The Mistress Of Normandy (14 page)

All during the feast Rand had wanted to shout his elation to the rafters. Even Lianna’s coldness and the fact that she’d spared but one dance for him could not dampen his spirits. He had forgotten her deceit; she would forgive his. Once they were alone in the nuptial chamber, he’d show her they were not meant to be enemies, but lovers. Husband and wife.

Blessed by destiny, he lifted his cup to acknowledge yet another toast given by one of his men. He drank deeply, then leaned back to savor a keen joy as he watched his wife sweep through the processional steps of a
ductia
on her uncle’s arm.

“You look like the fox guarding the henhouse.”

Rand set down his cup and grinned at Jack Cade. “I’ve found better than that.” His attention drifted back to Lianna. Her face, expressionless yet unutterably lovely, glowed in the light of the chandelier suspended above the dance floor. Slim as a willow, she moved with natural grace. The thought of reclaiming her body sent anticipation burning to his loins.

“By St. George,” said Jack, “I cannot credit this change in you. Only yesterday you were stalking about like a chained bear, cursing the fates that linked you with the demoiselle.”

“That was before I realized who she was.”

“I thought you saw her when you went to secure the boat at the river.” Jack slid an admiring glance at Lianna. “How the hell could you mistake a face like that, a body like—”

“It wasn’t her I saw. That woman was the wife of Gervais Mondragon, not Lianna.”

Jack set down his mazer with a clatter.
“Lianna?”

“Aye.”

“Holy Mary.”

“You were the one who saw her, Jack, when you took the letters to Bois-Long.” Pain twinged in his upper arm: the arrow wound. “All you could prate about was her maid. Why didn’t you tell me of Lianna’s beauty? You might have spared us all a harrowing night.”

“By the rood, it was all I could do to bear her insults and save my hide from her cannonade.”

Rand frowned and sipped his wine. “I had her in the palm of my hand and knew it not.”

“How the devil did she conceal her true identity from you? And you your own from her?”

“When we first met, she would say only that she was Lianna, a gunner’s daughter, an orphan. She knew better than to reveal to a stranger that she was the demoiselle.”

“Aye, she’d be a valuable hostage, were you of a mind to seize her.”

Rand nodded. “I had reasons of my own for not revealing myself to her. She heard the echoes of my father’s native Gascony in my speech, and so dubbed me Rand the Gascon.”

“Bones of St. Peter, and you trysted with her all these weeks. What in the name of heaven did you talk about?”

Nothing, Rand reflected, and everything.

Jack stared. “I warrant you did little talking at all.”

Rand laughed loudly. The sound brought a glare from Lianna, her eyes flashing silver fire.

“God in heaven, but she’s passing fair,” Jack breathed. “Yet were that look a naked blade, you’d be a dead man, my lord.”

Rand met her furious stare, smiled, and waved. “She is still distraught.” Guilt stole the smile from his face. He remembered the way she’d fought when he’d dragged her through the water. Unknowingly he’d plunged her into the danger she feared above all others. Half to himself he said, “When her heart catches hold of the idea that we are well and truly wed, she’ll come to see the wonder of it.”

“I’d not taint your elation with doubts, my lord, but think on it. ’Twas the knight Rand who won her love, not Enguerrand of Longwood.”

“We are one and the same, Jack.” But even as he spoke, he felt dread pushing into his mind, thoughts he’d fled from ever since finding his bride on the church steps. He stared at her, saw resentment in her stiff posture, defiance in her marble-hard features. Reluctantly he admitted, “She loved a man who exalted her—her mind, her body, her soul. But she will resist the man who comes to take her castle, her lands.”

His face grim, Jack nodded. “You can’t trust a word she says or a move she makes, my lord.”

