Samantha James (11 page)

She cried out, for pain sheared through her as she felt herself turned and caught up in strong arms. She gained but a fleeting glimpse of harshly relentless features, burning eyes, a mouth cast in grim lines. Just before she sank into a welcome world of oblivion, it spun through her mind that she had displeased him once more. Aye, and she’d been caught yet again by her lord and conqueror.

Her
Norman
lord and conqueror…

M
errick and his sister Genevieve spent the night at Denham Abbey, but a few hours’ ride away from Brynwald. Once a donation had been offered, the Norman guests had been assured a welcome—spartan though it was—and a place to stay for the night. Had he been alone, Merrick wouldn’t have considered stopping. He would have continued on to Brynwald that very night. And though it was not Genevieve’s way to complain, he knew she was tired, for he had set a breakneck pace from London these past days.

He hadn’t lingered in London, though of course he’d been obliged to pay his respects to Duke William. And indeed, there was much to discuss. Merrick soon learned that Brynwald was hardly the only place where Saxon acceptance of Norman lord and law would take some time. William blustered and paced and raged, determined that England would remain his no matter what cost to the Saxons. Merrick had no doubt that the Normans would continue to reign, for indeed they already did. And Duke
William—and Normandy—would continue to stamp out whatever pockets of rebellion might crop up.

For indeed, in much the same way, Merrick felt just as possessive of Brynwald. Though William felt England was his by right of decree, Merrick had battled long and hard for the right to claim his own lands—to claim Brynwald. He would settle there in that vast fief by the sea, and it was there he would build his future.

Genevieve had chuckled at his haste to return to Brynwald, but he knew she was no less anxious to see her new home—and Simon, for he’d told her of the boy’s illness. He’d hated to bear such tidings upon her arrival, for the twelvemonth since her husband Philippe had been killed had been long and difficult for her. He knew she still grieved, though she hid it well, just as she had hidden her dismay when Simon had announced his intention to remain with his uncle in England that he might hone his skills as a knight.

It was early when Merrick awoke, even before the lonely peal of a rusty bell summoned the inhabitants within the abbey to wakefulness. He quickly washed and donned his clothes, then woke Genevieve where she slept in the tiny cell across the hall. They attended mass with the monks and then were off, though dawn had yet to light the earth. Behind them one of his men drove a cart that carried her belongings.

The day was gray and cloudy, but the threat of rain did not materialize. It was early morn
when Brynwald first came into view. Atop a small hillock, Merrick reached for the bridle of Genevieve’s mount, a small palfrey. His sister glanced over at him questioningly.

He nodded off toward the north. “There is Brynwald Keep.” He said no more, but awaited Genevieve’s response.

In truth, he was eager to see her reaction. No insignificant little fief was this. Three stories high, the keep itself was huge by English standards, and indeed by Norman as well. High atop the bluff, with the sea at its back, it rose tall and stark against turbulent gray clouds. A natural fortress with a view of the surrounding countryside, it needed but a few relatively simple modifications—the palisade for one—to fortify its defenses. Eventually he would replace its timbered walls with stone, but there was time for that later.

A feeling of pride, unbeknownst to him before this, swelled his chest. Here he would build his home and his future. The fief’s lands sprawled north and south and west. He longed for the spring and summer, when the land would run green far beyond the forest and crops sprouted tall and fertile in the fields. The Saxons might not accept him now, but he was prepared to be lenient. Eventually all would be as it was before. The land would flourish and grow. He would prosper, and in turn, the Saxons would prosper as well.

“Well, brother—” her voice carried a smile “—I see why you were so anxious to return.”

Merrick laughed, a rumble that came from
deep within his chest. It was a sound of both pleasure and immense satisfaction, for this was a feeling he’d never had before. This was his home. By God,
his home
.

It was inevitable, perhaps, that such a thought should take him straight to another…

Alana
.

Would he find her here? There was a subtle hardening of his jaw. She had best have heeded his promise, for if she had fled, he would make certain she paid the price—and the price would be steep.

He frowned. ’Twas strange, how quickly he’d grown used to her, to the feel and scent of her. Indeed, he wasn’t certain he liked it. Nay, indeed he was quite certain he did not…

He turned in the saddle and cocked a brow toward Genevieve. “Now that you’ve seen you will live in no hovel,” he said dryly, “let us linger no longer.”

