Castles in the Air (3 page)

“Well.” She opened the lacing on her next cotte. “You must understand, he’s an old man.”

“He’s a man who has outlived his usefulness.”

He pronounced judgment as if he had the right. Filling her cup again, he noticed her trepidation. Unsmiling, he said, “Don’t fret. I’ll tend to it.”

“Tend to what?” He only handed her the cup, and in her distress, the liquid sloshed dangerously close to the edge. “Oh, please don’t say anything to Sir Joseph about this. He would say I’d been complaining about him, and—” The way he watched her gave her pause.

“Pray continue.”

“—and Sir Joseph can be very unpleasant,” she mumbled. Not for the first time, she wished Sir Joseph roasted in hell. But that was a wicked, ungrateful thought. Once more, she touched the scar on her cheek, then her hand slid around into her hair behind her ear. Another scar puckered the skin there, long and jagged.

“Climb into bed and finish your wine.”

“You jest.”

He lifted the covers and held them in silent command.

“I will not.” He’d never told her who he was or even why he’d brought her here. His concern for her safety masked a greater goal, and she’d be a fool to forget it.

He looked impatient, but she had wine courage running in her veins. “I will not lie down for you or with you. Kidnapping an heiress is a time-honored way to win a bride and a fortune, but others have tried to force me to marry them and I refused. Just as I refuse you, you scurrilious maggot.”

He suddenly loomed over her, a tall, strong, furious man, and she flung her arms up to protect her head.

But no blow struck her.

“Sit,” he said in a tone that belied the fury in his eyes.

Lowering her arms slowly, suspecting a trick, she eyed him. He still looked tall and strong, but disgust had replaced anger. Her cowardice sickened him, and she shrivelled inside. Obedient now, she sat atop the musty straw pad.

A profound silence settled over them as he tucked the furs around her ankles and tight around her waist, and placed a cloth over the smooth log that served as pillow.

She didn’t know what drove her, even out of the depths of her terror, to defy him still. Perhaps it was her fear of the man. Perhaps it was her fear of herself, of the care he pretended to take for her, of this strange attraction she felt for him. Perhaps she’d just been forced to the brink of endurance. But she stared into his cold eyes and whispered, “I will not bed you. Better to fling myself on the flames or chain myself to the life of a serf.”

The frost in his gaze dissolved into emerald fire. With his hands on her shoulders, he pushed her back. “Never say such a thing again. Never think it, never wish it on yourself. The chains of a serf are not for you, my lady.”

“Nay, but they would fit well around the neck of the scum who dreams of bettering his station with my title.”

He released her as if she had burned him. “If ever I have the good fortune to meet Geoffroi Jean Louis Raymond, Count of Avraché, I would advise him to shackle you to the marriage bed until you learn a better use for your tongue than speech.”

Geoffroi Jean Louis Raymond
, Count of Avraché, reflected gloomily on the debacle he’d made of one simple abduction.

Juliana was an heiress, with two attractive castles and accompanying rich demesnes. She had been given to him by King Henry, had refused, for the most specious of reasons, to come to wed, had made Raymond of Avraché a laughingstock of the court.

Why, then, had his fury abated when faced with the panic of this one disobedient woman? He’d wanted vengeance on Lady Juliana for her reluctance to be wed, yet when he saw her, so frightened, so brave, he was unable to wreak retribution. And she was only a weak woman—even if she did pack a ferocious wallop with a log.

But after he knocked her down and subdued her, he became aware of her delicacy. Although her clothes wrapped her in a disguise of pudginess, the body beneath was fine boned. He found himself awaiting the removal of every garment with the anticipation of a pasha previewing his latest concubine. The innermost cotte had been just as ugly as the outermost, but
it couldn’t completely conceal the slender waist, the curves at bust and hip. Her face lacked the narrow beauty popular at court, yet her sweet mouth, her shadowed eyes, tempted him to hold, to caress, to comfort until her resistance melted into passion.

Rummaging through his bags, he found the stamp bearing his family seal, and with his fingertip he caressed the crude representation of the bear etched therein. With slathering jaw and upraised paws, it threatened death and dismemberment to every enemy of his clan. A mere woman had no chance against the might of the bear—so why hadn’t he taken the lady who slept in such exhaustion?

Angrily he tossed his seal back into the bags. He wasn’t like the legendary founder of his clan: fierce, strong, maddened in battle. He was more like a mother bear reproving a cub with a blow of one big, soft paw.

Rolling his wet hose down his legs, he hung them by the flames to dry. Would God he had another pair, but Juliana wore his extras, and he was too soft-hearted…

So some other man had tried to pressure her into marriage.

And she had refused? Refused what kind of offer? Had some suitor put that purple scar on her cheekbone with a blow of one ringed hand?

He knelt beside the fire, feeding it wood to see them through the night, and the glowing red of the coals matched the fire in his breast.

From now on Lady Juliana would go nowhere without a guard. His blood boiled when he considered how easily any man could pluck her from her lands and force marriage on her. Any knave could have beaten her into submission, used her ill, taken her.

