Juliana Garnett (10 page)

That he had succeeded so easily in giving her fright she put down to her mental instability at the moment. He would not find it so easy the next time he chose to intimidate her. She sensed that any capitulation would only increase his intention to have all, but that he would—grudgingly, of course—respect an able adversary.

Yet what could she do against him? She had no support, only her wits to keep her safe. Pray God she could outwit him long enough to see her safe. She was certain that he would meet with her ere the day was gone.

Yet two weeks passed in slow tedium without word or sign of Rolf le Draca. The delay gave her a great deal of time to think. Her first impression of him returned again and again, doing battle with what she had recently experienced. Despite his cold anger of late, she could not help but recall the gentle knight tenderly holding a small boy to his knee, his soft words and almost shy reaction to the child. Yea, ’twas true that the child was his only son and heir, but most men of her acquaintance were not so enamored of their children. Fond of them, certainly, but not besotted. Could it be that the evil knight, said to slay unmercifully, possessed a tender spot? Or was he a fierce, unrelenting man without tenderness? ’Twas a great puzzle that turned around and around in her mind.

When the summons finally came, daylight streaming through the high window had grown dim and faint, barely brightening the chamber. Food had been brought to her twice that day, along with another lamp and clean garments. Slowly rising from the bed where she had been silently contemplating the list of sins that had led her to this moment, Annice nodded at the steward garbed in the black-and-gold livery of Dragonwyck. Then she drew in a shaky breath.

“Give me but a moment to compose myself.”

“Of course, milady.” He hesitated, then said, “Should I wait for you in the corridor?”

“Nay, I am ready. I needed but a moment to collect my thoughts.” She smiled and indicated the fading square of light from the unshuttered window. “I had thought ’twould be another fortnight before I was summoned.”

“There has been much to do, or the lord would have summoned you sooner, I am certain.”

Wryly, she murmured, “Yea, I am certain he is overanxious to speak with me again.”

The steward, Vachel, had the grace to flush and look down at the floor. He had to be aware of his lord’s ploy, as was Annice. The wait was only to make her more edgy and fray her nerves so that she would be eager to come to an agreement.

But he had misjudged his quarry this time, she vowed as she followed Vachel down the wide corridors and winding
stone steps. Torches sputtered and hissed in metal holders on the walls, casting flickering pools of light and making the carved stone dragons seem almost alive.

As they drew near the hall, Annice could hear the familiar chaos of an evening meal. ’Twas the same in every hall, the clatter of feet and voice vying for space, the laughter and occasional sharp word, the growling of dogs beneath long trestle tables. Someone was playing a lute, teasing a light melody from the instrument that was almost drowned out by the hum of conversation. The smell of fish pasties and honeyed treats made her stomach clench, for she had eaten nothing but bread and hard cheese for the past two days.

Stepping off the bottom step, Vachel paused, still holding her hand upon his forearm. Annice gazed about the hall. It was not as rustic and crude as she’d remembered, that due in part, no doubt, to her fear and exhaustion upon her arrival. Rich tapestries and wall hangings embroidered with hunting scenes lined the stone walls. The overhead beams had been painted in bright colors with signs of the zodiac. Trestle tables had been set up at right angles to the high table on the dais, with benches for the guests.

Behind the high table hung a tapestry woven with Rolf’s crest. Golden gilt threads formed a dragon that seemed almost alive as the cloth shifted in a draft. Seated in a high-backed chair at the table, Rolf looked up, his gaze riveting on Annice and Vachel.

“Be of strong heart,” Vachel murmured, and urged her forward.

Vachel stayed close to her side as they traversed the hall, and Annice was painfully aware of the stares she received as they crossed to the lord’s table at the far end. Her ears burned at the loud whispers she was meant to overhear, and her chin lifted in defiance. If they thought to shame her because she was held hostage, ’twould not be made easy for them. The shame was not hers to bear.

Holding her head high, she traversed the crowded hall at Vachel’s side. Seated at the high table, Sir Guy watched her progress and gave her a smile of encouragement. Though the knight had refused to allow her to escape, she could understand well enough his reasons and did not bear him ill
will. His steady gaze and the supporting hand Vachel kept on her arm bolstered her courage.

Refusing to hurry, she walked slowly and with dignity until she reached the table where Rolf sprawled in his chair watching her progress. There was a gleam in his eyes that she could not interpret. A huge brindle mastiff lay on the floor at his side, and she recalled the dog from the night she had arrived. Its tongue lolled from one side of the huge muzzle, but its eyes were bright and alert. She had such dogs at her own keeps. ’Twas said that the massive animals had first been brought to England by the Romans to hunt down the resisting Celts. They were still useful, guarding keeps and possessions with a loyal ferocity that had unmanned more than one brigand.

“Bordet.” Rolf spoke the single word in a low tone, yet the dog immediately snapped to its feet, watchful and tense. A faint smile curled the baron’s mouth when Annice shifted her gaze from the bristling mastiff to him. “He obeys readily, does he not, milady?”

“Yea, lord. Most dogs do.”

Her inference was apparently not lost on le Draca. A dark-blond brow lifted in cynical acknowledgment. The knuckles of his curled hand brushed idly against his bearded jaw as he studied her for a moment. Conversation close around them had ceased, though there was still the rumble of talk in the rear of the hall. Annice refused to look away, keeping her chin held high as befitted a wellborn lady.

