Domning, Denise (25 page)

"You will have to move your present guests from your chamber to accommodate the bishop," Temric reminded.

"John will understand." Rannulf waved that concern away, then stepped around the hearth to lay a hand on a man's shoulder. "Ulric, wake up. I need you to creep quietly into my chamber and retrieve my armor and my best surcoat. Take care you do not wake the newlyweds."

The man rubbed his face as he rose and straightened his shirt and hose. "Aye, my lord," he muttered, and stumbled toward the stairs.

"Temric, I'll take ten men with me. See that they are dressed in their best and their horses well fitted out. But it must be quick, as I wish to ride as soon as I am armed."

"They will be ready before you are," said his brother as he walked away.

Rannulf was still studying the message when his servant returned with his clothing and armor. He was followed by Maeve, who was swathed in a blanket, her golden red hair tumbling over her shoulders in long waves.

"My lord, what is amiss that you must dress so swiftly in the middle of the night," she cried in a low voice while touching his arm with gentle concern.

"Maeve! Did this churl awaken you? My apologies to you and John, as well. I had not expected to need access to your chamber tonight." He spoke more gently than was his custom. It was as if his tone could wash away the stain of his wife's accusations, even though Maeve knew nothing about them. He waited, still smiling, expecting her to immediately excuse herself and return to her husband.

"Your armor? Is there an attack? Oh, my lord, my heart stops at the thought of you in danger." She stepped nearer now and gazed up at him. Her face was all gentle curves and beautiful hollows, her eyes warm with her concern. She laid her hand upon his upper arm, her fingers stretching upward toward his shoulder.

Rannulf shifted uneasily at her touch. When she did not withdraw her hand, he took her fingers in his and stepped back. "Nay, no attack. I must meet the Bishop of Hereford this morn regarding my wife's inheritance. You should have no concern for me, Maeve. Brothers"—he gave emphasis to the word as he let her hand slip from his grasp—"you must forsake when you cleave unto your husband. Now, go back to your bed and think no more of it. If John asks, I should return before the sun sets tonight."

She sighed softly, baring one arm to lift her hair over her shoulder. The blanket sagged open to reveal the curve of her breast. "You are right, but I am so newly married, surely I can be excused. I must unlearn my habit of worrying over you."

Now he frowned sharply. "Cover yourself, madam. Dear God, this is your wedding night. What sort of man is John to let you come down like that? Go back to bed."

She laughed, low and husky, and did not pull the blanket back up over her shoulder. "You may drop your pretense now. Really, all this concern over my husband. And a meeting with a bishop? At this hour? Such a story. If you are worried over your man carrying tales, you need not. I will make very certain he keeps his mouth shut. Oh, my poor heart, until he woke me, I despaired of finding a moment alone with you."

She stepped forward, exposing one long, slim leg. The firelight glimmered on her bare thigh. "Your greeting yesterday was balm to my soul. If you had not held me next to your heart when you proposed this ridiculous marriage, I would not have known what you intended."

"Intended? I intended nothing, and my greeting was no more than a greeting," he started, but his voice caught as he remembered his wife's pointed remarks about the same event. He'd only meant to sweeten the news of so sudden a wedding. Where had he erred?"

"Nothing more?" she insinuated, her voice like the sensuous rasp of silk against skin. "You drew me into your embrace and held me as you had never held me before, and now you would say it was nothing? Do not lie to yourself, Rannulf. It is me you desire. I know how unhappy you are in this marriage of yours. Look, here I am beside you. I can ease your pain. Let me love you as you deserve to be loved. And don't fret over John, for I can manage him. He is very simple."

"No."

Hard and cold, the word hung so heavily in the air between them that even the smoke could not rise. Instead, it curled and circled around them until it filled the space between them. She made no movement except to tighten her fingers into the blanket.

He stared at her, truly seeing her for the first time, and what he found in her eyes made him look away in sickened shame. Why had he been so determined not to recognize her for what she was?

