Juliana Garnett (8 page)

Lifting his gaze to her face, he said softly, “And I can make you yield all to me willingly enough, milady.…”

Her breath came more quickly in lungs starved for air, and she shuddered. Then her stomach gave an unfamiliar lurch when he bent his head to place his lips where his hand had been. She felt the damp heat of his tongue against her breast, wetting the material of her cotte as he drew her nipple into his mouth. A flash of heat ignited in her belly and lower, making her ache most strangely. It was like nothing she had ever felt before, a peculiar, hot writhing inside that made her breath shorten and her face feel flushed.

“My … my lord,” she said in a strangled gasp, “please.…”

His head lifted. The lamplight behind emblazoned his hair with bright gold yet left his face shadowed. He gazed down at her for a long moment. A thoughtful smile curled his lips. With his knee still between her thighs, he settled his body closer, so that she could feel the thrust of his arousal against her belly. That evidence of his resolve shook her more than she had thought possible. She could not still
the sudden tremors that made her quake like an untried maiden.

“Nay,” she said in a broken plea, “do not …” She bit her lower lip to still a spate of words that would surely shame her yet still not sway this grim knight from his purpose. There was determination in the touch of his hand and the burning light in his eyes.

“Let us see,” he murmured, “what you hide beneath your gown, lady fair.”

Annice closed her eyes as his fingers caught in the neck of her gown and gave a sharp jerk. The velvet parted with a ripping sound of thread and fabric. She wore nothing beneath her gown but a sleeveless tunic of loose-woven linen and white stockings tied at the knees with silk garters.

It took him only a moment to divest her of the outer garment, tossing the shreds carelessly to the floor. She lay shivering in her knee-length tunic, eyes tightly shut. The air was cool on her bared flesh. She felt helpless and exposed, completely at the mercy of this angry baron.

“Yea,” he muttered thickly, “you are most fair indeed. P’raps I shall delay sending a message to my lord of Seabrook.”

Still shivering, she opened her eyes to look up at him. There was an intense expression on his face as he gazed down at her. Thick, long lashes hid his eyes, but when he finally looked up, she recognized the hot glitter in his gaze. Just so had Luc looked at times, the same narrowed, intent light in his eyes that would precede his most amorous efforts. Yet this knight cared naught for her yea or nay in the matter, but did what he was wont to do without regard for her agreement.

“Nay,” she whispered, hating the way her voice sounded more pleading than defiant. “Do not delay my release.…”

Sitting back on his heels, he lifted a brow. His weight was still heavy on her legs, pinning her to the mattress. A mocking smile touched the corners of his mouth. “What do I hear, my lady? Do you wish to sign the letter I would send, then? Is that what you signify?”

Annice swallowed a too-hasty reply. If she agreed, she was well and truly defeated. He would know the best way
to force her to his ends, whatever they might be. And would her signing of the letter save her from him? Nay, she knew better than that. It would be only the first step up the scaffold of her destruction.

Drawing in a deep breath, she said simply, “Nay, ’tis not what I meant at all.”

For a moment he just stared at her, then gave a light shrug of his broad shoulders. The movement made the gilt dragon on his tunic appear alive, with gold and green-gilt scales shimmering in the faint light. Releasing her wrists, le Draca’s hands went to the belt at his waist.

Instinctively, Annice threw up her hands. She had received too many beatings with Luc’s belt not to know what came next, and she would protect her face if possible.

To her surprise le Draca’s hands stilled. He scowled. “I do not mean to beat you, Lady Annice, so do not cower like a whipped cur.”

Not quite believing him, she kept her arms up over her face. Then her heart gave a sudden thump as she saw lamplight skitter off the blade of his dagger. Holy Mary, but he meant to do much worse than beat her.… She should have gutted him when she had the chance instead of hesitate as she had done.… Now he would kill her for certain.

She couldn’t help a soft cry when she felt the cold steel of the dagger slide over the shrinking flesh of her belly as he sliced her undertunic from neck to hem. It fell apart, baring her body, and she clenched her teeth, expecting at any moment to feel the thrust of the blade in her heart.

