Elaine Barbieri (10 page)

“The
simple master mason and his apprentice
pose no threat to me.”

“Then your men must imagine a threat in the presence of a limping man whose wounds are not yet fully healed and whose strength has not yet fully returned.”

“They imagine nothing, yet they prepare for anything.”

“Then their preparations are in vain, for the fellow standing behind me is a common man who chose to come here to work against my advice.”

“Against your advice?”

“He claims he is well and ready to do his part.”

“That is wise of him.”

Ross smiled and said, “It is his claim that he has not always been accused of being wise, but that he has always been accused of being stubborn.”

Unable to see the humor in that response, the baron chose to change the subject. “Work appears to be progressing normally despite your uncertainties as to the stability of the foundation.”

Speaking up, Hadley responded, “I did not halt the men’s work for good reason…for to halt them unnecessarily would mean further delay. I have compromised by having the workmen shape the stones and set them aside. We will have the mortar and supplies ready to be taken up as soon as the decision is reached to go forward.”

The baron felt the men behind him move restlessly as he said, “I will wait only two more days for the report you promised.”

“It is forthcoming,” Hadley agreed.

“It must be delivered personally by your apprentice, as previously indicated.”

“But—”

His dark eyes intent, the baron stressed, “I would have it no other way.”

Hadley nodded and de Silva smiled at Ross’s silence. His amusement faded when the big man standing behind Ross also frowned at his words. He added maliciously, “Put that big fellow to work, too. He appears well enough to me.”

“I will see to it that he puts in a full day’s work,” Hadley responded.

“I am sure he will, since I will notify the guards to watch him carefully, and to react accordingly should his work slacken.”

Ross protested, “My lord, he is not at full strength yet. His wounds were severe.”

Dagan’s reply was cold. “I am well. I will do the work assigned to me.”

De Silva frowned at the sound of the fellow’s voice. It was deep and steady, and his gaze was direct.

It was
too
direct.

Had he seen the fellow somewhere before?

De Silva asked abruptly, “Do I know you? What is your name?”

“I told you, his name is—”

A stiff glance in Ross’s direction halted his interjection, allowing Dagan to reply, “My name is Dagan Waterford. My home was in Horstede.”

“Yea, so I was told. Keep in mind the fate that
Horstede suffered and conduct yourself accordingly, for my patience wears thin.”

“I will do my part.”

De Silva looked at Ross as he said, “I await your report.”

Ross’s chin rose defiantly, yet he maintained his silence with obvious strength of will.

Smiling, de Silva replied softly, “That is better…much better.”

De Silva was still smiling when he signaled his men to follow and rode off, leaving only a cloud of dust behind him.

Standing concealed close by, Hyacinthe watched the scene unfold with a whitening countenance. She had suspected that something was amiss in the situation. Yet she had not imagined this—that Guilbert was enamored of a young man!

Stunned beyond belief, Hyacinthe waited only until the baron and his men had disappeared from sight before staggering back toward the keep’s kitchen. She entered a few moments later to the knowing glances of the cook and her helper. She ignored the glances of the boys who worked feverishly and silently at the cook’s commands, and returned the stare of the gray-haired, elderly cook, Edythe, who resented the influence Hyacinthe had wielded with the baron. She steeled herself as Edythe asked with open amusement, “So your attempts to seduce the baron with your feminine wiles were useless, and now you know why. Will you cut your hair and wear masculine clothing in an effort to further
your appeal to him? Will you curb the French accent of which you are so proud and attempt to mimic the voice of the young man the baron now chooses over you? Or will you wait for the baron to take his fill of him and hope he will allow you back in his bed?”

“
Sorciere
!”

“Nay, it is not I who is the witch!”

“
Oui
, it is you, and also that assistant who never strays far from your side. I do not doubt that you and she have an arrangement similar to that which the baron contemplates.”

“We do not!” Edythe looked at the younger woman who stood beside her. “I have a husband at home, as does Winifred. Unlike you, we do not function in this place because of the baron, but in spite of him!”

