Anita Mills (19 page)

She knew not when she’d been so cold or so tired. God’s bones, but she knew not how any of them had stood the pace he’d set, for they’d traveled with bone-jarring haste, covering the leagues between Harlowe and this awful place as though they fled from the portals of hell. Long after his men began to grumble he’d kept in the saddle, riding ever northward until they’d arrived in deep fog before Wycklow’s gates. She closed her eyes and saw again the grim keep rising out of the mists, a great black heap eerily shrouded in a swirling darkness.

She’d begun to think the border lord lacked the weaknesses of a mortal man, for he’d stopped neither to eat, to relieve himself, nor to rest until she’d protested that she could go no further. And then it had been but long enough to hand her a piece of hard cheese and direct her into a clump of trees for privacy, with the admonition not to tarry else he’d leave her to the wolves. And then back into the saddle again, to stay there until her body was numb and her mind too tired to think.

Looking down to where her gown sagged wetly about her knees, she bitterly regretted the day she’d taken him prisoner. If she could relive the winter, she’d not do it again. Now he was having his revenge by humbling her, by taking her away from Harlowe. Now she would not keep her oath to her father. A sick, hard knot tightened in her stomach with the realization that she’d failed: she’d not be there to defend Harlowe in Guy of Rivaux’s name.

She had not long to wait. She heard heavy boot-steps, first on the winding, sloping stone stairs, then crossing the wooden floor of the chamber without. She sat very still as he drew near, for ’twas Giles of Moray himself who came.

The tiny room was too small for him to enter standing, so he stood just outside. To her surprise, he carried a heavy blanket.

“You sent for me, I believe.”

“My lord, I’ve not been in such a mean place before,” she grumbled. “Even the walls seep.”

“For this you would speak with me?”

His face was hard, his eyes cold. Clasping her hands tightly in her lap to still her shivering, she shook her head, speaking with as much dignity as she could muster. “I sent your man to tell you that I cannot stay here, my lord. ’Tis wet and I do not sleep on straw.”

Despite his forbidding expression, she raised her eyes to his. “Else you would have me ill, I’d have a bath, dry clothes, food, and a bed,” she repeated more civilly than she’d spoken to Willie. “Aye, and a fire.”

“Nay.”

“Nay?” Her voice rose incredulously. “This is not fit for a serving wench!”

“You have not the ordering of my keep—yet.”

“Jesu! You cannot mean to keep me here—you cannot! I cannot sleep in such a place!”

“Alas, but the only bed to be had is mine, Elizabeth.” He favored her with a faint, mocking smile. “And you have made it plain that you have no wish to share it.” His eyes traveled over her soggy gown without a trace of sympathy. “ ’Tis late, but I suppose I could have the chaplain roused for a change of your mind.”

“I’d as lief lie with a dog!” she replied crossly.

“As for the fire, the only vent is in my chamber, and I’d not be smoked out of my bed,” he went on, ignoring her outburst. “Now—what else was it you wished?”

“A comb and a bath and a dry gown,” she gritted out through clenched teeth. “And someday you will pay for the service you do me, my lord.”

“Ask Willie for his comb.”

As much as it galled her to say it, she shook her head and replied, “Nay, I’d have yours, my lord—you appear to have no lice.”

“As you wish it.”

“I wish myself back at Harlowe,” she snapped, goaded by his manner. “But despite that, I’d still have my bath. Riding hours with one who stinks makes me want to cleanse myself.”

Still he did not acknowledge the barb. “I have ordered my tub by the fire, Elizabeth. When I have soaked the cold from my bones you may use the water also.”

It was an insult beyond bearing. “Nay, ’tis my right to go first!”

“You are not in Normandy, my lady,” he answered coldly. “And at Wycklow ’tis I who rules.” Then, moving closer, he blocked the door. “Give thanks that I do not hand you a bucket of cold water and expect you to stand naked outside. You are fortunate I am not a heartless man,” he added significantly. “Aye, and you wished it, I’d even bathe
you
willingly enough.”

“Nay, but you would not dare!”

“Leave us,” he ordered Helewise curtly.

Elizabeth’s mouth went dry and the blood drained from her face. Involuntarily, she licked her lips to wet them. “Nay, I’d have you stay,” she told the woman.