When he finally spoke, his voice was taut with pain and revulsion. "How could you believe this of me?" He rubbed a hand against his brow, then turned to face her once again. "How? You have lived beneath my roof for years, and never have I touched you or given you any sign that I desired you. What did I do that gave you cause to believe me capable of dishonoring a loyal man who has done me no harm? Tell me now, so I may be sure to never do it again."

He watched her face, but her expression did not change. Neither did she move to draw the blanket closer, and there was something obscene in the way that simple wool sheet draped about her to reveal her breast. He reached out to yank the edge of it over her shoulder until she was decently covered once again. "Sweet Jesu, this is your wedding night. To do a man so on this night of all nights, it would stain my soul forever."

"How very righteous of you," Maeve purred dangerously. "But this must be a new side of you. You could hardly have been so righteous when you left my sister to die. How grateful you must have been when she breathed her last. After all, it solved the problem of what to do with the bastard she carried. Tell me, my lord, did you ask for whom she cried as her lifeblood ebbed away? Or could you not bear to hear that she'd cried for Gilliam and cursed you for separating them."

Rannulf closed his eyes as his stomach rolled. He tried desperately to shove the memory away, but Maeve's words were like daggers ripping away all his carefully constructed barriers. The scene exploded to life in his memory, every detail clear and fresh as if it had happened yesterday, not five years ago.

Isotte, only just past her fifteenth birthday and pregnant with the child he had not fathered, had miscarried. The midwife did what she could, but she could not stop the bleeding. Blood had soaked the mattress and dampened the bedclothes; even his own clothing had been filled with it.

"Aye," he said softly, as an odd sense of peace flowed over him. He opened his eyes as the scene faded gently away without any of the horror it had once held for him. In its wake came sadness, but it was a sadness without pain. "Aye, she cried, but it was for your mother, child that she was. Poor thing had only me and the priest to bear her company. At the end she clung to me. All I could do was hold her until she was gone. And when we laid her to rest, it was I who cried for her.

"But, I doubt that was what you hoped to gain with your ploy. Have you anything left to use against me or is your arsenal now spent?"

Maeve only shrugged casually. "Call it a desperate attempt to hurt you for rejecting me, if you like, a parting blow. Now, I'll give you a warning. You are a cuckolded fool, not once, but twice. Is this the same as the last time, or do you know what's afoot at Graistan? I'm told you are never far from Gilliam's side these days, my lord."

She stared at him to see what effect her words had had. Rannulf only looked down at her, his face expressionless, his eyes hard and cold. She sighed. "Ah, well, see what you want to see."

She turned toward the fire and held her hands out to catch what remained of the departing warmth. "But really, Rannulf, if you had to see me wed, why choose such an oaf? Did you see how he smeared grease on my sleeve? Now I am to be a farm wife, with geese and goats forever at my heels." The sudden sharp edge to her voice hinted at real despair, but it disappeared as she continued. "How rustic. He is worse than my first husband."

"Dear God, what have I done," he whispered in horror. "I refused to believe them. Rowena warned me. I said she hated you and saw the worst for her own reasons. John is a good man who deserves better than you," he bit out. "Well, it is done and there's no hope of undoing it. I, myself, saw to that. But I can still warn him. Perhaps he can beat some goodness into your soul."

"Too late," she said with a tiny laugh and a confident lift of her brow. "My power over him is complete. He is smitten and will not hear you." She tilted her head until the firelight revealed her at her most beautiful. A soft smile turned her lips upward ever so slightly, and her eyes sparkled. "Challenge me, and I will see you destroyed in your man's eyes." Then she made him a mock bow and turned on her heel to start back toward the stairs.

"Ulric, escort her," Lord Graistan commanded. "Make certain she returns to her husband's bed. Wake two fellows and tell them they are to stand by either door to assure that she stays there until her husband rises. When you've done so, come help me dress. And all of you who have listened here this night, if one word of this incident is repeated to anyone before I have spoken with Sir John, your heads will be the forfeit."

The man nodded his assent and hurried after her. When he returned, his lord already wore the padded woolen chausses and shirt that served as buffer between his skin and mail. After they had pulled and shrugged the mail shirt in place, they paused for a breath.