Instead she heard le Draca curse softly, his lips curling back from his teeth. “Jésu, but you still cower. Do you think I would harm my only hostage just for the sake of murder? Aye, ’tis plain that you think just that. Be still, or I will truly cut you by mistake. And a sin it would be, to mark this lovely body … nay, lady, do not move.”

In three quick slices he’d cut away the rest of her tunic and left her naked and shivering on the straw mattress. He rose and gathered up the shreds of her garments, balling them into a tight bundle. He gazed down at her with a tight smile.

“As you refuse to make your mark upon a letter, I shall
send your garments to Seabrook in your stead. Your cousin will recognize them, and I vow that the earl will understand the message I send with this shredded clothing.”

Annice could not respond. She lay staring up at him, not even daring to attempt covering her nudity. The Dragon gave a harsh laugh. He stepped forward again, bending a knee on the mattress and making the ropes squeak a protest. Once more the dagger flashed. She felt a sharp tug on her head, and when he lifted his hand, he held a length of her hair.

“ ’Twill be enough to convince him I do indeed have you, don’t you think, milady?”

She nodded mutely. It was not until he had carelessly tossed Sir Guy’s cloak over her and shut the door behind him, locking it, that she realized he meant her no more harm. By the Holy Virgin, he had swept her from terror to anger and back again in but a few short moments. She shuddered. Rolf le Draca was a devil, indeed, just as so many had named him.

S
ir Guy FitzHugh stared up at his liege with a troubled frown. Light reflecting from the hall’s fire flickered over his face and made his hazel eyes glisten. He held the ruins of Annice’s garments in his hands. ’Twas plain to see where a blade had sliced through linen, and he did not speak for a moment. When he did, his words were cautious. “Am I to assure Lord Thurston that the lady is unharmed, seigneur?”

“Nay. Assure him of nothing save that she is my hostage. He may read into those rent garments what he wishes.” Rolf tilted his cup, eying Guy’s furrowed brow with a scowl. Not even wine could wash away the sour taste in his mouth; Lady Annice’s fear had rankled. It should have pleased him. Aye, he should be well pleased that he had left her quaking on the bed. Mayhap it would bring her to her senses. Draining the last of his wine, he slammed his cup to the table.

The noise made Sir Guy jump slightly. His hands tightened on the ruined garments until the knuckles were white. “I shall give the message as you wish, my lord,” he murmured. He hesitated, and ’twas plain he wanted to say more.

“Speak, Sir Guy,” Rolf finally said impatiently “You have the doleful countenance of a whipped hound. What is it?”

“The lady.” He drew a deep breath. “Is she well?”

“Well enough.” Rolf’s eyes narrowed on his knight. “Albeit she is defiant and stubborn and probably deserves a sound beating. Rest easy on that score. Even if ’twas my wont to abuse women, I remember too well Hugh de Beauchamp.”

Guy’s head snapped up; his hands stilled on the pouch into which he was stuffing the ruined garments. “Beauchamp?” he echoed in an odd tone. “What has he to do with the lady?”

“The old lord was her father. He has been dead over ten years now, but I would not harm his daughter.”

He did not miss the look of disbelief on Sir Guy’s honest face and smiled wryly. ’Twould seem that even one of his most trusted men was uncertain of his reaction to this woman. Aye, and well he felt like doing someone harm. The loss of Edmund de Molay was as bitter as his failure to retrieve his son. The old master-at-arms had been with him since he’d been a squire in training for knighthood, and he felt his loss keenly. Leaving the body behind had been equally difficult. He could only hope that Edmund would receive a decent burial, as would the other bodies he’d been forced to abandon. If such had happened at Dragonwyck, he would have sent a priest to tend the matter, but he had no assurance that Seabrook would do the same.

“Milord,” Guy murmured, “do I have your leave to go now? I maun make haste if I am to negotiate the lady’s ransom.”

