Elaine Barbieri (15 page)

“Nay, I—”

Dagan interrupted softly, “Rosamund, I did not balk when I was injured and you tended most intimately to me. I ask only to be allowed to repay the service.”

Her throat tight, Rosamund nodded. She turned onto her stomach with great effort and closed her eyes.

The torment began.

Perspiration dotted Dagan’s brow as Rosamund turned laboriously onto her stomach and he straddled her motionless form. Fearing for her safety, yet unwilling to argue with her determination, he had hidden and observed her as she bathed. Naked, her skin shining and her hair glowing, she had kneeled in the rippling water of the stream, a goddess in an eternal spring—bright, faultless, untouchable. His heart had pounded at the fallacy there, knowing that despite her appearance, she was human and she was his, intimately claimed and more honestly adored than he had ever intended.

But she was in pain.

Dagan tilted the bottle of medicinal liquid he had taken from the hut and poured it into his palm. He smoothed it against her skin, marveling at the womanly perfection Rosamund had kept concealed under her male garb—the graceful contours of her slender back, her incredibly narrow waist, and her smooth, rounded buttocks. He frowned at the bruises gradually darkening that perfection, aware even as he did that no temporary discoloration could compromise her feminine beauty.

Dagan kneaded Rosamund’s cramped muscles patiently until they relaxed under his touch at last. Aware
that his breathing had roughened at the effort, he sat back and ordered gruffly, “Turn onto your back.”

Obeying his command, Rosamund turned over, and Dagan stilled at the beauty exposed to him. High cheekbones, a long, graceful neck, firm and gently rounded breasts, and feminine curves that culminated in a small patch of hair nestled between her thighs, long slender legs…His gaze returned unconsciously to the patch of fair hair between her thighs, and Dagan sucked in his breath. Refusing to meet her gaze, he poured more of the precious liquid into his palm and continued.

Torture.

Rosamund closed her eyes as Dagan poured the liquid onto her shoulders and rubbed it in gently. His hands lowered to the rounded globes of her breasts to massage them tenderly. She swallowed when his touch moved on to her ribs as he paused briefly there before massaging her waist and the curve of her hips. Her eyes fluttered shut when his fingers slid past the lightly furred triangle at the juncture of her thighs to smooth the muscles of her legs. Uncertain, she only knew that the torment was unlike any she had ever known. His touch moved to her inner thighs, then slid into the warm crevice wet with wanting him. She was breathing as heavily as he then, and what ever stiffness remained was forgotten when he entered her at last and she welcomed him with a desire that surged between them.

Opening her eyes when Dagan suddenly stilled inside her, Rosamund saw a spark of regret in his gaze as he
whispered, “I did not intend this when I came here, Rosamund…truly.”

“I know.”

“I but wanted to provide you with relief from your pain.”

“I know.”

“I was determined to just—”

Rosamund interrupted breathlessly, “I was determined to resist you, Dagan, but my arms welcomed you just as I welcome you now.” Drawing his mouth down to hers, Rosamund kissed him with all the hunger that she had suppressed, separating her lips to allow him deeper intimacy before drawing back to whisper, “I have no other recourse but to repeat the words that you once said to me, that between us at this moment, this was meant to be.” She urged softly, “Finish what you have started. And know that what ever you feel, I feel…what ever you want, I want, and that whatever—”

Rosamund’s statement went unfinished when Dagan thrust himself deep inside her again, and with a few breathtaking movements, brought them to mutual, ecstatic fulfillment.

Breathless in its wake, Rosamund clutched Dagan close against her. Her heart pounding, her emotions unbridled, she was grateful that he had brought them to swift culmination because she knew they could not chance being seen. Still clutching him tightly, aware that their precious time together would be limited at best, she silently cursed the cruel fate that had brought him to her at a time when she must think of her people and ignore her heart.

Rosamund was unaware that tears had slipped from underneath her closed eyelids until Dagan drew back and brushed them away with a gentle touch. He whispered, “Why do you cry, Rosamund? Did I press you too hard? Did I hurt you?”

“Nay.” Aware that Dagan had withdrawn from her, Rosamund drew strength from the warmth of his strong body still pressed against her. She said hesitantly, “I need to explain some things to you now…difficult things that I hope you will understand.”

“You need not explain anything.”

