Dark Champion (13 page)

“Not so fast, Imogen. What exactly did you mean by ‘administrate at Carrisford’ ?”

Imogen was knocked off balance. He wasn’t going to refuse the plum that was falling into his hand, so why this quibbling? “Running the household,” she said, “taking in rents, allocating labor, and dispensing funds as needed.” That was the easy part. She threw in the extra like a challenge. “Justice.”

Still no outrage. “And if a tenant refuses due rent, or is attacked by outlaws or another lord? If a malfeant needs to be apprehended?”

She met his eyes unflinchingly. “Then the men you provide will obey
my
instructions and go to enforce
my
will. Won’t they, FitzRoger?”

He smiled.. There was distinct admiration there and it warmed her like a fierce fire. “Assuredly they will,” he promised. Then added, “Under my advice.”

It. was like a spray from the Irish Sea. “
What
?”

“You may administer Carrisford as your own, Imogen, but you will heed my advice. My men will obey you, but they will still be my men. If you say ‘Go’ and I say ‘Stay,’ they will stay.”

She found herself kneeling up on the bed facing him, sore feet or no. “That’s not fair!”

“That is reality.” He grasped her shoulders before she could pull herself out of range. “It’s not a bad deal you’ve negotiated. Are we to be wed?”

“No!”

He shook his head and waited. Imogen’s mouth twitched with the desire to tell him to go to hell and take his men with him. Still and all, she would have Carrisford, which was more than Lancaster, or probably any other man in England, would give her.

“Yes,” she said.

His eyes flashed victory and his hands tightened. Imogen pulled back, but he drew her closer anyway. She was held against his body, feeling his warmth through his soft shirt. She smelled herbs from the chests in which his clothes were stored, but he’d been out in the sun most of the day and there was a tang of horse, sweat, and fresh air that weakened her knees so that she suspected he was holding her up.

“What are you doing?” she protested, but faintly.

He smiled down at her. “I’m not going to throw you on the bed and ravish you, Ginger. Don’t you think a kiss is in order?” His hands slid around her, one to curve around her nape, the other to rest like fire in the small of her back.

“No,” she said, but rather unsteadily. “This is a practical, dynastic arrangement.”

He tilted up her chin, laughter in his eyes. “Just practical?” he teased.

“I wouldn’t have chosen you,” she said firmly, “if you weren’t a neighbor with a strong right arm.”

He was unoffended. “Then we’re well suited. I wouldn’t have chosen you if you didn’t own a large chunk of England.”

Before she could spit out her offense at that, his lips were on hers. His hand cradled her head and there was really nothing she could do about it except submit.

Kissing was very strange, she decided. It was a silly business of lips to lips, and yet it made her feel soft and warm, like a hot herb-scented bath, or a potent wine. The feel of his body against hers, only thin silk and fine linen between them, somehow made it worse. Or better.

At least it wasn’t a sin anymore…

She found her arms had gone around him—for support, she told herself, so she didn’t fall off the bed.

The hard, resilient muscles of his torso flexed against her hands. She could almost feel the leashed power humming in them, humming into her so that she tingled all over. A shudder rippled through her…

He drew back and dropped a kiss on the end of her nose. He looked quite different. Younger. Warmer. His voice was softer when he murmured, “As I said, Imogen, we’re well suited.”

That brought her grievance back with a thump and she raised her chin. “Very well suited. You’re strong and I’m rich.”

He laughed and let her go, once more his old, hard-edged self. “I’ve proved my strength, Ginger. Why don’t you prove your wealth?”

He was after the treasure again. She gathered her scattered wits. She’d not give him a sniff of it until he’d signed the marriage contracts giving her control of Carrisford.

He took in her silence and shook his head. “I wonder if you’ll ever fight me about something that really matters. You’ll lose, Ginger.”

Imogen knelt up straight as a spear. “I will not. I am Imogen of Carrisford and you are
nobody
!”

At the look on his face she quailed inside, though she wouldn’t let herself retreat.

“If we fight,” he said quietly, “I will win, because you are Imogen of Carrisford and I, until recently,
was
nobody. I know how to fight in ways you’ve never dreamed of. You don’t know what the world’s like, Ginger, and if you’re a good girl, I’ll make sure you never find out.”