“Aye, ride swiftly and safely. And see what you can learn about those we left behind.” He passed a hand over his face and snarled an oath. A sleeping mastiff at his feet woke with a startled bark, and he soothed it before muttering, “Would that matters had ended differently, Guy. It weighs heavily on me that I abandoned our dead.”

“There was no other choice, my lord.” Guy’s face bore lines of strain. “There was still the living to consider.”

“Aye. ’Tis true enough. As now. Watch to your safety.” Rolf dismissed Sir Guy and sank into a high-backed wooden
chair near the fire. He put an absent hand upon the great mastiff’s head when the dog rested a muzzle on his knee. The day’s events were sorrowful, indeed. Now Seabrook would be ever more watchful and probably would send word to the king of Rolf’s attempt. Not that he cared a whit for that. John rarely involved himself in his barons’ squabbles, except where it would benefit him.

Rolf had sworn fealty and paid homage to John in 1199, though it had galled him to do so. But King Richard, on his deathbed in Châlus, had commanded that his brother John be king instead of Arthur of Brittany, their nephew. It had been the wisest choice, for few Englishmen wished a foreign king, and Arthur had been brought up in France under Philip. With him as king, the English would have been subject to Philip before long. William the Marshal had urged the barons to accept John, and they did, though most barons misliked it as much as did Rolf. John Lackland, he was called behind his back.

Rolf smiled faintly. How that appellation must irritate the king. His older brother had been respected by all; even the greediest barons had been reluctant to incur Richard’s wrath for fear that he would be at their gates with his troops. Yet John frightened few with his military prowess. Nay, this king’s skills were more political, with his intrigues and convoluted plots that even the most seasoned courtier found alarming. With Richard a man had known just where he’d stood in the king’s favor. John would smile into a man’s face even while sharpening the dagger for his back.

Worse, not even the king’s sworn oath could be trusted. ’Twas common for him to rescind an agreement at his slightest whim. His court was a pit of lies and intrigue, while he busied himself trying to recapture French provinces. Before, it had been Ireland and Wales. For months John had been absent from England. England was left in the tyrannical hands of the Bishop of Winchester, Peter des Roches, who ruled with an iron fist. And that, too, created new problems with many of the barons.

God’s mercy, William the Marshal and the Earl of Salisbury were able to temper the worst of the bishop’s acts, as well as John’s. If not for those men—as well as a mere handful
of other earls who stood high in the king’s interests, if not his favor—England would be even more chaotic. Laws were erratic, or worse—deliberately ignored.

Not the least of which was the matter of dishonest sheriffs appointed by the king to collect fees from the barons and their tenants. Aye, Rolf had clashed more than once with Sir Ralf of Ridel, a sheriff of Lincolnshire. Corrupt and greedy, Sir Ralf had raised the fees to an exorbitant amount, claiming that the value of land had increased extensively. Bluntly refusing to pay, Rolf had appealed the fees. He had not truly expected John to listen, as it was well-known the king took his share of the increased fees, but he had hoped to force him into a public position of either admitting his hand in the extortion, or conceding the fees were too high. It had not worked.

In retribution the sheriff had accused two of Rolf’s knights of offenses they had not committed, then condemned them to trial by ordeal. It was in direct defiance of King Henry’s ordinance limiting the employment of that mode of trial instead of a sworn jury.

Yet the more Rolf protested to the crown, the more vengeful Sir Ralf became. If not for the fact that the king needed his barons and their trained knights in his service, Sir Ralf would have been allowed even more freedom in his depredations. But John did need his barons. Without them he could not wage war. If they chose not to send men, they were required to pay a scutage, or fine, in their place. With those fines John could afford to hire mercenaries to fight for the crown.

Foreign mercenaries in England.…
It chilled the blood to think of those men loosed on English subjects. John did not consider what would happen if ever those mercenaries decided to turn on him should he be unable to pay. Even a dog would fight for food, more loyal to his stomach than to a hated master.