Juliana Garnett (9 page)

Sounding strangled even to herself, she said as coolly as she could, “Yet you have managed it.”

“I think not. You would not be the first damsel to so seek to entice me.”

Anger edged her laughter, and she moved slightly so that his hand fell away from her breast. The heat of his touch lingered, and there was still an annoying throb in the pit of her stomach. “Arrogant Norman. Nurse your dreams if you must, but do not involve me in them.”

“ ’tis you who have involved yourself by this play of straws,
demoiselle
.”

She shrugged casually. “I admit I chose an unfortunate moment
to make a jest at your expense, but I do not share your apparent conviction that I am enamored of you, my lord.”

A muscle leaped in his jaw at her quietly scornful words. “A jest? Mock me at your own risk, Ceara.”

She put a hand on his bare chest, fingertips gliding through the dark hair with a feathery touch. “I do not mock you. I meant only to lighten the mood, for I saw that you—reacted—unexpectedly. I sleep unclothed. Since you did not hide your body from me, I assumed that you cared naught for modesty. Do not think me too forward, lord, for it was truly a mistake.”

Yea, a great mistake if it costs me Wulfridge.…

For a short, sizzling moment, Luc did not move. He stared into her eyes with intense concentration, then said abruptly, “It is not yet certain who has made the mistake, but you are now warned. I do not forgive deception easily.”

“I do not lie, my lord.”

His derisive snort was evidence of his differing opinion. “See that you do not.”

Ceara did not reply to that, for it was obvious to her that Luc would only make more threats, blustering like a lion with a sore paw. He had yet to make good on any of them, though she knew he would not hesitate to retaliate harshly if truly necessary. This man was more complicated than she had considered. Few men would restrain themselves on principle when they were obviously aroused, yet he had done so.

Luc turned away from her, his attention fiercely directed to the parchment and ink on the table. “Get back to the bed before I decide to take Alain’s advice and chain you in a cell,
demoiselle
. And cover yourself.”

It seemed wise not to comment, and she moved silently to the pile of furs and wool and burrowed beneath them. Her fingers curled around the smooth, comforting hilt of a dagger hidden beneath a scrap of blanket. Clever Rudd, to so deftly steal the weapon and slide it to her unnoticed. She felt better knowing that if the worst should happen she had protection, but
knew that once drawn, the dagger would have to be used. It would be a last resort.

Studiously ignoring her, Luc came to bed, and his weight made the ropes creak loudly. He was so close she could almost feel the heat of his body. Close enough that if she chose, she could slit his throat in the night. He thought himself safe. She smiled. What would the arrogant Norman say if he knew she held his very own dagger close to her bosom? How invincible would he think himself then?

Tossing and turning, the sweet oblivion of slumber eluded her long into the night. The lamp guttered and died before she sank into exhausted sleep, and even then she was beset with troubling dreams that left her restless.

D
AWN CAME MUCH
too early. The fair-haired Norman squire came to wake his lord with a swift knock at the chamber door. Luc rolled over with a creaking protest of the bed ropes and gave his permission to enter. Alain sidled inside, his gaze moving quickly to where Ceara still lay curled among the pelts. She did not like him. There was a sly quality to the squire, a guile that set ill with her, and she made no bones about her dislike.

“The men await you in the hall, my lord. Shall I help you dress?” Alain closed the door softly.

Luc swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood in a smooth uncoiling of his muscular body. Uneasy at his close proximity, Ceara watched through her lashes as Luc stretched with lazy grace. Taut muscles banded his chest and roped his flat belly, and his legs were long and sinewed. Sleep-tousled black hair lent him the oddly appealing appearance of youth, straggling over his forehead and around his hard face, softening it. Yet his eyes belied any illusion of tenderness—ebony orbs beneath a thick bristle of black lashes, aloof and cold as if he had not held her in his arms and kissed her with unmistakable desire the night before. She could not be wrong about that. His body had
not lied. Now he ignored her as if she were a piece of furniture, unworthy of notice. It was daunting to think he could ignore even his own needs. He was more dangerous than she had guessed. Men of principle always were.

