Linda Needham (4 page)

But she’d been so distracted by the new work in the tower cellars and with the threat of her wedding to Rufus, she’d lost track of the contraband.

“How well is it all disguised, Quigley?” she asked, weary to her soul.

“Well enough, my lady, if they don’t poke around too closely.”

Doubtless De Monteneau would do more than poke.

“And the excavation work in the cellars, Jasper? Did you get a chance to check on any of it?”

“All but the barbican gate and the baketower. But I’ll see to them right away, now that I know the girls are safe with you.”

“Just make sure the work is undetectable. We’ll have to leave off any digging for a few days while we study de Monteneau’s comings and goings. Meanwhile I’ll try to distract His Lordship from his snooping.”

Quigley grabbed her hands between his cold and leathery ones. “Do be careful of him, lass.”

“Don’t worry, Quig. Now go on back to the granary and be sure it’s all hidden. And take care.”

“I’ll go with him, too!” Leod said, hitching up his sagging sword belt.

They all ought to be safely in their beds, but
they seemed to thrive on chaos. And there seemed always to be plenty of that.

“All right then. Keep an eye on things, but please don’t challenge anyone about anything.”

“Well, ya heard ’Er Ladyship, men!” And off they hurried down the winding stairs, hobbling like ducks, grabbling at each other.

Talia went back to settling her chattering sisters into their bed, wondering how best to keep de Monteneau from uncovering her secrets.

Directness. Yes, that was the way. Up front and unflinching.

When the girls finally fell asleep, Talia left quietly and stopped by her own chamber to change into dry slippers, and her heart spilled over with relief when she saw the full jug of wine and the pair of cups sitting beside the fire that had long since died.

The wilting flowers on the pillow, the greenery winding up the bedposts.

Her bridal bed.

Her
never-to-be-used
bridal bed.

And de Monteneau had just better get used to the idea.

I have the right and the purpose to do whatever I please with your wardship, madam.

Damn the man! Talia took the dozen steps from her chamber down to the solar, gave the door a single rap with her knuckles, then shoved it open with her shoulder, prepared to stand her ground.

But not in the least prepared for the dazzling sight of de Monteneau, standing tall and entirely naked beside a bathtub, his arms raised with a towel against his long, dark hair.

His eyes clear and piercing her through.

The broad, darkness of his chest.

The sleek, shadowy arrow that led to the trim of his waist.

And his hips.

And the rest. All of it—not at rest.

Startling, dark. So…weighty-looking. Lovely and begging the touch of her hands.

“May I help you, madam?”

She swallowed. Gulped. She really ought to look him in the face, but there would be trouble there.

Besides, this was just a stolen glimpse. An irreproducible miracle.

No, this was out-and-out staring.

“Help me? No. I mean, yes…my lord.”
Still staring. And he is still magnificent.
She purposely bit the end of her tongue, and the flinching pain flicked her gaze upward. Found his eyes, and focused there. “I mean, that is…”

“Yes, madam?”

Oh, oh, what a stunning wedding night
that
would have been. With him. The weight of him, his scent. His low, silken voice stealing across her skin.

A foolish, girlish thought.

But the
only
thought she could conjure, beyond something about a wedding…A night with him. Ah, yes.

“I don’t care what you say, my lord guardian, I will not marry you.”

The man had the gall to smile. At least it looked like a smile. A glint of white hinting at his amusement, at her expense, though he stood so completely, so utterly naked, his towel at his side, without a care toward her staring or her opinion.

Bronze and big, so
exquisitely
big. That shadowed mystery at the joining of his thighs stirring on its own, as though something lived there apart from the man himself.

A breathtaking sight that she could get very, very used to seeing if she ever had the misfortune to have to marry him.

If.

“Then, my lady, you’d best not enter my chamber again without knocking first.”

Look away, Talia!

“I…I knocked loudly enough!” She finally found the sense to turn away from him and all that self-assured maleness, to study her mother’s tapestry, to idly straighten it. The ripening orchards and the alabaster tower, the rearing unicorn and its silky, jutting horn.

“Aye, and then, madam, you entered without my permission. I advise against the practice.”

“Is that a threat, my lord?” Holy Mother, she was baiting him and stealing sideways glances at him through her lashes.

“Consider it fair warning.”