Helewise looked from one to the other, then hastily slipped past him, disappearing into the outer room. Elizabeth rose, considering her chances of escape, and her heart sank with the realization that there were none. Rubbing damp palms against her wet skirt, she tried to still the thudding in her chest as he reached out to her. His hand caught her chin, forcing her to look into those cold black eyes. The muscles in her throat constricted painfully, and she swallowed visibly, hoping he could not see the fear she felt.

“I dare, Elizabeth—aye, I dare.”

Though his voice was little more than a whisper, the force in it sent a new shiver slicing through her. His face was but inches from hers, so close that every feature save his eyes blurred before her, and for a moment she feared he would kiss her again. But instead he warned her, “Do not dare me for what you would not have, Elizabeth.”

“Unhand me,” she said coldly.

Abruptly, he released her and stepped back, disappointing her. “I have a temper to match your own, you know,” he added, turning for the door. “Warm yourself with the blanket, for I’d hear no more.”

“Sweet Mary,” she whispered to herself after he’d left, “God aid me.”

When Helewise did not return forthwith she picked up the blanket and wrapped it around her, then lay upon the straw pallet, trying to get warm. The greater humiliation was not what he’d said but that, as much as she told herself she despised him, she’d wanted him to kiss her. She’d wanted him to hold her. It was as though only her mind could recognize him for the enemy.

Passing Willie in the hall below, Hob grinned his wide-gapped grin. “And how fares Rivaux’s fine daughter now, Will? D’ye think she’ll have him?”

“ ’Tis a while ere she’s broken to ride,” the big man answered tersely. “Meself, I’d nae have her e’en if she were King David’s daughter.” Then, leaning closer, he spoke for Hob’s ears alone. “Ye’d best pray he don’t get her, an ye have a son of Lord Giles t’ rule Dunashie.”

There was no light, for the candle flame had long since died, and the keep was silent save for the dripping of rain from the roof onto the stone courtyard below. And still Elizabeth huddled miserably within the blanket, unable to sleep. In the other room a man snored. She wondered if ’twas Giles of Moray. And her sense of ill-usage increased as the night wore on, so much so that had she a dagger she gladly would have used it on him.

He’d had his bath and his bread before his fire, whilst she’d gnawed on her tough crust alone in the cold, damp hole cut into the castle wall. And he lay upon a featherbed—for that she hated him the most—aye, that and the fire. Every time she shifted her aching body she smelled the dust from the straw in the sack beneath her, and it nearly choked her. Finally she gave up any attempt at sleep, devoting her thoughts instead to revenge. There in the darkest hours of night, she considered and discarded a dozen means of killing him, deciding none of them would punish him enough for what he did to her.

In the comfort and warmth of his curtained bed he tried hard to sleep, telling himself that she would in time accept his suit. But he was not now so certain as he’d been when he’d carried her from Harlowe. If naught else could be said of her she was a stubborn woman, far more strong-willed than any he’d known before. And far more beautiful. Aye, what mayhap had begun as revenge, as a desire to humble, had long since passed to something more. Mayhap ’twas his pride, mayhap ’twas his vanity that had first conceived taking Rivaux’s daughter for wife, but now, whether Count Guy could be brought to dower her or not, he wanted Elizabeth of Rivaux more than anything.

But she would not be easily mastered—nay, she might never be mastered at all, he reminded himself. For she
was
different from the rest of her sex. Whether ’twas her blood or whether ’twas the tempering of the unhappy marriage, she was strong. Nay, but she would not cower beneath the bedsheets, white-faced and quaking, nor would she turn away and weep when ’twas over as Aveline had done. It was not in Elizabeth’s nature to admit fear.

Aveline. Her death must have been a release for her, for how often had she remarked that in heaven there were no lusts of the flesh? Even now he could remember the hair shirts she wore in penance, not because she’d sinned so much but rather because she believed she had. How else could God have allowed her to be given to him? Poor Aveline. Too many nights he’d waited for her to finish her prayers, certain she petitioned God to free her from him. And every time he’d come home from battle he could see the disappointment in her eyes. Nay, but she would far rather have wrapped herself in widow’s weeds.