“Yea, I must, so that you may understand the reason for the priorities that I must set.” Rosamund took a breath and began slowly, “I am not an ordinary Saxon maid, as I would have everyone believe.”

“I have never believed you to be ordinary.”

“Nay, Dagan. The meaning of my words goes far deeper.” The clear blue of her gaze was intent as she continued, “Although the affection between Hadley and myself is sincere, he is not my father. The truth is that I am the daughter of the true Lord of Hendsmille, the true heir to the land that the baron was awarded for spilling my father’s blood.”

Momentarily silent, his expression unrevealing despite her disclosure, Dagan insisted, “You need make no explanations to me, Rosamund. I—”

“Nay, please allow me to continue, Dagan. It is important that I make this revelation to you now…so you may understand.” When Dagan did not respond, she continued, “I was but a child of eight when the Norman invasion came. Hadley’s daughter was my best friend, and I was visiting her when the raiders attacked.
My friend died during the raid. I, too, would have been slain had not Hadley appeared to save me. He took me as his own daughter at my father’s dying request. True to his word Hadley buried his daughter in secret and claimed me as his own. It was not a difficult task to be accepted in my friend’s place at a time when such confusion reigned. In the years since, Hadley has raised me and treated me as his own while allowing me to maintain my real identity as well. As a child, I knew somehow that there was a reason I had been spared during that time of slaughter. As my knowledge grew, I realized that because of my heritage, I alone possessed the key to restoring the pride of Hendesmille. That responsibility resonates deep inside me, Dagan. Because of it, I have maintained contact with northern military forces. I hope to unite my people with them in the near future. If I am successful is this area, I can inspire others to fight for that which was, and that which will be again. Although I am unsure what the future holds for me, I am certain that my destiny is to fulfill that quest. I will never desert my people. You see, I am their last hope.”

Dagan remained silent. His gaze inscrutable, he looked down at her. His grip tightened, yet he did not speak.

A nudge of uncertainty growing, Rosamund whispered, “I await your response, Dagan.” When he did not reply, her uneasiness swelled and she asked, “Is it the baron you fear…that he will discover who I am, and that he will—”

“It is not the baron I fear.”

“Yet I see your uncertainty.”

“Yea, I am uncertain.”

Her heart beginning a slow pounding, Rosamund whispered, “You want to say something, yet you hold it back. Tell me.”

Dagan’s gaze darkened as he scrutinized Rosamund’s expression closely. She was correct. He had not expected the true depth of the secret she concealed. Nor had he expected the true depth of her determination. Yet he knew that her whispered confidence made his own secret more difficult to reveal.

Looking at her, aware of what he risked, Dagan hesitated before whispering, “Is this the time for confession then, Rosamund?”

Dagan felt Rosamond slowly stiffen as she replied, “Yea, it is the time.”

“Then I hope you will understand when I tell you— when I confide in you a secret that could cost me my life should de Silva discover it before I am ready. Rosamund…” Dagan hesitated again. His voice deepened as he disclosed, “I am not fully Saxon, as I claimed. Nor was I a resident of Horstede at the time of the invasion. I am a knight in William’s service…a knight who played an important role in the invasion. I am also William’s trusted friend. He sent me here to investigate rumors that abound about the baron. On the way, I was set upon by thieves, not Norman soldiers as you believed. I was saved from death when Conqueror returned to carry me here, where you assumed my care.”

“But…but your name?”

“My mother was English, my father French. My full name is Sir Dagan Waterford de Lance.”

Dagan felt the chill that shook Rosamund as she whispered, “Then you are Norman.”

“Yea, that is so.”

Thrusting him away from her, Rosamund said incredulously, “You were a part of the force that subdued Saxons and made them slaves!”

“If that is the way you wish to view all that transpired.”

Her face growing hot, Rosamund fully separated herself from Dagan and stood. She reached for her clothing when he stood up as well and said, “You are no better than your Viking forebears!”

“Were that true, no one in Hendsmille would have been left standing after the revolt, and William would not have sent me to discover whether the rumors about the shire were true.”

“You slaughter indiscriminately.”

“William had no choice in what he did. Saxons received only what was due them for accepting a monarch like Harold, who did not belong on the throne.”

“William does not belong on the throne. He cares naught about our people. He cares only for Normandy.”

“That is untrue.”