He left before she could reply, his footsteps light down the spiral staircase.

“I hate you, Bastard FitzRoger!” she screamed.

The footsteps stopped.

Imogen froze, her heart pounding. She’d never used that name to him before.

After a heart-stopping moment the footsteps started again, going down. Imogen collapsed back onto the bed. He wasn’t going to take retaliation.

A little part of her was disappointed.

A short time later Renald de Lisle came up with a sheet of parchment, ink and pens.

“What are they for?” Imogen asked suspiciously.

“Your marriage contract. Ty suggested that since you’re the one with most leisure, you should write it out.”

Imogen bunked. “FitzRoger’s leaving me to write it as I wish?”

“Apparently,” said de Lisle with a grin. “Ah, I wish I had spun gold hair and deep blue eyes. I’d have a castle out of him in no time.”

“Only if you married him,” said Imogen tartly.

“True. And only if I had a mighty castle in the first place.” He gestured to the blank parchment. “It is for you to state your terms as you wish, little flower.”

When he had gone Imogen considered the space and what she could write. But in the end she wrote what they had agreed on—excepting the matter of Warbrick—even including his supervision of her rule of Carrisford. It was the way of the world, and he doubtless wouldn’t sign it otherwise.

“What?”

“The king’s heard of the wickedness here and he’s coming to your aid. An armed party of knights came with a messenger.”

Imogen shut her gaping mouth with a snap. “And nobody told me? Get FitzRoger up here!”

Martha’s eyes were like saucers at this tone, but she scuttled off.

Imogen fumed—at herself as much as anyone. It was nearly sunset and after writing out the contract she’d sat here for hours fretting about her marriage, when she knew she’d made the right decision.

Wasting time.

Imagining all the clever things she could have said to put FitzRoger in his place.

Wasting time.

Remembering that kiss. Wondering when he’d kiss her again.

Wasting time.

If she’d kept her attention on the bailey, she would have seen the king’s men arrive.

FitzRoger came in, a picture of knightly courtesy. “You want something, my lady? To come down to the hall for the meal, perhaps?”

“No… Yes… Maybe. What I want,” said Imogen, getting a grip on herself, “is to speak to the king’s messenger.”

He wasn’t abashed or ashamed. “Why?”

She hissed in a breath. “Because this is my castle, FitzRoger, and he is bringing a message to
me
.”

“No, he wasn’t. He was bringing a message to me, asking me to rescue the poor damsel in distress. It was only because the messenger heard I was already in Carrisford that he came here at all.”

“Oh.” Imogen felt like a pricked bubble. She rallied. It was, after all, still her castle. “I would still like to speak to him.”

“I’m afraid he’s already gone on with his escort to take a message to Warbrick, summoning him for judgment.”

“A fat lot of good that will do,” snapped Imogen.

“We all know that,” he said patiently. “But the proper forms have to be followed.”

Imogen glared at him, thwarted. She was being ignored and circumvented but didn’t know what to do about it. Perhaps she would be better advised to marry the indolent Earl of Lancaster after all. She could run rings around him.

“So the king is to visit here,” she said thoughtfully.

“Yes. He should be here tomorrow. He can witness our marriage.”

“I’ll not be wed in such haste,” Imogen declared. She definitely wasn’t ready to commit herself yet.

“What point is there in delay? It will only tempt another man to try to seize you.”

Imogen smiled at him. “You don’t seem to have much faith in your ability to protect me, do you, Lord FitzRoger?”

He moved close to the bed. Looming again. “I can hold you fast, never fear, Imogen. But once there’s a chance you carry my child, you’re a less attractive plum. You used that device for your own protection, if you remember?”

“Yes,” said Imogen, and hated the fact that she blushed.

“So once we are married there will be less necessity for me to hover by your side. That will be a relief, won’t it?”

“Yes,” said Imogen again. What else could she say?

“And if we’re wed before the king and the great lords of the land, a marauder would have no hope of contesting the validity of the match, would he?”

She looked away from his challenging eyes. “I suppose not.”

“So we should be married tomorrow, shouldn’t we?”

Imogen fought it, but in the end she sighed and said, “Yes.” She felt a perfect fool again.

She looked up resentfully.