Avoiding the troublesome thought, Rand remembered the pleasures they’d shared, pleasures they would repeat for a lifetime to come. As he finished his wine, a new notion entered his mind—an idea that had until this moment been lost amid the drama of surprise and excitement. Lianna was married when he’d first made love to her, yet she’d been a virgin. With a shaking hand he set down his cup. Had she? Or had he been so ignorant of womanly matters that he hadn’t known the difference? Angry at the thought that Lazare Mondragon might have been her first, Rand resolved to discover the truth...tonight.

At the end of the great hall a man burst into the room. Bearing an urgent look and the dust of a long and frantic ride, he approached the Duke of Burgundy. Seeing Lianna left without a partner, Rand strode across the hall.

She aimed a haughty look at his proffered hand. “I am weary of dancing and must visit the garderobe.” She sounded so different when she spoke English—harsher, a stranger. She swept past him.

Annoyed by her blatant snub, he moved to follow her. Burgundy’s voice stopped him. “A word with you, my lord.”

The harried messenger left to avail himself of the lavish fare. Rand followed the duke to his privy apartments. Light from a taper picked out Burgundy’s stony features. Rand studied his host. Crafty and manipulative, Burgundy was a man to be respected...but not trusted. By chance or by design, he’d dispensed with Lazare Mondragon as if Lianna’s first husband were no more than an annoying mayfly. Although Jean the Fearless lived up to his title, Rand recognized tenseness in the man’s shoulders, shadows of trouble in his blue eyes.

“Ill news, Your Grace?”

Burgundy’s lips thinned. “Aye. The Armagnacs are en route to lay siege to my town of Compiègne.” Anger simmered beneath his calm speech. “If I don’t reach Compiègne with a sizable army, the town will be lost.” He scowled. “I must leave here by dawn. My men will have to ride hard to intercept the Armagnacs coming from Paris.”

Like a sudden frost, understanding gripped Rand. “You’ll need, of course, every available man at Le Crotoy.”

Burgundy nodded. Rand’s heart sank. Instead of spending his wedding night with the woman he loved, he would be busy preparing to join a feud of foreigners. “I’ll alert my men.”

“No, no.” The duke made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “You’ve but ten men. I was speaking only of those directly in my service. I wanted to inform you of Armagnac’s treachery because it changes your plans.”

Rand’s hands curled into a fist. On the morrow he was to have ridden for Longwood with a hundred of Burgundy’s men to retake the château. Impatience niggled at him. Burgundy might not return for weeks, even months.

“I mean to take Longwood,” he stated. “If I’ve but ten men at my disposal, that number shall have to suffice.”

Burgundy’s eyes lit with a mixture of admiration and annoyance. “What madness is this? Ten men couldn’t take so much as a single stone of that keep. Stay, my lord, at Le Crotoy. Your men are will content here.”

“Every day Mondragon holds Longwood, his claim strengthens. I won’t sit idle while my castle is usurped.”

“You’ll do as you must, then. But I cannot help you.”

Rand stared at him thoughtfully. An uncertain ally, the duke. Ever quick to duck obligations, commitments. Burgundy had promised to support King Henry’s claim to the French throne. Would he avoid that alliance, too?

The chamber door banged open. Wild-eyed and panting, Jack Cade burst inside.

“My lord, your wife—” He gulped for air, sketched a stumbling obeisance to Burgundy. The sounds of shouts and running feet filtered into the room.

“What, Jack?” Rand demanded urgently.

“She’s
gone,
my lord!”

* * *

The wind soughing through the eaves chilled Lianna. She’d shed most of her clothing in order to make her climb to freedom. Her feet clad in thin slippers, her hair freed of its gem-encrusted veil, and her body garbed in a tunic purloined from the laundry, she edged along the wall of the Tour du Roi.

Glancing up, she saw with satisfaction that the window of her room loomed far above. Glancing down, she saw that the moat shimmered far below. She pictured herself falling into that inky maw. Fear gripped her. She began to sweat. Her heart pounded and her breathing quickened. Then, focusing on her goal, she exerted a stiff control over her terror.