Not fair in the least, but she would heed it from now on. “Speaking of warnings, my lord, that’s exactly the reason I came.”

De Monteneau’s stride was measured as he approached, making her turn toward him in self-defense as he tucked away the end of the towel, now wrapped carelessly around his hips.

Precariously.

“You burst into my room in the middle of my bath, in the middle of the night, to forbid me to marry you?”

“No. That’s not the reason I came.” He was just a few steps from her, an enormous, quizzical bear, studying his supper. “But, yes, actually. You can’t. Ever.”

“Can’t marry you?” He raked his fingers through his hair, shedding light little drops on her face and across her neck, like sharing a spring shower.

“That’s absolutely right, my lord. You can’t marry me.”

“Ah, but my dear Lady Talia,” he said deliberately and so nearby, she could feel the heat pouring off his bare chest, his arms, seeping through her kirtle. His steamy kind of spice. “I
can
.”

“But you won’t, my lord. I forbid it.”

He laughed softly and from deep in his chest, narrowed his dark eyes, sending a thrilling glint through the slits. “Just like the rents on your lands and your knight’s fees, my lady, I am free to dispose of or collect for you or from you whatever I choose. Be it a marriage between us or selling off your herds of sheep and cattle.”

Barely able to breathe for the power of his dizzying nearness, Talia slipped from him to the safety of the opposite side of the table. “You’re too late.”

She’d never seen quite so thunderous a look. “For your
marriage
?”

“For my sheep and cattle, de Monteneau. My warder before Rufus sold them off. And the lambs. And everything else he could put his claws into.”

Somehow, he’d distracted her long enough for her not to have noticed that he’d backed her around the table onto the casement cushion, giving her no choice but to sit.

“’Tisn’t quite morning yet, madam, but it’s time that you answer my earlier question.”

“Which question was that, my lord?” This interrogation had gotten completely out of hand. She’d come only to distract him from the evidence in the cellars and from pillaging her granary, and now he seemed bent upon pillaging her.

He put his bare foot on the casement step, pin
ning her knees between the seat and his rock-hard calf.

“Exactly what were you doing just before my attack on your castle?”

“Me?” She felt stalked and hunted. “Why would you care about that? You were after Rufus, not me.”

He studied her for a very long time, scrubbed at the line of his jaw with the back of his fingers, his midnight-dark, two-day beard making a raspy, homey sound that made her want to reach out and stroke him herself.

“I was, indeed, after Rufus de Graffe. A lazy bastard of rebel, a sharp pain in Stephen’s royal backside. I also knew that his castle—”

“
My
castle—”

“That
Carrisford
,” he said, without breaking his cadence, “would be simple enough to seize. But I couldn’t possibly have expected the gates to be wide-open and the guards drunk, now, could I?”

Talia fanned the sultry air between them with her hand. “Imagine the luck, my lord.”

“And I certainly never expected merely to stroll in through the gatehouse, unchallenged.” He sifted his fingers slowly through her hair and came away with the stem of a wilted gentian, which he twirled between his fingers. “Now tell me, madam, what were you doing before I came?”

Dear God, she didn’t want him to know this
about her. A rag doll bride, handed off again and again, her life at the whimsy of a bastard like Rufus.

The deed nearly accomplished this time but for his arrival.

Her savior.

It shouldn’t matter in the least that he knew about the wedding he had interrupted, and yet she felt a dreadful embarrassment begin to blossom in her chest, fueled by her thrumming heart.

“Well, if I recall, I was…” She swallowed hard, gulping some of his soap-scented air. And noticing, for the first time, that the estate rolls were spread out on the table across the room, sending her heart in a completely different direction. “I was…we were preparing for a feast. The feast of St. Albans. Now, my lord, if you’d—”

His smile grew slowly, utterly feral. The pleasure of the catch. “What a lovely liar you are, Lady Talia.”

“How dare you call me that!” She spread her fingers against his bare chest and shoved, trying to slip past him, but he had her well pinned against the cushion, and bedazzled by the imprint of his heat on her palm.

“You’ve been asked a half dozen times by your people if you were married. Why? What were you doing just before I arrived, and Rufus fled like the coward he is?”

“I was…well.” If she could only look away
from his eyes, from that dangerous darkness there. “It doesn’t matter anymore, my lord.”