He smiled, almost kindly, and picked up a strand of her hair. She slapped at his hand, but this time he didn’t let go and her hair was yanked.

“Ow! Let go. I am not yours yet to do with as you please!”

“You mean,” he murmured, rubbing the strand of hair between his long fingers, “that by tomorrow night you will be sweetly acquiescent?”

Imogen had been trying very hard not to think about such things… Tomorrow night! “If I marry you,” she said thinly, “I will try to be a dutiful wife.”

“If?” It was like the snap of a whip.

She forced herself to meet his cool eyes, but her throat was dry and her heart was like a wild horse in her breast.

“We have an agreement, Ginger,” he said quietly.

“Then stop mauling me, FitzRoger, until I have to put up with it.”

He let her hair drift free of his fingers and moved away. Imogen didn’t know why she said these things. They were pointless and didn’t bring her any satisfaction. Rather, they seemed to cause a sick knot of misery to lodge in her chest, threatening to choke her.

He was looking at her soberly, but he suddenly smiled. “You’ll feel a lot better when you can fight me on your feet, you know.”

“But I’ll still lose—according to you.”

“Nothing is ever certain in war. You have some dangerous weapons, bride of mine. For now, however, I would rest if I were you, so you can walk to your wedding and make your curtsy to the king.”

“By Mary’s crown,” she gasped, other problems fading. “We are in no state to receive the king!”

“Don’t worry. I’ve sent for additional supplies and goods from Cleeve, and called in more from your people here.”

Don’t worry, don’t worry. What was she? A babe in arms? “That was for me to do.”

He sighed impatiently. “I hope you learn to pick your battles with more care, Imogen. I have no desire to run Carrisford, and if you want to take over the domestic organization of Cleeve, you’re welcome to that too. But you’re stuck in your bed. That does hinder things.”

“You could at least consult me,” she said, feeling in the wrong again.

“I have merely given everything into the hands of your seneschal. He seems competent.”

“Siward’s back?” asked Imogen in delight, and then found a new grievance. No one had told her that either, and Siward hadn’t come to see her.

“He’s been busy,” explained FitzRoger. At her startled look he said, “Your every thought shows on your face, Ginger.”

Imogen hurled a pillow at him.

He caught it. “Do I gather you don’t want me to carry you down to dinner?”

“I certainly do not,” she snapped, “and I am thinking of taking to wearing a mask.”

“Very wise. I wear one all the time.” He tossed the pillow back and left.

Imogen knew truth when she heard it.

What, she wondered, was guarded by the mask? Perhaps it was that softer, younger man she had glimpsed when they kissed. She hugged the pillow pensively. If she married the Earl of Lancaster, she would never find out. She knew she was definitely not going to marry the Earl of Lancaster.

She was going to many Bastard FitzRoger, even if he did send shivers down her spine. Perhaps because he sent shivers down her spine.

How old was he? At first he had seemed ageless, but she thought he could not be ten years her senior.

Martha returned, somewhat tentatively, with a tray of food. “The master said you wished to eat here.”

That hadn’t been what she’d meant and she was sure he knew it, but Imogen was tired of fighting. “That’s correct,” she said. “I must be strong for tomorrow when the king arrives.”

“And for your wedding,” Martha said as she laid the tray on Imogen’s lap. The woman chuckled. “And I always thought you’d end up married to one of those old fogies your father favored. You’ve certainty got an eye for a lusty male, I’ll grant you that.”

Imogen felt the heat rush into her face. “Martha, you are impudent!”

The woman pulled a face, but she shut up. She was, Imogen reminded herself, just a weaver promoted to maid. It was time to think of gathering some proper attendants. She needed to train someone to take Janine’s place.

As for Aunt Constance’s position, Imogen had no other available female relatives in England…

Lusty
? As she chewed mutton stewed in rosemary, Martha’s word echoed in Imogen’s head.

The shivery excitement, half fear, half pleasure, was that lust? All her life Father Wulfgan had warned her against lust. When she remembered Janine, all his warnings took on new depth, except that they seemed to be about avoiding temptation. What was tempting about that kind of invasion?

Truly, as Father Wulfgan said, lust was the path to hell. It must be that men were tempted and women suffered. But honesty compelled Imogen to acknowledge that in FitzRoger’s arms she had not suffered.