Within minutes they approached the keep. He saw that the yard swarmed with Norman soldiers and Saxon villein alike. But all at once it struck him that something was not right. Just then there were shouts…and the unmistakable crack of a whip. It was then he saw a small form hunched over in the dirt.

“Bloody Christ! What goes on here?” The whip was jerked from the soldier’s hand so fiercely the man stumbled and fell upon his back.

“She’s a witch,” the soldier cried. “Satan’s pawn—”

Merrick whirled on him. “It’s you who are Satan’s pawn to do such a thing! Now get out of my sight and let me never see your face again or I will give you something to truly fear!” The crowd shrank back, frightened more by the fury reflected on their lord’s features than by the girl they branded a witch.

Merrick dropped to one knee. Alana jerked as he reached out. Very carefully he gathered her in his arms. Her lashes fluttered open. She stared up at him vaguely, her eyes clouded over with pain. A low moan broke from her lips. She turned her face into his neck.

His arms tightened around his burden. As he strode into the keep and up the narrow stair, Genevieve was right at his heels.

“Who is she?” she panted, half-running as she sought to keep pace with him.

“She is Alana, the Saxon girl I told you about—Kerwain’s bastard daughter.” He took the last two stairs and headed toward his chamber. Seconds later he eased her onto the bed, careful to place her on her stomach.

Genevieve sucked in a sharp breath. Beneath the girl’s tattered clothing, her lower back was raw and oozing. Quickly she gathered hold of herself. “Water,” she commanded. “I must have warm water and clean cloths. And there is a healing salve in my chest. I will need it.”

Even as she finished her command, Merrick was at the door, shouting for a servant. He didn’t move until all she requested had been delivered.

At the bedside, Genevieve had already care
fully slipped off Alana’s clothing. She had discreetly tugged the linen sheet over her hips, but her back and shoulders were bare to his gaze. Merrick went pale as he glimpsed the bloodied, swollen stripes left on her flesh by the vicious lash. “Jesu,” he breathed.

Genevieve glanced at him sharply. “If she is well tended,” she stated softly, “she will not scar.”

Merrick said nothing but remained near the head of the bed, a silent sentinel.

Her hands quick and efficient, Genevieve set to work cleansing the torn flesh. “Why is this girl called witch?” she asked softly.

“She has dreams. Visions which oft come true.”

He dragged forward a low bench and sat. With his fingertips he brushed a golden tangle of hair from her temple. Reaching for a cloth, he wiped the dirt from her face. Her eyes opened. For a heartbeat she stared at him dazedly, then recognition dawned. She flung out a hand.

“Nay…Not you…” Her cry was but a feeble plea. “I don’t want you to see me…not you…not like this.” Her lids closed. She slid mercifully back into the realm of unconsciousness.

Merrick’s jaw clenched hard but he remained where he was, intent on his task. Soon Alana woke yet again and cried out when she saw Merrick.

Genevieve sighed and straightened. “It
would seem she has no liking for you, Merrick.”

His voice was clipped and abrupt. “She is in pain. She knows not what she speaks.”

A slender brow arched high. “Indeed,” she said coolly. “Why, I could swear she knew what she said—and who she saw—quite clearly.” Hands on her hips, she flicked her cloth toward him. “Away with you now, brother. Your presence disturbs her, and since I have no need of your assistance, I suggest you make yourself scarce.”

Merrick’s expression grew dark. “This is my chamber, sister.”

Genevieve was undaunted. “Then I suggest you find yourself another,” she snapped, “for you’ll not be sleeping here this night. And you may as well know now, she’ll be in no condition for the likes of you for many a night.”

She matched his stare fearlessly, then bestowed upon him one last glare before turning back to her patient. Though Genevieve was a lady born and bred, she was scarcely ignorant of the ways of men. And she was well aware her brother possessed the same masculine urges as any other lusty male. And indeed, ’twas easy to see why Merrick so desired this one. Peasant or no, bastard or no, witch or no, Alana of Brynwald possessed a rare, golden beauty few men could ignore.

Merrick was vastly annoyed at being so dismissed, but he decided this was no time to argue. But neither did he leave, though he knew Alana was in capable hands. Instead he
retreated to stand before the fire, his expression fierce as he watched his sister work over Alana.