“It matters considerably that you tell me everything, madam. Or should I send for your sisters, or for old Jasper or Leod or that cagey Quigley fellow?”

She didn’t need that worry, de Monteneau scouring the castle and village, interrogating the people she loved. “Leave them out of this.”

“What were you doing?”

It really should be a simple thing to tell him. It meant nothing in the long run, and he was bound to find out soon enough, by asking anyone.

“We were…That is, Rufus and I were about to…”

“You and Rufus…?” He barked this, then straightened to stare at her. “You were about to what?”

Tired of wrestling with this misplaced shame, Talia stood in that small space between his chest and the casement seat. “If you must know, de Monteneau, Rufus and I were about to be married when you seized the castle. That said, my lord, I want your men to stay out of my granary.”

Alex caught himself from stumbling backward, fought the force of his heart ramming up against his chest.

Bloody hell! The feast, the greenery draping the great hall. The truth had been there all along, but he’d been too busy to put it together.

“You were…married tonight, madam? To de Graffe?”

She huffed. “Nearly married, my lord. There
is
a difference. Now, good night.”

“N
early?” He caught her before she could slip past him. “What the bleeding blazes does that mean, madam? Were you nearly married, or left not quite married?”

His heart was pounding louder still. Not that it mattered in the whole of his scheme. Carrisford Castle belonged to him now, by the king’s decree, whether the woman had married de Graffe or not. A rebel’s castle was fair game to seize, wardship or no.

But, damnation, she was
his
, to give or to take or to leave be.

“
Not
married, my lord.” She tipped her prideful little chin toward him. “You interrupted the wedding ceremony with your attack.”

Interrupted. Incomplete. The stunning relief
dizzied him, startled him with the intensity.

As startling as the directness of her gaze had been when she’d walked in on him with that magnificently honest appraisal of hers. So damned honest that he’d become instantly aroused, pike hard, and it had taken—was still taking—every ounce of restraint not to reel her back against the cushion, spread her lovely thighs, and claim the rest of her.

And now this incomprehensible announcement.

“Interrupted exactly when, madam? Did you manage to leave the chapel steps and make it to the altar?” So much seemed suddenly to hinge on that particular detail. It was a legal matter only; but the outcome had great potential value.

“Why?”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t see how it matters.” But she harrumphed and pressed her rosy lips together, then slipped away from him to the table. “If I recall rightly, my lord, Father John said, ‘Bless, O Lord this—’”

She turned, folded her arms under her breasts, and stared at him, as though that was enough information to satisfy him.

“This
what
, madam?”

“This nothing, my lord. There
was
nothing after that, because you arrived with your horde and—”

Alex had been holding his breath, fearing that the woman had been left half-married, loose-ended, in some legal limbo. But now the full force of his relief blew out of his chest like a hot wind, replaced by an even stronger need to be absolutely certain.

“Madam, you are sure that the priest stopped there and then? Asked nothing about the groom taking the bride?”

“Nothing.”

“No blessing pronounced?”

“No.”

“You gave no consent to anything?”

“I am not married to Rufus.” Her cheeks were pink and lovely with anger. “Believe me, my lord, I would know it if I were.”

“De Graffe settled nothing on you? No gift of cloth or plate?”

“I was neither given away, nor was my hand covered, my lord. And the only gift that Rufus gave to me during my near wedding was the sight of his ungainly backside scrambling into the nearest cellar. My wardship remains free and clear of any legal encumbrance, if that’s your concern.” Sparks seemed to flare from her eyes as she bore down on him with a leveled finger. “Mark me well, my lord, I am intimately familiar with the vagaries of wardship. And betrothals. And I want nothing to do with yours.”

He’d let her back him against the table with her little tirade, let her poke her hot little finger into his bare chest, her brows winged with fury.

Yes, but a fury from what source?

She hardly seemed the type to be attracted to a brute like de Graffe, let alone defend him. Despite the wilted flowers in her hair and the obvious plans for celebration after the appalling deed had been done. The drunken feasting that would have followed, the parade of disreputable celebrants snaking up the stairs into this very keep, on its way to profane her marriage bed with the devil’s blessing.

Alex imagined de Graffe wallowing in Talia’s bed, defiling her tender flesh, and felt a bolt of jealous heat.

Bloody hell. He grabbed his robe and shoved his arms into the sleeves. “Do accept my pardon, madam, for setting your marriage plans on end.”