The stone of the limewashed wall felt cold. Already her fingers were raw. Her limbs shook from the effort of climbing. She had to get to the south face of the tower; torchlight from the bailey would not reach her there. Tamping back a thrill of fear, she concentrated on moving downward swiftly, silently, and—God will it—safely.

From the sounds emanating from the
grande salle
and bailey, she realized her disappearance had been discovered. She’d have to move quickly.

Perhaps she should have waited for a more opportune time. But, their senses dulled by drink and revelry, the sentries assigned to watch her had lowered their vigilance. Excusing herself to visit the garderobe, she had seized her chance to escape now, before the wedding night.

Because she did not trust her response in the nuptial chamber.

She hated Rand for making her believe he loved her, even as he’d plotted to abduct her and steal her home. Still, some undisciplined part of her responded to his touch, his nearness, the warmth of his smile, and the scent of sunshine that clung to him. The feeling of desire was so strong that, in spite of her hatred and hurt, she feared she might yet succumb to him.

But not now. There would be no wedding night, no consummation of this sham marriage.

He already gave you a consummation such as most women only dream about, said a traitorous voice in her heart. And the proof of it lives within you.

With a convulsive grip she clutched at a rocky outcrop. She pushed the thought from her mind. Babe or not, she would never submit to Rand.

Shouts rang from her chamber window. A renewed sense of urgency seized her. She hugged the curved wall and prayed the eaves and the night shadows would conceal her. She held her breath until the voices faded. Relieved, she moved on. Mortar crumbled beneath her fingers. The ledge narrowed. Sweat and fear left her cold. Only when her dangling foot found purchase on the edge of an arrow slit did she pause for breath.

She glanced down. The moat lay fifty feet below, she gauged. Her eyes avoided the murky waters, avoided the thought of what she must do. Scaling the wall seemed but child’s play when compared to the trial head. She could not swim. Pray God she could steal across the flimsy rope bridge that spanned the moat.

Voices drifted up from the bailey. She started moving again and found a series of iron loops and stone corbels protruding from the wall. Put there to aid masons at their repairs, they now helped her to freedom. The footholds lay few and far between. The stone and mortar grew more difficult to grasp, and her muscles began to scream with fatigue. Keep moving, she commanded herself. You are the daughter of Aimery the Warrior. You’ve made more harrowing climbs in search of sulfur deposits.

The shadowy bailey disappeared as she rounded the tower.

And made an alarming discovery.

Moss, slickened by the sea air, coated the stones.

May you roast in hell, Enguerrand Fitzmarc!

Her mind barely registered a scraping sound. She scrabbled wildly for a purchase. Her hand found an iron loop. She grabbed at it desperately, only to find it, too, beslimed with moss.

She curved her fingers around the loop, her feet dangling. Loosened by her weight, the mortar crumbled. The rung began to move.

As her anchor gave way, Lianna had time for but one unthinking, throat-tearing scream.

“Rand!”

Ten

H
er frantic scream echoed in his ears. Horror leaped in his throat as he saw her handhold loosen, felt a shower of mortar on his face. Had he found her only to lose her?

His chest tight with dread, he teetered precariously on the topmost rung of a scaling ladder. He reached for the flailing, falling figure, grasped her waist. His heart pounding wildly, he held her against him. Motion and impact nearly overset the ladder. But for his steel grip and iron will, they both would have pitched into the moat.

Rand pressed against the wall, steadied his feet on the ladder. He buried his face in the cool, fragrant silk of her hair and thought, Thank God. Thank God Burgundy guessed her escape route in time. “I’ve got you, love,” he murmured.

Far below, torches bobbed, casting long, eerie shadows against the tower. Shouts of victory and scattered applause drifted from the banks of the moat.

She made not a sound for a moment; her fall into his arms had knocked the breath out of her. Frantically he touched her face, her neck, dreading to find her injured. His own breathing came in sharp, tense gasps.