“It is true for every Saxon who has lived and died under William’s ruthless rule.”

“William is not a ruthless man—nor is his rule ruthless. Once the baron’s tactics in this shire have been reported, you will see William’s true worth, and the time for healing will begin.”

“There will be no healing for a people whose liberty has been stolen from them.”

“Saxon peasants have no liberty now because the
baron oppresses them in William’s name. I need to investigate further and make a full report to William. The baron’s unjust practices will then be curtailed.”

Rosamund scoffed.

“I am not your enemy! To the contrary, I am—”

“Stop!” Standing opposite Dagan, fully dressed at last, Rosamund turned toward him, her smile bitter. “Do you think I am a complete fool? I may briefly have been deceived, but I know now who my enemies are.” Pausing, Rosamund added, “Do what you want with what I have disclosed to you, but for us, it ends here. The die has been cast.”

Turning, Rosamund started back up the path. Unrelenting, she left Dagan speechless where he stood on the bank of the stream, watching as she walked away.

H
e has gone to his room to rest. I am free of him for a while.” De Silva turned back toward Champlain with a relieved expression after DuPree and his entourage returned to their respective quarters. Together, he and Champlain walked toward the great hall, silent in the aftermath of the long day spent hunting from first light. Concealing his stress with a smile, de Silva had strained to hide the true perimeters of the hunting preserve reserved for William from DuPree’s watchful eye, but the effort had been exhausting. The hunters had returned victoriously with their spoils as the sun made its slow descent toward the horizon. Openly fatigued, DuPree had nevertheless announced his decision to write the last addition to his report that night so he might return to London where William awaited him, the following day.

De Silva snorted unconsciously at that thought. DuPree’s estimation of his importance was doubtless exaggerated. William would not wait for him or any man to arrive back at the castle when he chose to return to his beloved Normandy.

Ever present in the back of de Silva’s mind as he had striven to impress DuPree, was the importance of presenting a loyal appearance while the exact timing
of Cnut’s planned invasion was still in flux. It was a waiting game—a game with which he was fast becoming impatient.

Events from earlier that morning returned to haunt him. Had it not been for his desire to impress DuPree, the situation would not have turned out the way it had when Ross was thrown from his horse. He would not have left Ross behind in the hands of the big man who had declared himself Ross’s guardian. Instead, when he realized Ross was unable to remount, he would have seen to it that he returned to
his
quarters in the castle keep so he might recuperate there. He would have earned the youth’s gratitude—a gratitude that would have served de Silva well.

De Silva snorted again. Gratitude. He would have preferred to stir a far more powerful emotion in Ross. He still did not quite understand why the young man had become so important to him, why he was drawn to him even more strongly than he had ever been drawn to a woman before him, why every moment spent in his presence seemed to affect his libido even more, and why all else paled in comparison to this relentless craving.

De Silva glanced at the gradually waning light shining through the narrow window of the keep. He squinted thoughtfully. Hadley and the rest of the workers would not have returned to their huts yet. If he did not miss his guess, Ross’s injuries were such that he would not have been able to return to work that day, despite Hadley’s need for him. He frowned at the thought that the big man would probably have remained at his side, but he pushed that discomfort aside. He would visit Ross and explain his lapse of temper earlier, and he would see to it
that the fellow called Dagan left them alone when he did. He would do that before the workers returned for the day so they would not see him and think him weak. By doing so, he would impress upon Ross unconsciously that Dagan was subject to his command, as was Ross himself.

With that thought in mind, de Silva turned abruptly toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

Rounding on Champlain, de Silva raised a haughty brow at the inquiry. “You are welcome to enjoy all that I have earned in this place, but you are
not
welcome to question my actions in any way.

Champlain’s jaded gaze narrowed. “So you go to visit the young man. Remember,” he cautioned, “the big fellow may still be with him.”

“I am not concerned with that man. He will obey me or he will suffer the consequences.”

“Methinks he will suffer the consequences more easily than he will obey you.”

“We will see.”

With those words, de Silva turned on his heel and headed for the door.

Dagan drew Conqueror’s lead behind him as he approached the barn. The loyal animal had carried Rosamund and him back to the hut with ease and then waited patiently at his command as he had covertly followed Rosamund to the stream and had fruitlessly attempted to talk to her in the hut they shared afterward. Dagan was still uncertain what she intended to do about his revelation; but he had already decided that he
would not compromise Rosamund’s disguise in any way.