Raymond had not used her ill, not beaten her, nor even taken her.

’Strewth, what kind of knight was he? Gone were the days when he slashed his way through life, sword and mace his constant companions. There had been a time when jousting, fighting, killing had brought him honor and enough wealth to maintain himself. The prizes of war had slipped into his purse, and he’d never considered the grief, the ruin that followed in his footsteps. He’d been to hell, he’d told Juliana. So he had, and he’d risen from the flames with his old self burned away.

True, he had been a knight on the Crusades. He had been captured, and he had indeed stolen a ship to return to Normandy.

But Juliana didn’t know about the years he’d lived with the Saracens.

Or did she? Was that the reason she’d refused to come on the king’s command and wed him? Did all of Christendom know of Raymond of Avraché’s frailty of will? Was she disgusted by the tales of his cowardice?

Was that why she called him scum?

He warmed his hands until steam wafted from his damp sleeves and stared at the sleeping lady, stared until his eyes burned. She would be passionate, wouldn’t she? She would be giving and kind, and welcome him to her hearth and into her body. Take her, he urged himself. It wasn’t too late. Impregnate her. Climb into the bed with her, be between her legs before she woke properly. Then he would have the lady in marriage without falling back on Henry’s strength, on Henry’s orders.

He leaned across the fire pit and draped a wool wrap over her, so if the furs shifted, she would still be protected. Then, lured by her warmth, he slid one
chilly hand beneath the covers, touched the flesh he coveted. The firelight blessed her fine skin with a glow. He wanted her, and this gentle lady…

He sniffed. The odor of scorched cloth irritated his nose. Wool? He glanced at his hose, but they still hung out of reach of the flames. Then what?…Struck by an ugly suspicion, he leaped up. His drawers were smoldering, and he slapped at himself to muffle the impending—and appropriate—blaze.

Juliana sat straight up. In the dark room, the fire smoldered red. The storm moaned as it died a slow death, and the cold it brought pressed in, unfazed by the weak attempt of the embers to hold it back.

On the bench across the circle of stones, the stranger slept. His head rested on his arm, he’d pulled his knees close to his chest, a single ragged blanket covered him. Across the hut, the horse, too, wore a blanket, and a better one than his master.

Even in repose, the man seemed taut, vigilant, with none of the rumpled softness of slumber, yet he hadn’t taken advantage of her weakness the night before. With her weariness abated, her basest suppositions disproved, she wondered if she’d misjudged him. Now she’d had a full night’s sleep, now she had her wits about her, and she realized a few things about the man.

He spoke like a learned knight. Would such a man brave a blizzard to kidnap her? True, his scuffed leather boots and formerly fine cape indicated a need that could drive a man to desperate measures. They could also be a disguise to fool the brigands who so freely patrolled the roads.

So if he was not a knave, why was he here, on her
land, in her hut? Was he an errant knight, or a free man seeking work? Had bad fortune taken everything from him, and he was too embarrassed to speak of it? With a skillful application of feminine handling—surely she remembered how to handle a man—she could discover his misfortune without hurting his pride.

Today she could draw him out, question him about his background, and at the same time establish a relationship untainted by their genders. It was possible. Until three years ago, she’d known men she called her friends. Had welcomed them to her home, joked with them, confided in them. Now she shunned such contact, but for the sake of her safety, she could do it again. She would do it again, for the most important thing was this; he hadn’t raped her.

They’d spent the night together, and he hadn’t forced himself on her with cruel hands and grinning mouth and vicious intentions. For she knew that if the man had been determined, he could have plundered her defenses. This was no puny knight, ablaze with a dream of riches, but a man who knew what he wanted. He looked to be eighteen hands high, and she had reason to know his hard muscles covered hard bone. His restraint alone absolved him of almost every guilt, and if she couldn’t completely acquit him, she hoped her suspicions would prove to be for naught.

Ablaze with resolve, she sat up, dislodging the furs around her, and, as if to test her courage, his eyes opened. Like a warrior ready for battle, he assessed her, and there leaped to his face a ravenous hunger.

The terror returned, making her cower when she had resolved to be strong.

“Are you thirsty?” he asked.

She nodded, and marvelled at him. How strange
he was. Unlike any other man she’d ever met, he seemed to have his desires under control.

“I’ll heat more wine.” Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes.

His gloves had no fingers. His dexterity was greater, but the gloves had not been knitted in that manner. He’d cut them, and the gloves had suffered in the wearing. Perversely, that made her cast her fear aside. “No more wine,” she said with parched tongue. “Water, I beg you.”

He rose. “I’ll collect the snow that has blown in around the door.”

While he mounded his cooking pot full, she asked, “Is it morn?”

He pawed the ashes away from the still-glowing embers, arranged kindling and logs, and blew until the wood lit. “Perhaps. The snow piles so deep around the hut we are—” He hesitated.

“Buried?”

“Snowed in,” he said.

She pointed at the ceiling where the smoke whirled before escaping. “Not completely buried, but I think I detect a warmth that comes with a snowbank’s protection.”

