Anita Mills (18 page)

“Nay, he cannot—I—” Her heart thudded painfully beneath her ribs, and her breath caught as she looked at him. An unreasonable anger welled deep within. He had not the right to do this to her.

“Lady Elizabeth, I’d walk apart with you, and it please you,” he cut in quickly.

“It does not! Jesu, but what brings you back?” she demanded querulously. “Does Dunashie not require your attention? Have you no other place to be?”

“Aye.” He looked to Eleanor. “I did but beg to be heard ere I go.”

“There’s naught that you—”

“Liza, I have said you will listen,” her grandmother interrupted her. “And I’d leave you alone that he may speak. My lord, I wish you well.” The old woman rose quickly lest the girl should argue the matter.

Elizabeth did not want to be left with him, but her pride would not let her betray the unease she felt. Moving to the narrow window she unlatched the shutter, opening it to breathe in the cold spring air. As her grandmother’s last footsteps sounded on the stairs she swung around to face him, parting her suddenly overwarm mantle to hook her thumbs in the plain girdle that held her gown at her hips.

“Why are you come back, my lord? It cannot be that you expected a welcome of me.”

He’d meant to be more conciliatory, but her tone gave him her answer. “I’d wed with you, Elizabeth of Rivaux,” he said simply. And as those green eyes widened in disbelief, he nodded. “Aye.”

“What
? Holy Jesu, art mad?” she choked. “Have your brains baked in your helmet? Nay, afore God, I’d not hear this!”

She started to brush past him, but he caught her arm and held it. “Aye, you will listen—I did not ride four days for naught.”

His black eyes had gone hard, and for a moment what she saw in them frightened her. And once again she used anger to shield that which she would not have him see. “Do you dare to think yourself a match for Rivaux’s daughter? Nay, but you are not! A lord of Dunashie? ’Tis as naught in my father’s eyes! God’s blood, but you would aim high for yourself, Sir Scot!” she hissed scornfully. “I was wed to the heir of a county as was my right, do you hear? And you would think I’d mingle my blood with yours?” She jerked her arm, trying to get away from him.

His fingers tightened almost cruelly for a moment, revealing the surge of anger he felt, but his voice was even. “Nay, Elizabeth, but I am not done with you— you’ll hear me civilly ere you answer. I did not come all this way for naught—I’d have you know what ’tis I offer you.”

But she was determined not to listen. “Loose me lest I call for aid! I ought to have you hanged for the insult you offer me!”

There was no help for it, then. He’d not wanted it to be this way, not at all, but he knew that if he left without her he’d not be welcomed again at Harlowe. Telling himself that she gave him no choice in the matter, he relaxed his grip enough to slip the knife he’d concealed from his sleeve. She twisted and lunged free, breaking his hold briefly.

But before she could flee he caught her again, and this time she felt the cold steel where it pressed against her throat. The hair at the nape of her neck prickled with fear. She ceased struggling and stood very still.

“You could not let me do this rightly and honorably—you could not make this easier for either of us, could you?” he demanded, his voice harsh behind her ear. “Jesu, but you have chosen the difficult path.” It was as though he spoke to stone. “You mistake me, Elizabeth—I am no Ivo.”

“You came unarmed,” she whispered lamely.

“Think you are the only one who can lie?” he gibed as his other arm slid around her, pinning her back against him. “One ruse is deserving of another, don’t you think? ’Tis no worse than taking prisoner one who has aided you.”

“You’ll not leave Harlowe alive, I swear it.”

“Either way you go with me—to Dunashie or Hell.” As she stiffened he leaned closer, until his breath sent a very different shiver down her spine. “Whether you choose to believe it or not, ’tis more than your father’s wealth that I would have, Elizabeth—’tis you that I desire.”

She had to close her eyes, even though he could not see them. “Mother of God, my lord, but I’d not do this. I cannot,” she whispered, swallowing.

“I would that I had the time to dispute with you, but I have not. We tarry when we ought to ride, for ’tis a long way back across the border.”

“Nay.”

“Aye.”

He backed toward the door, his knife at her throat, then slowly turned around to put her before him on the stairs. “To me! To me! To Rivaux!” she cried out before he covered her mouth with his other hand.

“God’s bones, but you are a stubborn wench,” he muttered as a dozen men started up the winding steps. “Nay, and you love your lady, you’ll go back down!” he shouted. “Any who would come up watches Rivaux’s daughter bleed!”