Aware that it was time to settle Conqueror back in the barn after the difficult day, Dagan also hoped that in allowing Rosamund privacy to think, she might come to a decision in his favor. Despite the information that she had shared—a reality that he understood more than she realized—he hoped she might put aside the thought of joining any incursions as a figurehead against William.

He was certain it would be a grave mistake.

Dagan entered the barn and allowed Conqueror to slip free of his saddle and bridle. He placed them nearby as the great gray whinnied his appreciation and waited patiently while Dagan filled buckets with water and food. At his command, the great war horse dipped his head to eat hungrily. Watching him eat, Dagan recalled hearing somewhere that all wounds healed in time. He hoped that would prove true for Rosamund, yet he knew her ties to her heritage were strong.

Dagan sighed. In any event, he was powerless at present. All he could do was wait.

De Silva walked cautiously toward the hut where Ross resided. He was well aware that although he would react favorably to a visit from him as opposed to a command to report to the castle, it would not do to be seen there.

Frowning when the master mason’s hut came into view, de Silva scanned the vicinity before approaching. The area was temporarily deserted, as he had expected. He approached the hut cautiously and paused at a
window to peer inside. He was only too aware of the unspoken bond existing between Ross and the big man he had nursed back to health. He hoped it merely reflected Dagan’s appreciation for Ross’s care, but his suspicions were rife.

Unseen, he looked into the meager quarters, and then gawked.

Preoccupied by her thoughts, Rosamund brushed as much mud as possible from the hunting attire she had been provided and prepared to slip on Ross’s shirt. Her shoulders ached from her fall—the same ache that had temporarily disappeared under Dagan’s patient ministrations. Aware that Dagan was tending to Conqueror and that the others were not yet due to return, Rosamund walked to the mirror that Hadley had provided. Bare to the waist, she scrutinized her back. Considering the size of the bruise, it was surprising that Dagan had been able to eliminate her pain even temporarily. Yet she was not truly surprised. It was his touch…so gentle and loving.

Suddenly succumbing to the emotion that had threatened throughout the day, Rosamund covered her face and allowed tears to fall. Why had she not suspected that Dagan concealed a secret? The truth that he was a knight who had fought Saxons in William’s name had struck her like a blow. They had made love—an intimacy that she had allowed no other man. She had been truthful with him while he had maintained his disguise. Would Dagan have confided the truth of his mission if she had not spoken first? And…would her true identity remain a secret now?

Her partial nakedness forgotten, Rosamund sobbed at the collapse of a dream she had not been aware she had even briefly entertained. She wished she could put aside her bitterness at William’s theft of Saxon life and liberty. She wished she were no more than a common maid, with none of the responsibilities inherent in her heritage. She wished she had the power to change the destiny posed by that heritage…and she ultimately wished with all her heart that she did not love the man who had revealed himself as the personification of all she despised.

But in the end she knew that wishing did not make it so.

And the realization was almost more than she could bear.

De Silva swallowed. He stared, not quite believing his eyes. He held in a bark of pure delight.

He understood now why he had felt no attraction to the young men who served his tables and who would have been easy sport. He knew why thoughts of Ross had allowed him no respite from the driving need within him.

He had simply responded unconsciously to the female aura that Ross projected!

He had become obsessed with Ross without even realizing that…Ross was a woman!

De Silva briefly closed his eyes as pure glee overwhelmed him. She had sought to deceive him, doubtless hoping to evade his attentions, yet he had somehow sensed the deception. Now her secret was out!

De Silva’s expression changed as he briefly indulged
visions of the ways he would make her pay for the torment she had caused him.

He envisioned forcing Ross to stand naked in front of him until she acknowledged at last the supreme power he held over her; of freely observing…touching…stroking the female glory exposed to his gaze while she attempted to halt his searching probes; of exploring her female flesh intimately in his great bed until she begged him to stop; of hearing her cry out with a joy mixed with pain when he entered her at last—all of which she would not dare deny him for fear of the punishment he would threaten to mete out on her elderly and equally deceitful father.