“Warmth?” He grinned, a wry twist of his lips. “Warmth is an exaggeration, I believe.”

As he turned and handed her a cup of chilly water, she remembered that the covers which had kept her warm last night had been denied to him. His kindness nagged at her; she didn’t wish to be indebted to him. She drank the cup dry, then, brisk as a mother hen, she said, “Here.” Swinging her legs down, she plucked the wool blanket from atop the bed and swung it around his shoulders.

He huddled into the blanket, and, as she stood close, she could see the blue tinge to his skin. She said, “Sit there, and I’ll cook us a warm meal. What food have you?”

“I’ve a loaf of bread I bought in the village.”

“I’ll toast it.”

“And some cheese, some oats, some onions, some dried meat, some dried peas, some dried fruit, some ale—”

She held up her hand. “Toasted bread should be enough.” He looked up at her with big, wounded eyes, and she yielded. “But I’m hungry enough to eat a stag. Perhaps some oats with stewed fruit, also.”

“Is that all?” He sighed.

His shoulders drooped in the exaggerated imitation of a child, and that pretense sat so ill on his massive frame that she laughed. The bubble of amusement startled her. How long had it been since she’d smiled? Too long, for it felt too odd and a little like a surrender. Turning to his gear on the table, she picked up his bags. “Is the food here, or—”

He plucked the bags out of her hand before she could open them, and pushed her toward the shelves against the wall. “There are my own supplies and the supplies left for those too weary to wander farther.”

“Shall we be snowed in indefinitely? I mean, should we be cautious about our supplies?”

“I fancy the wind lessens. If it ceases, I’ll try to force the door.”

“Would you?” She clasped her hands prayerfully. “I would give anything to be safe behind my walls.”

“Safe? From what do you seek to be safe?”

From someone like you, she wanted to say, but she hadn’t the courage. Her gaze slipped away from his;
she found herself staring at the row of neatly arranged jars and bags.

His sardonic voice drawled, “With a snowdrift as your castle and a man such as I as your champion, you’re as safe as is possible.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean…” She stole a glance at him. Most definitely, this was a man who had faced misfortune. He was beautiful, aye, but not in the first bloom of his youth. The stubble of his beard grew black and thick on his chin, and his tanned skin showed signs of a relentless sun. Responsibility had marked him with tiny wrinkles around his eyes, and as he watched the flames, his mouth drooped.

She could handle this man, if only she’d take herself in hand and stop blundering about. Keep the conversation impersonal, talk about things men like to talk about, subtly probe into his background. She blurted, “Where was King Henry’s court when you left it?” Oh, that was subtle, she chastised herself.

But he answered readily enough. “Moving about his domains on the continent with the speed of a youth, which he is not anymore, although no one has the crust to tell him. His retainers complain, but I’ve come to think it’s the way he keeps his kingdom under control. No one ever knows where, or when, he’ll arrive.”

While sorting the bits of chaff and small stones from the oats, she muttered, “You learned much from him.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I asked what kind of fruit you want.” She peered into the leather sacks that protected dried foods from rodents.

“Apples. Since my return, I can’t get enough of good English apples.”

“Don’t apples grow over the channel?”

“Not with the tang of these.”

His smile spoke to her soft heart, and she tossed a goodly handful of apples into the bubbling stew. The scent made her stomach growl, and she remembered her trepidations of the previous night. She dismissed them as fantasy, brought only by hunger and distress, and told him, “I’ve heard Queen Eleanor returned to England.”

“She did,” he acknowledged.

“I’ve heard she’s distressed with the king.”

“That kind of gossip spreads like the floods of spring.” He reached for the spoon and stirred the pot. She thought he would say aught else, but he gripped the handle until his knuckles turned white. “Henry is a fool.”

Startled, she protested, “You’re bold with criticism of your betters.”

“Henry’s my king, and he holds my allegiance. That doesn’t mean I have no opinion of his good sense, or lack of it.” His mouth was grim. “You never reproached your father? Or your husband?”

“Neither my father nor my husband was king of England and lord of half of France,” she answered roundly. Picking up the bread, she glanced around. “Where’s the knife?”

He rose from his place by the fire and took the loaf from her. “
I’ll
use the knife.”

The way he spoke reminded her of her attempt to smash his head. Abashed, she gathered bowls as he hewed a chunk of bread and skewered it with a stick.

Extending it over the flames, he said, “Neither your father nor your husband had the potential to build what Henry has, nor the potential to destroy it. He’s within a breath of uniting his lands into one kingdom,
firmly in control of the lands of his father, of his mother,
and
his wife. And what does he do? He flaunts a mistress in front of his queen. His proud queen. The queen who divorced the King of France for him.”

“Love…changes. Grows greater or lesser with time and circumstances.” She was an expert at this. To avoid looking at him, she stirred the pot so vigorously the oats could never scorch.

“Love? I don’t know if there was ever love between them. But there was infatuation, at least on Eleanor’s part. She’d been married to Louis, and he was so holy he dispensed marital favors only sparingly. When she saw Henry, young and virile as a bull—”