“I don’t accept your apology for interrupting my wedding to Rufus, my lord, because I don’t want it.” She turned from him and went to the brazier, taking some of her lightness with her. “But what I do demand is that you keep control of your men as you promised me you would.”

“Meaning what?” To a man, his army was the model of restraint, the bad apples weeded out long before they could cross him.

“I mean that my people have little enough to
keep them from starving, especially with winter approaching. How dare you send your men to search the village for the very grain that feeds them?”

“What exactly are you saying?” He’d ordered that the village be left completely alone.

She waggled that finger at him again. “That your men were stealing grain from the village granary. Obviously pillaging for the mere entertainment of it, because as you will discover in the morning, there’s nothing left in the village to steal.”

He belted the robe and went to the table of rolls. “I gave my men explicit instructions that pillaging would be met with swift punishment.”

She glowered down at the estate rolls, lifted one and studied the seal at the bottom. “I see you’ve already started to work on the records. What’s a few sheaves of barley from the village granary, when you can strip the land itself. All five thousand acres.”

“Madam, if you learn nothing else about me, you will learn that I don’t pillage, that I have no need for plunder. And that I keep my word.”

Her gaze was as intent as her probing questions, her lips wine-tinted and moist enough to make him crave a taste. “Then what have you to say about the granary?”

Bloody hell. “Damn the granary, madam. I
don’t know why the devil my men were there tonight, but I shall inquire about it in the morning and let you know. My word on it, madam.”

She puffed out a laugh. “We’ll see, my lord. But since you’re number seven, I can’t imagine that you’ll be the first to break the mold.”

The woman was a tangle of scented riddles, meant to ensnare him. “Seven? Seven what?”

“Surely your good king must have told you?”

“I’ll hear it from you, madam.”

She sniffed and fixed her crystalline blue gaze on his mouth and then his eyes. “You’re my seventh guardian in two years, de Monteneau, which puts me in a position to—”

He caught her arm, stared into her face to guard against her dancing diversion. “What did you say, madam?”

“I said that I’m in a position to—”

“Nay, you said that I’m your seventh guardian. What the hell do you mean by that?” Stephen had said nothing of the history of Carrisford; only that it sheltered a rebel baron who must be routed out.

Oh, and you can keep the woman as well, Alex, if you like. Administer the wardship as you see fit.

He didn’t see much that fit at all.

Except her thighs around his waist. There, she’d fit him far too well.

“I’ve had six warders before you, my lord de Monteneau, each one more vile than the next.”

“Which makes me the vilest of all.”

She opened her mouth, then caught her comment between her teeth and her lower lip, before she said, “I’ll reserve judgment, my lord, and pray every day that you’re not half so vile as Rufus.”

But here was still another relief—that she truly had no tender feelings for the man she had nearly married.

“So this marriage to Rufus wasn’t your idea?”

“Hardly.”

“He forced you?” Alex waited for her confirmation, felt a stinging need to believe there had been nothing at all between them.

“He was my guardian. I was his ward. He gave me no choice.” She was hiding something else from him, something darker and deeper.

“He threatened you?”

She seemed to gather her words carefully, closely, observing his every move. “Rufus didn’t have to overtly threaten me. His cruelty was well-known to me. I knew exactly what he was capable of, and he knew whom I loved and how much, and so I…capitulated.”

Capitulated. He didn’t want to imagine what that meant, didn’t like the inference.

“And number five, madam? Your guardian before Rufus? Who was he?”

She took a deep breath, glanced down at her fingers, then up at him. “Aymon de Saville.”

Now there was a bastard. A man who would sell his mother to the devil for the right price. “Saville held your wardship for how long?”

“For four very long months. Our crops never got into the field this spring. The livestock was slaughtered for his troops, without a thought to husbandry.”

His heart was sinking, wondering what he’d find in the morning. “And before Saville?”

“Count Roderick of Ayre, and his brother’s eldest son before that. Roderick stuck a knife through the heart of his very own nephew…on the eve of…” She stumbled and stopped, her shoulders sagged.

And no wonder. Hers was a catalog of loathsome creatures who had power over her by virtue of taking it by force. Himself included.

And now she looked ashamed, those streaks of crimson blushing her cheeks and brow again. He felt every inch the rogue for pursuing. “On the eve of what, madam?”