"I have been a fool," Rannulf said to himself, not expecting a response from his servant.

"Aye, my lord," said Ulric, "so you were. But, then you regained your senses and wed your lady, may God preserve you both." The man turned to lift the metal stockings and missed the marked reaction the nobleman had to his comment.

Chapter 15

Rowena waited impatiently for her guests to descend. They were already an hour late, an hour she could have better spent on preparations for the bishop's arrival. Instead, she'd had to dress in honor of the newly wedded couple. Now, they lingered upstairs while she could do nothing save pace here in front of the tables set for the midday meal and dwell on the horror of the previous evening's events.

Not that she hadn't done enough of that last night on an uncomfortable cot in a drafty corner of the women's quarters. Dawn's light had found her still blaming herself for so stupidly falling into such an obvious and waiting snare. Despite Temric's insistence that there was yet hope, she could see no escape from this morass.

"Well, good morrow, Rowena, dear," called Maeve from the balcony fronting the second floor. She wore a sleek silk undergown of pale peach with an overgown of darker orange embroidered in gold, and her hair had been carefully plaited with bright ribbons. Rowena's eyes narrowed. No doubt it had been these vain primpings that were the source of their delay.

"Perhaps you should say afternoon, love," John corrected. "We have slept most of the day away."

Her husband was a marked contrast to his wife, for he wore his stained and rumpled wedding attire and looked as though he'd barely run a comb through his hair.

His new bride leaned close to him and blushed prettily as she agreed with the throaty comment, "So we have."

Lady Graistan schooled her features into calm, and stepped forward to greet them as they descended the stairs and entered the hall. "I hope you found all to your liking in your chamber."

"I did," murmured John to his wife, "did you?"

His bride returned his look with a quick smile, "What do you think, my love?" Then she turned toward her lady and cried, "Oh, but you look as though you haven't slept a wink all night, you poor dear." The barest hint of gloating suggested she knew full well what havoc she'd wrought.

"It was all the excitement," Rowena said as she shrugged away the comment, then girded herself to accept without reaction all the subtle, nasty barbs that would surely follow. To her surprise, the fair woman did not pursue the matter.

"My, what a stunning gown. I don't believe I've ever seen it before. That shade of blue is just the color of your eyes, and those black and silver brilliants on the trim!"

Only at great cost did the Lady Graistan stay still while the woman fingered the tiny, shining stones and beads. How she wished she could strike out and hurt as she had been hurt. But what purpose would it serve? It would not change what had happened nor would it endear Graistan to Lord John.

She could not even give Maeve all the blame when it had been her own, stupid jealousy that had placed her so securely in the trap. Imagine, jealousy over a man who wanted naught to do with her. Her heart lurched again.

Lady Ashby turned to her husband with a husky sigh. "Oh, John, do you think I might one day have such a gown?" Then she seemed to catch herself. "Oh, what am I saying. I'm sure it was horribly expensive, and I most certainly do not need another gown."

"If it pleases you love, you may have three and damn the cost," John replied, his own eyes alight with pleasure.

"Oh, sweetheart, you are so good to me," she breathed, and leaned full against him to touch her lips to his cheek.

His sun-darkened skin reddened in pleasure. He pulled her into the curve of his arm as he spoke to Rowena. "Have you seen Nicola this morn, my lady?"

"Aye, she was up early and is now in town with my people. Will you come to the table so we may begin serving?" She indicated the two chairs at the high table set there especially for her guests before she continued speaking. "She said there were some items she needed to purchase for your stores. I expect her back within the hour."

"Ah, yes, she'd mentioned she would do so." He led his wife around the corner of the table as he asked, "Is Lord Graistan about? With all these carts going in and out, you'd think he was preparing for a siege."

"Nay, nothing like that." She didn't wait for them to reach their seats before she signaled that the servants from the kitchen were to set their trays on the table at the same time that the butler filled cups and the water bearer brought around his basin and towels. Usually, these events occurred in solemn and careful order to give the meal its proper formality.