“Sweet lamb of God,” he said, “you might have been killed.” He grasped her more tightly as she sucked in her breath with a great
whoosh.
Revived, she struck out at him. Her elbow landed on his ribs.

“Let me go!” she cried.

Alarmed, he leaned into the wall. “Cease your squirming, else you might kill us both yet.”

“If I had died, know that it would have been you,
Englishman,
who forced me to it.”

The remark drove a shaft of guilt into him. But now was not the time for explanations. “Not I,” he said, wrapping her arms against her sides to stay her movement. “But your own recklessness. By the rood, will you be still?”

“Never! I’ll never stop fighting you, Englishman.”

“Will you force me to subdue you again? Do you relish another swim?” He knew not how else to convince her of the peril she courted in struggling on the rickety ladder.

“Ha!” she said, twisting to face him. “I’d like to see you climb down with my dead weight in your arms. You’d probably nigh drown me as you did before.”

He met her hostile glare with a look of hard-eyed determination. In the past he’d held her as a lover. Now he gazed upon her as an adversary. His lover’s heart gave way to the cold implacability of a soldier’s discipline.

“Listen well.” Steel edged his words. “I once climbed a scaling ladder with Greek fire burning my back and a hail of missiles raining down on me. If I survived that, I can survive your resistance.”

She went still. He felt blood welling hotly from his wounded arm; the struggle had opened the arrow gash.

Heedless of his pain, she demanded, “How did you find me?”

His stare calm and steady, he said, “You called my name. I’ll always hear you, no matter how faint your cries.”

“I’d have succeeded if the loops had held,” she said peevishly.

He shook his head. “You might have fooled a stranger.” He brushed a wisp of moon-silk hair from her brow; she flinched from his touch. “But I am not a stranger. I know every inch of your body and every corner of your mind.”

Her shoulders drooped. Feeling the fight go out of her, he knew, with infinite regret, that his reminder of their intimate past hurt her deeply. “You
knew
me well,” she stated dully. “Let go of me, and I’ll follow you down.”

He searched her face for a trace of deception but saw only weariness, resignation. Still, the latent fire in her silver eyes reminded him of Jack’s admonition:
You can’t trust a word she says or a move she makes.

His eyes never leaving her, Rand climbed to the bottom of the ladder. She followed. Jagged pain seared his arm, but worse, his heart ached with the knowledge that she loathed him enough to endanger her life escaping him. God, he’d almost lost her; he’d nearly gone insane looking for her. The waiting damsel assigned to her chamber doubtless still shook from his rough interrogation; the man-at-arms who’d fallen asleep at his post probably suffered a cracked rib when Rand had kicked him awake.

He reached the bank of the moat, stepped into the boat tied there. The vessel rocked as he took her by the waist and turned her. Clinging to the ladder, she stiffened. Through the darkness, the heat of her resentful glare burned him.

“You needn’t...” Her eyes widened when she spied the boat. “I won’t get into this leaky skiff.”

Impatient, he pulled her down from the ladder and into the boat. “Had you not tried such a foolhardy escape, you’d be safe in your bed,” he snapped. Her gasp, ragged with terror, reminded him that once she’d trusted him enough to confess her fear of water. His annoyance lessened; he lowered her gently. “You’ll come to no harm. You have but to stay put.” He wanted to kiss the frown from her pale face. “How would you have crossed the moat if I’d not come?”

She tossed her head. “By the same means by which I’ve lived my life. Sheer determination, Englishman. I’d have crossed the rope footbridge.”

“The bridge is down,” he said.

“I’d have found a way,” she insisted. Her haughty expression, her confident posture, convinced him that she would have braved her greatest fear in order to flee her husband.

Angry, his pride wounded, Rand took up the oars and began to row. She suffered the brief voyage in silence, her knuckles white as she gripped the sides of the boat. When he took her hand at the other shore, her flesh felt cold, bloodless.

