hated being no more than a toy for the lord

of Marbeau, of having been presented to Simon as a gift. He'd accepted the gift, or he wouldn't be here.

"You have a talent, a gift you can share with me and my people."

Damn the man for picking up the very words she thought and speaking them when she couldn't! She

spun around, but not away from him because he put both of his hands on her shoulders. "Spit your fury

on me if you must, girl," he said, voice coldly quiet, "but know that you will regret it."

She'd raised a hand to slap him, or to try to push him away, but dropped it back to her side at his

words. She realized there was only so far she could go to thwart this man's wishes and after that point

came deep trouble. He'd thrown her out into the ugly world beyond the castle once. The hard look on

his face told her he could do it again. The faint lift of one of his eyebrows told her that he wouldn't do it if

she behaved reasonably. Reasonable by his standards. Which were not her own. There were parameters

she was going to have to live with, weren't there?

"You cannot survive on pride here," he told her. "You can't expect to have things your own way. You

are a woman and a stranger with no feudal ties to protect you. Whatever you were in your own place,

whoever you were, means nothing here. It's a pity. It should not have happened. It did. Deal with it. If

you don't, Diane, you will not survive."

He squeezed her shoulders. The gesture was both comforting and a warning, because though his touch

was gentle it reminded her of how much larger he was, how much stronger.

"And I'm not the only one with a sword."

She damned the man once again for his ability to read her mind. And though she resented the truth

he'd spoken, she was grateful he'd put it into words as well.

"So," he said. "Will you come with me to the ladies' solar and give us a story?"

Diane considered her options. Stay in Jacques's room and sulk, or do as Simon asked. She was

getting more and more frustrated with hiding out in Jacques's room. Maybe she'd think of something else

eventually, but until then—

She sighed, looked away, and nodded.

He lifted her chin with his fingers and turned her head. He gave her one of his rare, faint smiles.