Yet he had lain with her long after he’d ceased to hope they could love each other, for did a man not have to get a son? He could still remember praying that she’d conceive so that he need never again see the revulsion in her face. But she’d cheated him in that also, for her woman told him later that Aveline had practiced her simples to bring forth her bloody flux. And now he was not so certain that ‘twas not her horror of bearing his child that had caused her death. When the flow had not come the last time she had brewed a far stronger concoction, or so her woman had said.

Staring into the darkness he could see her, he could see her fear of him, and he could hear her whimper that he hurt her as she lay beneath him. Mayhap God had in truth made her too small. The guilt he felt washed over him anew, reminding him again that his hands had festered for what he’d done to her. He closed his palms, clenching the scars that proved he was damned. Aye, if he’d not done the deed he’d wished her dead, and ’twas the same. And had not David pronounced him innocent too soon, the world would have called him murderer. But David had been loath to sacrifice a loyal vassal for a woman already dead. As in the matter of Dunashie itself, the Scots king had proven to be a practical man. It mattered not to him that his liege man now had two stains on his soul.

Nay, he’d not still be haunted, Giles told himself fiercely, rousing on his elbow to stare into the dying fire. With Elizabeth, ’twould be different—she’d not fear him. If she could but be brought to wed him, ’twould be a union of great passion, a union certain to produce sons strong enough to hold all he could win for them. For he did not believe she was in truth barren. Nay, if she’d not conceived, he’d almost wager Dunashie the fault lay not in her but this Ivo.

And for a moment he again wondered what it would be like to lie with a woman unafraid of him. Thus far only whores had writhed and panted beneath him, and they’d been paid for the service. And more than one of them had made crude jests about his size, as though they had not expected that to match the rest of him.

But Elizabeth was not a woman he could just take. The fact remained that, Lord Ivo’s widow or no, she was still Guy of Rivaux’s daughter. She had to come to him lawfully, she had to say the words that bound her to him. And he knew not how to make her do it. His treatment of her thus far had left her uncowed. She was still as defiant as a cornered animal, still ready to fight him rather than concede defeat.

He listened for a sign that she slept, but heard only the snores of Willie and the woman Helewise. Nay, but she lay in sullen silence, no doubt still too angered for sleep. Finally he could stand it no longer.

She heard the faint scraping sound as he rose, and she supposed someone searched for the chamber pot. There was a mumbled curse, followed by the rustling of clothes. Resolutely she rolled over, hugging her knees to her chest for warmth and trying not to weep, for she despised weakness. On the morrow she would be better, she promised herself. On the morrow she’d make him rue the day he’d thought to take her from Harlowe.

At first she thought ’twas Helewise who moved above her, but then he spoke, startling her from her thoughts.

“Get up.”

“Nay, I’d not leave yet—it cannot be time to go,” she protested. “ ’Tis dark still.”

“Get up,” he repeated, leaning over to grasp her arm. “Jesu, you are wet.”

“I have never dried,” she answered evenly, jerking away.

“You’ll sicken.”

“Aye, and if I die, my father and my brother will hunt you down like the dog you are, and they will kill you,” she muttered with some satisfaction. “There cannot be enough land in Scotland to hide you from Rivaux’s wrath.”

“Get you from those wet clothes and into bed.”

She stared, trying to make out his face in the darkness. “As much as you would tempt me, I’d not be dishonored. Jesu, but you cannot think …”

“Nay, I go to the hall below.” He caught her beneath her arm again and lifted her. “There are still some hours ere the sunrise, and I’d let you sleep.”

She staggered as her legs, stiff and sore from the ride from Harlowe, refused to hold her. “Sweet Mary, but I ache,” she muttered, clutching his arm for support, as he pulled her into the chamber.

“You should have taken the bath. ’Twould have eased you.”

“I get in no one’s dirty water,” she retorted. Before she knew he meant to do it, he’d stripped the blanket from around her. “Nay, I freeze.” And then she felt his fingers on the lacing beneath her arms. “You do not dare,” she protested, stiffening too late. But he pushed her forward over his arm, and pulled the wet wool roughly over her head. When his hands went to the linen under shift she struggled furiously, twisting and kicking at his legs to no avail. Pinning her against him with one arm he stopped to slap her hard, and as tears stung her eyes he growled, “Do not be a fool, Elizabeth.” And as tall and strong as she was, she was no match for him. Even as she tried to scratch at his eyes she heard the linen tear and the seam give way, and then she was naked.