As soon as they reached the top of the bank, Lianna scrambled ahead. With annoyance and dismay, he realized she meant to flee him yet. He gained her side with an easy bound and caught her wrist.

She glared. “Unhand me.”

His gaze flicked to the crowd of avid watchers gathered on the bank. “You’ll come willingly, else I’ll drag you.”

She began to twist in his grasp. “Drag me, then,” she spat. “Show yourself for the abusive coward you are.”

Given no choice, he gritted his teeth, scooped her into his arms, and strode toward the bridge leading to the keep. The crowd parted. Torchlit faces grinned; English and French voices murmured lusty suggestions. She felt stiff, unyielding, and oddly fragile. Her face shone white and immobile as polished alabaster.

“I’ll never forgive you for this,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Burgundy gave you a choice.”

“Ha! A choice between my home and a nunnery is no choice at all. Never,” she repeated peevishly.

“Never is a long time.”

“Eternity is not long enough to prove my hatred.”

Pain sat as cold and hard as a stone in his gut. Even the warmth of Lianna, held fast against his chest, failed to thaw the feeling. He crossed the yard and climbed the stairs of the Tour du Roi. A much chastened man-at-arms stepped aside to let them enter the bedchamber. Within, a waiting damsel folded away Lianna’s discarded wedding finery. One fierce look from Rand sent the maid scurrying outside. He closed the door with a backward kick.

An oil lamp ensconced on the wall and two tapers on a polished oak table lighted the chamber. A private wedding supper lay in readiness: roasted capon, apples, dates, nuts, and cheese, a pitcher of wine.

Lianna, however, seemed disinclined to celebrate her marriage with feasting and toasting. As soon as Rand set her down, she lurched away, leaving him standing against the door. Before he realized her intent, she ran to the table. Frantic hands plundered the crockery and cutlery. With a strength belied by her size, she hurled a wine goblet at him.

He ducked the sailing disk of a salver. “Lianna, stop that, listen.” An earthenware ewer shattered just to the side of his head.

“I’ll not listen to you!” She threw the bowl, still filled with apples. “Damn you!”

A knock sounded. “My lord,” someone called through the door, “is aught amiss?”

“Leave us,” he roared.

His bride stood amid the jagged shards of glass and pottery littering the floor. With a sweep of her hand she knocked aside the tapers, plunging the chamber into half darkness. As she picked up the second goblet, her slippered feet danced perilously close to a piece of broken crockery. “Lianna,” he said, “have a care, you’ll cut—”

The clatter of breaking glass stopped his speech. Hearing her gasp, feeling a slicing pain, the wetness of blood on his brow, he realized her missile had found its mark.

He wiped the blood from his eyes. The motion scraped a sliver of glass into his cheekbone. He flinched at the pain. By the time his vision cleared she was at the window, one leg slung over the ledge.

“Devil take you, woman,” he yelled, “you are twice a fool?” Grinding glass beneath his boots, he crossed the chamber with long, swift strides. Closing his hand around her arm, he yanked her back into the room.

She kicked, struggled, pummeled. His wounded arm throbbed, his eyes stung, and his patience reached its limit. He jerked her to the bed and flung her down.

“Since you wish to play rough, my lady,” he said, “then I must oblige you.” Pinioning her wrists with one hand, he ripped a cord from the bed curtain.

She squirmed. “What are you doing?”

“Protecting us both from your temper.”

“You’re barbaric.”

“You haven’t always thought so.”

Incensed by the taunt, she kicked at him.

He sucked a deep breath. “You’re beyond any Christian’s control.” Using two of the curtain cords, he bound her, arms splayed, to the posts of the bed.

* * *

Lianna bit her lip to keep from weeping. The warrior looming above her was a stranger. His golden hair wild, his face flecked with blood, and his mouth grim, he looked as fearsome and merciless as Helquin the Huntsman.