Alana remembered little of the days that followed. She floated in and out of consciousness. In her dreamworld she was certain she had died and was now being punished, for her back burned like the fires of Hell.

But there came a time when she awoke to discover her mind was no longer fuzzy. There was still the faintest twinge of hurt as she shifted to her side, but the pain was nearly gone.

Nor was she alone. A well-dressed, smallboned woman stood before the fire, warming her hands. Beneath the snowy white of her wimple, dark hair gleamed like the wings of a raven. She turned ever so slightly, and Alana was afforded a glimpse of her face. Above full, red lips, her nose was small and straight. Her brows were slender and feminine yet bore a familiar arch.

“You are his sister,” she blurted before she even realized what she was about to say. “You are Genevieve.”

The woman turned, clearly startled. Then she smiled, revealing a row of small, even teeth. “And you, I am told, are Alana. I must say, ’tis good that you are finally awake.”

Alana said nothing, but half-rose on an elbow.

“Would you like something to drink?”

Alana bit her lip, then nodded. Her gaze never left the other woman as she poured water from a pitcher into a small goblet. If
she were wary, she couldn’t help it. After all, this was Merrick’s sister! And if she were at all like her brother…

Genevieve slipped an arm around her shoulders, helping her to rise. Alana had already discovered she’d been clad in a gown of soft linen. Genevieve’s, she wondered? She drank deeply for her throat was indeed parched. When Genevieve turned away to replace the goblet on a tray, she fell back against the pillows, amazed and dismayed at how weak she was.

Genevieve smiled slightly. “No doubt you are weak from lack of food. Indeed, you must be ravenous.” She didn’t wait for Alana’s response. She strode briskly to the doors, where she spoke in low tones to someone just outside.

Alana tried not to stare. She guessed that Genevieve was a trifle older than Merrick, though she suspected not many years separated them. Her eyes were the same clear blue, yet they were warm, not icy cold as Merrick’s.

Genevieve returned to the bedside. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a look at your wounds.”

Alana’s eyes flew wide. “Oh, there is no need,” she said quickly. “I feel quite recovered.”

Genevieve shook her head. Her tone held a mild reproof. “There is no need to be embarrassed, truly. I am the one who has tended you these past days.”

Alana clutched the furs to her breast. Though she told herself such modesty was foolish, she couldn’t help it. Slowly she lowered them and rolled to her stomach. Turning her face aside, she felt Genevieve step close. Her hands were immeasurably careful as she folded her bedgown up to bare her lower back. After cleaning her flesh with warm water, she rubbed a healing salve into her skin.

Alana held her breath, though her discomfort was minimal. Bits and pieces of these last days flashed into her brain. It came to her then, that her memory was not only of this woman with the gentle hands and soothing voice. Another memory welled, of another hand, a hand that possessed far more strength yet was no less gentle.

Her stomach gave an odd little flutter. Merrick, she realized. Merrick had been with her, too. Indeed, it was he who had carried her here. Dimly she recalled him bending over her. There had been something in his voice she’d not heard before. Fear? Surely not. Concern? Never!

At last Genevieve was finished. By then a tray of food had arrived. Genevieve shook out a linen cloth and laid it on her lap.

“Merrick must be very angry with me,” Alana murmured.

“Angry?” Genevieve passed her a steaming bowl of fragrant stew and a wooden spoon. “Why, he scarcely left this chamber—and your bedside—though I found his presence most annoying.” Genevieve withheld a smile at her
startled expression. “And alas,” she added lightly, “’twould seem that you did as well. You cried out that you did not want him to see you.”

Alana trembled inwardly. Now surely
that
had made him angry.

“But my brother is a most stubborn man. Why, I feared he would surely refuse when Duke William’s messenger arrived requesting his presence in London once more. He was most concerned for your health, you know. Indeed, I believe he left only because I assured him you were in no danger.”

Alana lowered her gaze. Genevieve was mistaken. Surely it was so. Why, Merrick despised her as surely as she despised him! “He has gone again to London?” Sweet heaven, what on earth was wrong with her? She sounded almost disappointed.

Genevieve nodded.

Alana wet her lips. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?” she asked quietly. “The others—they think I am a witch, both your people and mine.”

“You are no more a witch than I.” Genevieve was adamant.