They retreated as he half pushed, half carried her down to the hall below. At the bottom he faced Walter of Meulan, ordering, “I’d have the barge, and the first man who moves against me or my men has the blood of Rivaux on his soul.”

“Do not listen—he’d not dare!”

His hand, which had slipped, covered her mouth again, silencing her. The guard Gervase moved forward—and Elizabeth stiffened as the knife blade pricked her skin. A thin, red trickle ran from beneath her jaw. The man-at-arms went white and stepped back.

“My lord, I’d not have you take her thus. Nay, but if you would but wait….” Eleanor of Nantes’ dark eyes were troubled as they met his. “Guy will not rest until you are dead.”

“Tell him I’ll not harm her further.” He glanced around the room at the silent, sullen men, then to the cowering women at the end. “I’d take a woman to serve her. I’d not have her alone amongst naught but men.”

She knew he’d gone too far to turn back. If he released Elizabeth now he’d not leave Harlowe alive. “Aye. Helewise will go. Get your cloak,” she directed the tiring woman.

It came home to Elizabeth then that he was in truth taking her with him, and that there was none who dared stop him. He held her against the hard links of his mail, one hand still clamped tightly over her mouth, his arm blocking her shoulder, while the other kept the knife blade resting cold against her flesh. Once the woman Helewise returned, he again moved to where Willie held the heavy door.

Unable to watch where she trod, Elizabeth stumbled on the cobbled stones. Cursing low, he swung her up info his arms and carried her toward the barge. Desperate now, she sank her teeth into the flesh between his thumb and forefinger and held on, tasting the salt of his blood. He did not so much as miss a step.

“Turn loose,” he growled as he stepped onto the rocking vessel. “I’d not want to hurt you.” When she did not comply, he eased her down with her teeth still embedded. Then, tossing the knife to Willie, he slapped her with the open palm of his other hand. When she cried out in surprise, he jerked away. Blood dripped from the bite. “Art a witch, Elizabeth of Rivaux,” he told her. Incredibly, he was smiling on her.

“You cut me!”

“And we are even.” Pushing her onto one of the seat cushions, he sucked on his hand, then spit the blood into the water. “I’d not be poisoned,” he explained. He leaned over her to tear a piece of silk from one of the billowing hangings. “Spit on this.” he ordered.

“Nay.”

“ ’Tis my spittle or yours,” he murmured, shrugging. To demonstrate, he spat onto the corner, then lifted her hair to wash the blood from her neck. “Tis but a scratch, and I am sorry for it, but you made it impossible to get you out without drawing blood.”

“You could have killed me,” she muttered, pushing his hand away.

“I was careful.”

“I’d not go,” she argued desperately as the barge was slipped from its mooring. “Leave me, and I’ll see you are not followed.”

“You have not the choice.”

“Jesu! My father will send you to Hell for this!” she spat at him. “Do you know you cannot escape his wrath?”

Dropping down beside her, he looked over to the poleman, who stared curiously at him. “Tell the countess that if Count Guy would have his daughter safe, he’ll not come for her.” He leaned back, stretching his long legs before him. “Aye, and tell her also that if the firstborn is a girl, I mean to call her Eleanor.”

“God’s bones, but you are a fool! You have imperiled yourself for naught, for I am barren.”

“Mayhap,” he agreed cheerfully. “But you’ll hold your tongue else you’ll ride over my saddle like my kill. I don’t favor an intemperate woman.”

“You’ll hang for this—your head will gape over Harlowe’s gate.”

“I’m told ’tis hard to carp when your mouth lies below your limbs overlong,” he countered.

The borderers cheered as the barge eased into the slip on the other side. Without waiting for the poleman to tie it to its moorings, Giles pulled her up and lifted her onto the bank, steadying her as her softsoled shoes slipped on the mud. Wee Willie gave a hand to the frightened Helewise.

A man brought Moray’s big black forward. “Well, Elizabeth, which is it to be?” Giles asked her. “Would you ride with your feet or your head down?”

“My lord, I cannot leave here,” she pleaded. “I gave mine oath to defend Harlowe, and now that my father repudiates Stephen, I cannot go. I am sworn to stay.”

“God will absolve you—I gave you not the choice.”

Cupping his hands, he waited for her to step into them. “I’d not want to beat you,” he warned when she still hesitated. “I am not a gentle man, Elizabeth. I’d treat you well, but you try me sorely.”