Talia didn’t want to admit to another near wedding. Her life spinning out of control. Or that her would-be bridegroom—nasty bugger that he was—was murdered by his own uncle as they both sat celebrating the coming nuptials in the great hall.

“It was on the eve of St. Cassian’s Day. A day I remember well because before my father was killed, we would always celebrate the peach har
vest, which, of course, had failed completely that year.”

De Monteneau leaned casually against the table, crossing his powerful arms against his chest, his tone pensive, as though he were truly interested. “Yours is a royal wardship, Lady Talia; your first guardian following your father’s death would have been appointed by King Stephen himself.”

“Lord Cowan was his name. A pleasant enough man. Harmless, and it seems everyone knew it.” Elderly and in need of a bride who would give him an heir. She’d refused him repeatedly, but the old blighter had been making arrangements, and she would have gone along with it.

“What happened to Cowan?”

“He was my guardian barely three months when one of Maud’s armies came ransacking through the valley, overrunning the castle, leaving Lord Cowan dead and Lord Murdock in his place. My second guardian, in case you hadn’t been counting. And now I’m reduced to being shuffled from victor to victor, no matter his allegiance. To Maud then Stephen then Maud again, and so on until now it’s back to Stephen and so it will go.”

Except that now she’d taken hold of the situation. It wouldn’t ever happen again.

His frown darkened as though she’d called his
manhood into question. “I have no intention of losing Carrisford to anyone, madam.”

Hardly comforting, with her estate rolls spread out on the table like a tidy meal. “Do you read, my lord?”

“French and Latin. And you?” His voice was suddenly softly probing, like friendly hearth talk.

“My father always said that he could hear me thinking through my ears and insisted that the chaplain teach me. To keep me occupied and out of his hair.”

“And did it work? Did you stay out of his way?”

“No.”

He laughed lightly, the threat gone from his manner as quickly as it had come. “Ah, then you understand the estate rolls?”

The sly dog; he’d gotten that information without any cost to him. “I do.”

He lifted a roll and unscrolled the first three pages. “Are they up to date?”

“As far as I know.”

“Reliable?”

“Meticulously accounting for their greed seemed important to each of my guardians. It’s all there for you.”

Hopefully, my own stores are well hidden in the columns of figures, or listed nowhere at all.

“That being said, de Monteneau, it’s past time that we come to an agreement about your conduct while you’re here at Carrisford.”

“
My
conduct, madam?” He straightened, nearly to the rafters.

She’d never have dared make such a statement to any of the others, but this man seemed to thrive on order, and so she planned to offer him just that.

“Firstly, my lord, you will keep your door locked when you are bathing or in a state of undress.”

He took a slow step toward her, then pointed toward the door, his black hair mussed and nearly charming. “Madam, if you recall, you are the one who walked in on me.”

That very stunning recollection made her cheeks burn. All that sleek bronze skin, the dark mysteries of the man. The shape and the size of him.

“Completely by accident, my lord.” She looked down and studied her fingertips for fear of catching the man’s eye and lighting another blush. “You are living in my family quarters, my lord, not with your soldiers. This is our solar. My sisters are not used to a man living here. Therefore, you will comport yourself accordingly.”

“Will I?” The man grew treacherously calm all of a sudden, as though he were absorbing her words one by one, to use each later as weapons against her.

“You will also keep your men away from the village. It is mine, and of no interest to you and your soldiers. Which goes doubly for the women
of the village. They are off-limits to you and your men.”

“Off-limits?” He actually snorted.

“Completely. And so are my stores of food and the remaining livestock in the fields. I will conduct my own manor court, among my own people, without your interference.”

The longer she went on, the more quiet he grew, a storm collecting just beyond the mountains.

“You will not commandeer my villeins for your labors. That includes the laundress, the carpenter, the hayward, the cobbler, and anyone else who isn’t among your own personal entourage. Should you require laborers, then you will negotiate hours and wages with me.”

He was silent and staring for a very long time before he crooked a midnight eyebrow. “Anything else, my lady?” A dark and low question that moved the air with its chill and made her wonder if she’d gone a bit too far.

“Yes, my lord. That you will keep me informed of the war’s progress, so that I can be prepared should this bloody, uncertain war come this way again.”

He just stood there, unblinking, growing taller, his brow darker with every indrawn breath.