“Spoken with the tongue of one who is accustomed to lies!”

Her face flushing, Edythe picked up the nearby rolling pin and started toward Hyacinthe. “I will teach you that all women are not like you, and
I will teach you
to respect my position in this kitchen. I am in control, and you are merely a common maid—despite your dreams of more!”

Her hand moving toward the nearby table at the older woman’s advance, Hyacinthe picked up a knife there and said softly, “Come ahead, then, and I will teach you not to laugh at me.”

Ignoring Winifred’s gasp, Edythe charged forward. Her advance halted abruptly when a deep voice rang out angrily, “What progresses here?”

Turning toward Martin Venoir as he spoke from
the kitchen doorway, Hyacinthe responded, “Ask the hag! She seems to have much to say today.”

“The French whore threatened me with a knife and I but attempted to defend myself from her,” Edythe responded. “Is that not true, Winifred?”

“Yea.” The younger woman’s reply was shaken as she persisted, “It is true.”

“I am sure it is true, since your apprentice vouches for you.” His reply rang with sarcasm. Martin turned toward Hyacinthe and said, “
Mettez a patience, Hyacinthe. Votre beauté prevloirai
.”

Martin’s reply momentarily stunned Hyacinthe. So he knew about the baron’s obscene intentions. It appeared everyone had known but her! Yet…she had not realized Martin believed she was beautiful, or that her beauty would prevail over the baron’s present infatuation.

Hyacinthe regarded Martin more closely. He had the size and muscular girth of the baron, but although he was younger he possessed none of the qualities of her lover. His hair was dark and thick, but it was not distinguished with gray. A scar that ran the length of his cheek from eye to chin marred features that were uneven rather than handsome; and although he had proved his bravery in battle, his stature held none of the instinctive aura of command conferred by noble birth. He was nothing more than a soldier in the command of the man she loved.

Still, Hyacinthe responded gratefully. “The cook lies and her
apprenti
confirms her accusation. I am innocent.”

Martin replied, “
Non
, you are not innocent, Hyacinthe. I would never believe that of you, yet I will not allow a countrywoman to be abused by a woman in the service of the baron.”

Turning back to the gray-haired cook, Martin said more sternly, “However it began, this discussion is over. It will not be brought up again. Is that understood?”

“Yea,” Taking a moment to glance hotly at Hyacinthe, Edythe replied, “If the same pertains to your
countrywoman
.”

“It does.”

“Then I will go back to work, and I expect her to do the same.”

Martin took an aggressive step forward and, said softly, “I will not abide sarcasm from you, Edythe. Is that also understood?”

The old woman took a breath, then nodded.

His expression stiff, Martin turned and departed, leaving a silent tableau behind him.

In his wake, Hyacinthe felt her first inclination to smile.

“Those guards watch you like dogs guarding a bone.”

Dagan looked up from his morning’s labor. It annoyed him to realize that Rosamund had been correct, that his wounds had not completely healed. The one on his chest had begun seeping blood again as he sought to move the heavy stones. Rosamund had come immediately to his aid. She had checked the wound and then found another less strenuous task for him. He had seen the guards whisper at that, and he knew what they
were thinking. What they did not know was that his own reaction to her worried concern was more intense than he could have anticipated.

Presently engaged in transporting supplies from recently arrived wagons, Dagan paused to wipe away the perspiration that marked his brow. He remained silent in response to Rosamund’s comment. Did she feel the the bond between them as well as he? He did not want her to suffer when his mission for William was accomplished and the truth came out. He knew his own frustration with the situation increased at times like the present, when she exhibited tender concern for his well-being. He burned to wrap his arms around her and console her, to whisper that he—

Still staring at Rosamund, Dagan frowned darkly. She felt his change in demeanor and said tightly, “What is wrong? Do you not feel well?”

“I am fine.”

“You do not look fine. You look…unsettled.”

“I am fine.”