She looked around her, seeing the mounted retinue that gathered into formation. And beneath the polished helms there was not a face that betrayed the least pity for her. She caught Giles of Moray’s arm to steady herself as she raised her muddy slipper to his hands. As tall as she was, he had no difficulty throwing her in front of his saddle. He caught the highbanked pommel and swung up behind her.

“ ’Tis as well we are not to be followed,” he observed as he settled his body into the saddle. “ ’Tis the most weight my horse has carried.”

She looked down at the muddy hem of her mantle where it lifted to her knees. “And I have naught so much as another gown,” she muttered bitterly. “I’ll warrant there’s no robe at this Dunashie as will fit me.”

“Then I suppose you will wear mine until the matter is remedied,” he told her, slipping his arms around her to take the reins. Nodding to Willie, he said, “We are for Wycklow first, for ’tis closer.”

“I’d nae tarry in England,” the big man protested. “There’s too many—”

“ ’Tis Wycklow, Will.”

“Aye.”

Willie walked toward the back to retrieve his mount. “So he did it,” Hob chortled, coming up behind him. “God’s bones, but he stole her out of Harlowe itself—I’d nae believed it, but he did.”

“Aye, may he nae live to rue the day,” Willie answered sourly.

“He’ll tame her—aye, he will.”

The big man looked to where Elizabeth sat stonily before Giles on his horse. Swinging up into his own saddle, he shook his head. “Ye be as daft as he then, and ye believe it. ’Tis each other they’ll have to tame. And,” he added grimly, “God spare us the temper of either of ‘em ere they are done.”

As if to make Elizabeth’s life worse, the sun had fled but a few leagues beyond Harlowe, and the clouds had moved in, bringing a steady, dreary rain that had dogged the ride northward. Giles, fearing pursuit despite his warnings, had pushed them almost beyond endurance in his haste to reach the safety of Wycklow, his English stronghold, if it could in truth be called such. They had arrived after nightfall on the second day, but even then she could see ‘twas a mean place compared to Harlowe.

She was bone-weary, hungry, cold, and soaked to the skin, and her temper was already strained beyond bearing by the time she surveyed the hole in the wall that Willie had led her into. Her face flushed ominously as one of the Wycklow retainers rolled out a straw pallet into the space, which was too small for standing.

“Afore God,” she declared, drawing herself up to her full height, “I’ll not sleep here, you misbegotten heathen! I’d have a bed, a fire, and a bath, sir—and I’d have them now! Aye, and you have my leave to tell your master I’d eat also! One chunk of cheese does not fill my stomach!” Looking past him to the chamber without, she saw men moving about setting up a bed and a wooden partition to shelter a tub drawn close to the fire there. “Nay, but you are mistaken,” she decided, relieved. “You have shown me what you give Helewise. My bath awaits.”

“The woman sleeps at yer feet,” he grunted. “There.” Again, he pointed to the tiny, cut-out chamber.

“Art deaf, fool? I said I’d have the bed!”

“An ye do, ye’ll not sleep alone,” he countered, his face breaking into a grin. “Aye, ’tis Moray as sleeps abed as lord here. As for the food, we came too late to sup, but I heard him order a loaf of bread and some mead fer ye.”

Her eyes traveled contemptuously over the damp, moss-streaked stones, and she shivered anew. “Tell your master,” she managed to repeat evenly, “that I require a bed, a fire, and a bath. Aye, and I’d have some meat, else I’ll not sleep for the rumbling of my stomach.” She turned to face him, willing herself to calm. “Jesu, but he cannot expect me to stay in this, else I’ll not live to reach the walls of this Dunashie.” Moving to where the pallet had been laid, she lifted a corner with the muddied toe of her ruined slipper. “And I do not sleep with vermin.”

He shrugged and turned to leave. “Aye, I’ll tell him, lady, but I’d nae want to hear what he’ll say. ’Tis the devil’s own temper he’s got, what with a-riding all the way from Harlowe. Is there aught else ye’d have me ask of him?”

“Aye,” she snapped. “I’d have a comb and dry clothes also.”

“ ’Tis further than ye he’s ridden, for we are come from Dunashie to Harlowe also,” he muttered. “ ’Tis nigh six days in the saddle we’ve spent fer ye, Lady Elizabeth.”

“I don’t thank him for it,” she retorted.

After he’d left she started into the large chamber, then thought better of it. Were she to speak to Giles of Moray himself, she’d not be responsible for her tongue this night. Instead she sat down on the small, lone stool and waited for the fellow to return with his answer.