Yet.

The devil could be very cunning, she reminded herself. He always made sin appear attractive. These thoughts reminded her that the fight over Father Wulfgan had never been resolved. “Martha,” Imogen said, “has Father Wulfgan returned to Carrisford?”

“That old crow,” muttered Martha but fell silent at the look in Imogen’s eyes. “I don’t think so, lady. The master… Lord FitzRoger threw him out.”

“And I ordered him returned. Who prayed over the graves of my aunt and the others, then?”

“The master’s monk, Brother Patrick did, lady.”

Imogen saw a strong weapon and smiled. “Martha, go to Lord FitzRoger and tell him I will not be wed except by Father Wulfgan.”

Martha was wide-eyed again. “Lady…”

“Go!” Imogen commanded.

Martha scuttled out. Her mutterings could be heard receding down the stairs.

Imogen half expected the appearance of FitzRoger, complete with acidic arguments, and could hardly eat the rest of her meal for nervous excitement. Instead, before the sun was down, gaunt Father Wulfgan stalked in.

“Daughter,” he declared, “you are in the devil’s maw!”

“I am safe from Warbrick,” Imogen countered. She immediately felt reduced to a child by this man.

“From one devil to another. Cast out the evil one now, my child!”

“Lord FitzRoger?”

“He is the hand of death on the land,” thundered the priest. “He repents not the spilling of blood. He is the devil’s spawn and his seed will poison the ground on which it falls.”

Imogen wondered why she’d been so desperate to have her chaplain back. Truly, FitzRoger had turned her wits.

Father Wulfgan was not an old man, but he had been at Carrisford as long as Imogen could remember. He was short and nothing but bone and sinew, which was not surprising in view of the severity of his self-imposed penances. In his sallow, sunken face, his brilliant blue eyes burned like fire.

Imogen swallowed. “You think it would be wrong for me to marry FitzRoger, Father?”

“Better by far to join the sisters at Hillsborough.”

Again it was tempting. No hard choices. No marriage bed to endure.

“My father wished me to marry,” Imogen said, half hoping, half fearing to be persuaded otherwise.

The priest scowled bitterly but conceded the point. “Your father wished you to marry Lord Gerald, daughter, or another such sober man. Not this impious warmonger.”

“FitzRoger did not start this war,” Imogen protested. “I went to him for help.”

“He is a man of war,” Wulfgan countered fiercely. “He has been a mercenary—an accursed soul. He has gathered wealth through the wickedness of tourneys. He has come into this part of the land for nothing but war. He and Warbrick. There is nothing to chose between them.”

“Warbrick is foul!”

“They are all men who live by the sword!” declared Wulfgan. “The fratricidal king is another of the same breed. They kill in their own cause, and do not seek repentance for the blood they spill!”

Imogen realized she would get no sense out of Wulfgan on politics. His obsessions were bloodshed and lust, and it was the latter she wished to speak of, not the former.

“But I must marry a strong man, Father,” she said. “You would not want me in the power of such as Warbrick or Belleme.”

He clutched the crucifix he wore on a cord around his neck. “The Lord will be your protection, my child.”

“He didn’t protect me a few days ago!” snapped Imogen. She didn’t remember Father Wulfgan sounding silly before.

Wulfgan’s eyes flashed fire at her. “Undutiful child! You are safe, are you not? Doubt not the Lord’s ways!”

Imogen pounced. “Then FitzRoger was the Lord’s right arm!”

Wulfgan stepped back in horror. “Why do you shout his name so?” he hissed. “What is this man to you?”

Imogen was once more a nervous sinner making confession. She buried all thought of two heated kisses. “He… he is my champion, Father—a righteous paladin.”

The priest leaned forward. “A paladin serves for the good of his soul, not for gain, daughter in Christ. Does that describe this man?”

Imogen had no good answer.

“No,” said the priest. “He is a mercenary who kills for gold.”

Imogen swayed back a little. “He has asked for no payment, Father.”

His spittly mouth turned up in a sneer. “Except yourself.”

“No,” said Imogen. “That was my idea.”

Father Wulfgan jerked back. “
What
?”

“He is strong,” she explained quickly, “and his land marches with mine so that I can watch over Carrisford.”