Yet de Silva was only momentarily satisfied by his thoughts. The fellow Dagan remained a complication. Who was he? Why did he stand so diligently at her side? He had not believed Dagan’s tale about finding, rescuing, and securing the fealty of the great animal he commanded. There was more to that story than the man had divulged.

The sound of footsteps in the distance turned de Silva abruptly in its direction and he gasped. The workers were returning. He could not be seen there. He needed time and anonymity so he might fit the final pieces of the puzzle into place.

With that thought in mind, de Silva avoided discovery by slipping silently into the lengthening shadows

He moved stealthily to the barn that housed the draft animals. He told himself he had a small window of time before they would be returned for a night’s rest…a brief period when he might find the answers to the questions inundating his mind.

Halting his approach abruptly, de Silva stepped back into the shadows as Dagan emerged from the barn and closed the doors behind him. He cursed at his near blunder and waited while Dagan walked back toward the hut with a determined step. He waited only a moment longer before opening the doors of the barn and slipping inside. De Silva turned, unprepared for the angry snorting and prancing that faced him.

“Back…back!” murmuring desperate commands under his breath, de Silva sought to avoid the great gray’s flying hooves as the animal reared and whinnied at his appearance. When the animal refused to obey him, he grasped a whip hanging nearby and cracked it mercilessly against the animal’s hide. The great steed’s eyes bulged under his assault. It charged, almost knocking him to the ground. Forced into a corner of a stall, de Silva shielded himself from the animal’s angry hooves before managing to reach the stall gate behind him and slam it shut, locking them both inside. He scrambled over the partition, barely escaping the angry destrier as he jumped down into freedom on the other side.

Jubilant, de Silva stared at the great animal as he snorted and stamped helplessly. He searched for the whip he had dropped, but his eye fell instead on the bridle that had been removed from the animal and put aside. Surprised at its obvious quality, he picked it up and scrutinized the fine tooled leather carefully. Turning it this way and that, he realized that the subtle decoration was a masterpiece of design, then went still when he saw the familiar mark it bore. It was William’s mark, placed on all gifts he had bestowed in gratitude for loyal service during the invasion.

Loyal service!

De Silva’s eyes widened. The reason for Dagan Waterford’s great stature and muscle tone, as well as his lack of fear when facing him down at every opportunity, was suddenly clear. Dagan Waterford was a knight in William’s service! The only reason for his disguise as a commoner had to be that William had heard the rumors and had sent Dagan to spy on him.

As abruptly clear to him then was a cold truth he could no longer deny—that due to the living arrangements that Ross had afforded the fellow while recuperating, Dagan had probably known all along that the object of both their affections was not male, and was instead a desirable woman.

Hatred, rage, and a driving hunger for revenge rose within de Silva. They had thought to deceive him, make a fool of him, and report their findings to William! Well, he would see about that!

De Silva breathed deeply. He would get his revenge. He would make both of them pay in ways they had never envisioned, but he needed to bide his time.

Yea…bide his time.

That thought held little appeal as de Silva slipped silently back the way he had come.

“I leave now because I know William awaits me, but I admit that I am not truly satisfied with my findings here.”

Dagan faced Emile DuPree in the early morning shadows of the keep. DuPree said, “My entourage leaves in less than an hour, but I must admit that the
hunt de Silva organized yesterday was a spark of genius. In the mayhem that transpired, I became truly uncertain as to the boundaries of the hunting preserve we traversed. I needed to take his word for its dimensions for the most part…a sad commentary indeed, considering my silent opinion of the man’s honesty.” He sighed. “Since I am satisfied with what I have learned elsewhere, I suppose it will now be up to you to determine whether the baron has taken advantage of his position here or is really the man William hopes he is.” DuPree smiled. “I admit to being undecided about de Silva, but there is one thing I know for sure—if I had any doubts at all about who Ross really is, your actions yesterday settled them.” Pausing, he added with an unexpected twinkle in his eye, “What I do not know is how you became involved with
her
.”

“Rosamund…”

“Yea, if that is her true name. I was not deceived very long by her disguise, you know.” He snickered. “I am not
that
old.”

“Rosamund and her father were well aware of de Silva’s reputation for exploiting women. Among other considerations, they hoped to avoid his attentions with her charade. They expected that it would protect her from de Silva’s interest. However it did not, and because Rosamund has shown a preference for my company, de Silva bears a dangerous antipathy for me.”