“All right, if you insist.” Rosamund looked at the spot of blood that had previously spotted his shirt. Then she glanced up at the position of the sun in the cloudless sky and said, “It appears that your wound has stopped bleeding, and the day is almost done. You may rest soon.”

“I am not tired.”

Dagan frowned at the paperwork Rosamund held. He saw the line of carefully marked figures and said, “Your calculations are almost completed, then.”

“Hadley and I will compose our report to night. I will deliver it to the baron tomorrow.”

“You will bring it to the baron’s keep?”

Rosamund nodded.

“Without Hadley?”

“The baron specifically asked
me
to deliver the report. Hadley is infirm. I would not allow him to incur the baron’s anger because of me.”

Dagan said coldly, “The baron is more anxious to see you alone than he is to receive the report on the status of construction.”

“Nay, I would say he is
as
anxious.”

The coldness inside Dagan spread to encompass his voice as he replied, “It will be difficult to say nay to someone as powerful as the baron—that is, if you wish to deny him.”

Dagan saw the flush that covered Rosamund’s face in reaction to his words, yet her reply was fierce. “The baron is a
Norman
—a man who subjugates my people. He is also a butcher, and a thief.” She continued haughtily, “I will deliver the report and nothing else.”

“Yea, but he—”

“I will not discuss the matter any further with you.” Rosamund’s response was adamant, yet it was not as obdurate as the determination that raged inside Dagan as he turned away and went back to his work.

Feeling the weight of someone’s stare, Dagan glanced up to see that the guard named Jacques eyed him with a half smile. Dagan held his temper with supreme effort, then turned to the supply wagon and snatched up another barrel. He ignored the stitch in his chest, feeling a gram of satisfaction as he tossed the barrel to the ground. Were his position different, he would have pulled that guard from his mount to dispense
the penalty the fellow had earned by silently inferring that he and Rosamund were…that he was…

Dagan halted at that thought. He admired Rosamund’s spirit as well as her versatile talents, and how he felt about her was none of the guard’s affair.

Dagan tossed another barrel out of the wagon. He watched as it bumped and rolled along the ground to the irritated mumblings of workers who jumped out of its way.

He admired Rosamund. That was all. That was all there could be, since Rosamund was Saxon to the core and he was a man she would ultimately despise.

The night was darkening outside the hut as Hadley worked at the table and Rosamund tended to Dagan’s wounds. She had treated the deep penetration on his bared chest many times before, yet this time her hands trembled.

Rosamund looked up to see Dagan regarding her intently with eyes that glowed an amber gold. His masculine scent stirred her, and his nearness made her insides flutter with an emotion she was afraid to name. Even as she touched the healing wound, her fingers tingled at the contact with his flesh. Something had changed within her as Dagan’s wounds had gradually healed, as the swelling of his face gradually lessened and his strong features emerged. She didn’t like the feeling that their relationship was changing, and that despite his debilities, their roles were reversing without her power to stop it.

It occurred to her as she glanced up at him that she wasn’t actually certain what Dagan’s eventual
appearance would be. She only knew that his hair was thick and black, and that the thrashing he had sustained had compromised his strong profile and marked his cheeks with cuts and bruises. She had learned only when he had smiled briefly in the barn, baring teeth that were white and straight, that although his lips had been cut and swollen, they were unaffected. She recalled that his smile had transformed hard features that she suspected were no stranger to pain. Then she wondered why he had never smiled at her.

A moment later, the answer to that question became clear in her mind. The truth was that he had little to smile about.

She had seen the scars of previous battles that marked his flesh. His muscular arms and chest had indicated a life of labor. Yet she had been somehow unprepared for the supreme power he exuded when he stood up to tower over her with his great height and muscular form. His piercing, amber gaze had regarded her soberly, just as it did now when she realized that although he listened intently to all that was said, he made little comment.

Rosamund took a spontaneous step back. Chiding herself for her reaction a moment later, she concluded her ministrations hurriedly and said, “Your wounds are all but healed except for the deep one in your chest, which will take a little longer.”

“Where I was stabbed.”

“That memory is clear?”

“Clear enough.”