She clamped her jaw against a plea for mercy. She would never plead with him, never show him anything but contempt.

After jerking the second cord tight, he withdrew into the shadows of the chamber. She heard the crunch of glass and twisted her head to glare at him. He put aside his sword; then his fingers worked at the lace points of his baldric, unfastening the belt.

Alarm raced through her. “What are you doing?”

His mouth curved into a heartless smile. “I’m coming to bed, Baroness.”

“
This
bed?”

“I see no other available.”

“Stay away,” she breathed. “Plea—just stay away from me.”

He made no reply. His eyes, alight with sensual promise, raked her splayed-out form. Kicking a path across the littered floor, he found an unbroken cup and filled it with wine. He indulged in a long, unhurried pull, then wordlessly offered her the cup. She jerked her head in sharp refusal.

Her gaze crept back toward him in time to see him unlace the full murrey sleeves of his tunic. She yanked her gaze free of his powerful arms, only to feel her attention immediately drawn back. An ugly, bleeding gash marred the smooth muscles of his upper arm.

“You’re wounded,” she said.

He glanced without interest at the bloody cut. “A
moulinet
from one of Gaucourt’s crossbows.”

She remembered the hissing sounds that had dogged their flight the previous night.

Noticing her stare, he smiled slightly. “Think you an Englishman does not bleed?”

Suddenly, absurdly, tears gathered in her eyes. “How can he, when he has no heart?”

The smile vanished. “I have a heart, Lianna. I feel it breaking when I see the contempt in your eyes.”

“What in the name of God did you expect? How long do you mean to keep me trussed on this bed?”

“Until you agree to cease fighting and running.” He dipped a corner of his sleeve in a fingerbowl and wiped the blood from his face and arm.

He finished his task. Then, the rowels of his spurs whirring, he approached the bed.

A sense of familiarity pricked at her, the memory of the dream that had plagued her since she’d wed Lazare. The husband coming to her bed had had Rand’s face, Rand’s eyes. Always the dream had filled her with longing. Now the reality filled her with hopelessness, for the device emblazoned on his tabard was the leopard rampant.

With swift, easy movements, he discarded the
cotte d’armes
and his undertunic. She tried to shrink from him, but the cords held her tight. The low light picked out details of a body she used to cherish with her own. She shuddered at the remembrance. A glow from the oil lamp struck golden highlights into the fine hairs on his musclebanded chest. Shadows carved the powerful bone structure of his face into a visage so compelling, she ached just looking at him. His mouth, tender yet firm, curved into a smile. Heat pounded through her; she shifted restively.

As he bent to remove his spurs and boots and hosen, she closed her eyes. A gentle hand stirred the hair at her temple. Flinching, she clenched her eyes all the tighter.

“I’d have you look at me, Lianna.”

She opened her eyes, glaring. “I look upon a scoundrel and a betrayer.”

“You look upon a man who loves you with a power stronger than eternity. A man who is ready to forgive
your
deception.”

“Prate not to me of love. You love only your usurping sovereign and your foul ambition to steal my castle.”

He shook his head. “I love you without regard for King Henry or Bois-Long.”

“You lie,” she said, battening fury against the awful hurt that clawed at her heart. “You
knew
who I was all along. You deceived me with coy questions about my ‘mistress’ and false declarations about your hallowed knight-errantry.”

He drew back, his eyes wide with shock. “What’s this? Do you truly think I realized you were the demoiselle?”

She strained against the cords binding her. “Why else would you have met me day after day, plagued me with sly questions and half-truths?”

He touched her cheek. She recoiled from the caress. “You know me. You should trust what you know. I did not mean to spin such a web. It started innocently, and with you. Remember, you asked me if I hailed from Gascony. It was then that I decided, for both our sakes, to let you believe I was a French knight-errant. I didn’t know who you were. When I learned I was betrothed to a French lady of twenty-one years, I pictured a woman too flawed to have married at a proper age.”