While Luc moved across the room to dress, Alain came near her under the pretense of airing the rope bed. His sharp eyes sought her out, and his gaze lingered overlong on the bare skin of her shoulder that lay exposed above a wool blanket. He bent close as if to remove the bedcovers, his voice low as he whispered to her in his native French:

“Il ne fait pas bon avoir affaire à lui, demoiselle. Vous ětes bon vous! À ces mots—”

Ceara pulled the pelts up to her chin and curled her fingers tightly around the hilt of the hidden dagger. She stared at him in blank silence. Did he think her stupid enough to fall for such an obvious ruse? She would not. And she knew well enough that Luc was a dangerous man to meddle with, so this ambitious squire need not think his warning would endear him to her. Nor would his declaration of admiration, for she saw through that as well. Foolish squire, to think she would be so credulous as to view him with tender regard for mouthing a few insincere words.

“Leave that, Alain,” Luc ordered from the table, “and send for the scribe. I’ve need of his skills this morn so that William may know the worth of this demesne to him.” He’d spoken in English, an apparent oversight, for he glanced up and repeated it in French with a shrug to excuse his lapse.

Alain moved away reluctantly, but not before he took a moment to feign inspection of her chains, an act that gave him the opportunity to brush his hands against the bare skin of her leg. Ceara lashed out with one foot, catching him hard enough against his thigh to make him grunt in pain. A scowl creased his brow and his hazel eyes narrowed with anger, but he did not betray himself to Luc.

Norman curs, they were all alike. Treacherous, sly, rapacious,
and lustful. None had yet changed her opinion of them. Not even Luc’s self-denial had greatly altered her estimation of his character, for it was too easy to prate of principles when one had none. Since the Normans had first set foot on English soil, they had valued nothing but destruction. It would hardly change now, nor would one man be likely to be so very different from those before him. No, if Wulfridge was to survive with its glory intact, she would have to save it. Nothing would be too great a sacrifice to accomplish her ends.

M
ORNING MIST CRAWLED
through the courtyard in silent ribbons, glistening on stone and wood and the steaming hides of restive horses. Pearlescent dampness shrouded the walls of the castle and muffled the sound of men and animals. A salty tang was in the air, smelling of the sea.

Luc waited for Alain to bring Drago to him, impatient now that all was ready. He would deliver his hostage to the king and collect his reward for it, and put the past behind him. No more would he be just a hedge knight, his sword for hire to whatever power wished to pay, condemned to wander with no home of his own. Now perhaps some of his bitterness would dissipate. Robert was right: it was past time for it.

A gust of wind stirred tendrils of fog into swirling eddies that momentarily eclipsed the main door to the hall, and when it cleared, he saw Ceara standing beneath an arched entrance. Despite the turmoil of the past day, she remained composed, looking mystical and elegant garbed in a long blue kirtle, boots, and hooded mantle of dyed red wool.

Where was the pagan princess of hours past? The woman who had knelt before him clad only in lamplight and enchantment?

Vanished now, exiled by this lovely, remote creature gazing about the courtyard as if she still owned it, as if she was the lady and Luc the interloper. Provoked by some nameless emotion, he
walked toward her. She turned to watch him, her eyes unreadable yet drawing him closer. A current of air lifted the edge of her mantle in a graceful swirl. Beneath the outer garment, she wore a pendant, and it gleamed with soft luster against the blue material of her kirtle. Exquisite silver coils formed the familiar knotwork of the Celts, and an amber stone cradled in the middle was richly lucent and textured. It was not an extremely valuable piece, but one that should have caught the eyes of men searching for jewelry.

Beneath her wary gaze, he reached out to lift the heavy ornament in his palm. The backs of his fingers brushed against her breasts, and she drew in a sharp breath. As he held the pendant, he felt the quickening beat of her heart beneath his hand.

“A lovely piece,
demoiselle
. How did it escape the notice of my men?” It was not an idle question. By William’s own command, every item of value in England was to be counted and reported.

Ceara’s fingers were cool as she closed them protectively around both his palm and the pendant. “God was with me, my lord. This belonged to my mother, and is all I have left of her.”

“Yet you wear it where all can see. Do you not fear that we brutish Normans will take it from you?”

She ignored his mockery with a faint smile. “If ’tis what you wish, there would be little I could do to halt you. I am at your mercy, my lord.”

Luc snorted. “You have never been at any man’s mercy, I think.”

Her smile deepened. Her gentle fragrance teased him, and beneath the curved shadow of her lashes, her eyes were as deep and placid as the waters of a lake, drawing him in. There was knowledge in their depths, mystical secrets of times gone by, an age-old wisdom that reminded him of things best forgotten: elusive enchantment, silent promises, creamy skin turned rose-gold by lamplight, and the disquieting waver of his resolve. For
an instant, he felt as if he were drowning, inexorably pulled beneath the surface of her eyes.

Then behind her in the mist a figure moved, shattering the haze of scent and shadow, and he released the pendant abruptly. A mailed soldier emerged from the archway, no doubt the guard he had earlier ordered to tend her while she made ready to journey to the king, but it was not a man he recognized.

“What is your name, soldier?”

“Giles, my lord. Of Caen. I was one of Sir Simon’s men, and was with him when he was killed. Alain de Montbray bade me be the lady’s guard, as I have knowledge of her tongue.”

“My squire is most efficient, I see. Giles, see you that the lady is mounted and kept close to you. I would not have harm come to her, nor would I find it pleasant to explain to the king why she was not delivered to him as promised. If that should come about, it is to you I will direct the king’s questions. Is that understood?”

Giles shifted uneasily and nodded. “I understand, my lord. I shall not allow her to come to harm, nor allow her to escape.”

“Good. I see that we are alike in our purposes. You will be well rewarded for a job finely done.” It was unnecessary to repeat the rewards of failure. Facing a furious king was not a task any sane man would relish, especially when that monarch was William. The king was terrible in his rages, ruthless in his purposes, and few men escaped his wrath lightly. Yet for all the ease with which he could leave a man quaking in his boots, William was possessed of a strong sense of justice. Luc had long admired him, since the time William was only duke of Normandy, and he was still an earl’s cast-off son. It seemed decades ago, when in truth it had only been five years. But it was a long time to a man with little but the bitter dregs of disappointment for his daily fare.

No longer. Through his own efforts, he had won lands and title, and these he would defend to the end of his strength. No
man could take them away from him once William deeded them, none but the king himself. And that would not happen as long as Luc remained steadfast. Unlike his father.

“My lord, your mount is ready.”

Just behind Alain was the horse steward, his fists tightly gripping Drago’s halter and lead lines. The temperamental stallion pranced nervously at the end of his tether.

“He is fresh this morn, my lord,” the steward said, panting. “I can barely keep him from breaking loose.”

“He will settle in. Like the rest of us, Drago must learn to pace himself.”

The steward grinned, his weathered face almost splitting at the seams. “I have rarely noticed you taking a slow pace, my lord.”

“That is for old men like you, Paul.” Luc’s jest earned a chuckle from the steward, for at twenty-six he was younger than his lord by more than five years.

Alain held out a brimming horn of ale, and Luc drained it quickly, then mounted the edgy destrier. He reined Drago in with a firm hand and looked down at his squire, who had retreated to a safe distance from the lethal hooves.

“Captain Remy is in command while I am gone. See that he has what is necessary until my return.”

“I had hoped you would change your mind and allow me to accompany you, my lord.”

“I do not intend to be gone that long, Alain, and I need you here. Remy’s talent with soldiers is needed to hold Wulfridge, and your talent with servants is needed to make it livable.”

Alain ducked his head, but not before Luc caught the sulky disappointment in his face. The squire was willful, but adept. He had been with Luc for three years, sent to him by a deseisined father as squire, for it was all that was left open to a young man without funds or prospects. At the time, it had seemed fitting to
Luc, a landless squire for a landless knight, both adrift in a ruthless world. Now there would be opportunity for both, if Alain would see past his resentment to the possibilities ahead.

The squire murmured his compliance and wishes for a speedy journey, looking up with a tight smile. “I will see to Wulfridge as if it were my own, my lord.”

“Prudent men are always rewarded well, Alain. It is a truth that I am more inclined to believe in now.”