“Dogs are not born knowing obedience,” le Draca said. “They must be schooled in it. Some are exceedingly willful. Yet even the most stubborn bitch is brought to heel eventually.”

Anger flared at his obvious comparison, but Annice quelled it with an effort. “ ’Tis said,” she murmured, “that the most loyal dogs are those kindly treated. Given harsh handling, even an obedient dog will ofttimes turn on its master and bite.”

Sir Guy muffled a snort of laughter that earned him a glancing frown from his lord, and he suddenly became intrigued by the wine in his goblet. Rolf shifted in his chair, eyes narrowing at her. “Those dogs who bite the hand offering
food are always destroyed. No man will long bear treachery without retaliation.”

“Should there be a lesson in that for the king’s loyal barons?” Annice asked boldly.

A shocked silence fell. Though her gaze remained on Rolf, she saw the swift upward glance from Sir Guy and recognized his open distress. At one of the lower tables someone tittered nervously. Annice held her breath. She wished she could recall her impulsive words, but ’twas done. The likening of her to a bitch had rendered her foolish enough to strike back at him, and now she regretted it. Should her words be repeated—as they surely would be—there could be grave repercussions for her. No matter how she had meant them, a misinterpretation might see her brought to grief.

Apparently, not even Rolf le Draca wished to witness such a swift downfall. Leaning forward, he growled in English, “Curb thy foolish tongue, milady. Else thou be brought to task for it.”

“Aye, lord,” she said, bowing her head. With her head meekly bowed, she could glance around her at the avid faces. Some would be swift to carry tales to the king, she was certain; others merely looked aghast at her temerity.

“Vachel,” le Draca said, signaling to his steward, “see that the lady Annice is made comfortable on a stool. She will take her evening meal with us.”

Uneasy at his seeming indifference to her presence, Annice made no protest or comment when Vachel brought her a stool and seated her between Sir Guy and le Draca. The high table was at a right angle to the other tables lining two sides of the hall, giving an excellent vantage point. A fire burned in the middle. Supper was usually a light meal, coming as it did after evensong and sunset. It was still the Lenten season, so platters of meat were replaced with broiled fish and trenchers of fish stew. Cheeses and white bread made up for the lack of meat. There was no lack of spiced wine, with cups readily refilled. Intricate subtleties were brought out for admiration and inspection of the delighted guests. One subtlety was constructed of towering
pastry and glazed honey in the shape of a castle complete with jellied moat.

’Twas obvious that the Lord of Dragonwyck was not close or mean with his food, as if he did not suspect a siege might soon be laid at his walls. Any other lord might be frugal at such a time, fearing long abstinence from ready supplies.

Even the beggars common in every hall were being doled out fresh foods along with scraps; Annice saw servants burdened with huge baskets leave the hall. Frowning, she toyed with her spoon instead of eating. Was this show of abundance supposed to impress her with the lord’s indifference? Or had he already received an answer to his proposal and knew he would not have to wage war.

Looking up hopefully, Annice noted le Draca’s gaze resting on her. Thick lashes shadowed his eyes, hiding any possible clue, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He was too serene, too confident. He must know something. A courier could well have traveled to Seabrook and come back with a reply in a fortnight.

Her heart gave an erratic thump. P’raps she was about to be released.… Had negotiations been completed to that end?

She had her answer in the next moment, when he leaned close to her to say, “I trust you will enjoy your stay with us, milady, for it seems that it will be an extended one.”

The breath caught in her throat. One hand rose as of its own accord, fingers going to her mouth to still any impulsive reply. She stared at him. His lashes lifted, and she saw in the banked green fires of his eyes that he was furious. Dismay choked her, and she was barely aware of the intent, curious gazes fixed on them as she half rose from her stool.

Catching her arm, he pulled her back down none too gently. “Nay, do not think to flee. You are well and truly snared, little fox. It seems that your overlord prefers the hostage he has for the one I have. Or so he claims. Will he be so satisfied with his decision in the future? I wonder. Though I will not harm you for concern that he might think
it politic to do harm to my son, there are varying degrees of subjugation.”

His hand stroked up her arm, brushing the green velvet of her gown in a slow, languorous caress that made her stiffen. One of her long strands of hair had fallen over her shoulder to drape her breast, and the backs of his fingers rubbed against her as he lifted the heavy rope of hair in his palm. He did not move his hand but allowed it to remain pressed against her breast as he twisted the strands of hair entwined with ribbons between his thumb and fingers. Staring at her with a thoughtful expression, he slowly began to wind the bound hair around his hand to bring her even closer to him.

Annice wanted to resist but knew that ’twas useless, even in front of the assemblage. None would stay their overlord. Helpless, she found herself almost in his lap, her face mere inches from his and her hands braced against his chest.

“It seems,” Rolf murmured softly, his words obviously intended for her ears alone, “that your overlord regards me in the role of abductor rather than captor. Though there may seem to be little difference ’tween the two, there is a significant one. As abductor of a widowed female, I will be required to pay penance as well as a fine for taking you.” An unpleasant smile slanted his mouth and curdled her blood. “Unless, of course, I receive permission from your next of kin—in this case, your brother.”

“My … my brother?” Annice struggled for words. “But I have not corresponded with Aubert in years. We barely know one another, and—permission for what?”

Still holding her hair so that her face was unnervingly close, he grasped her chin in his other hand, fingers cradling her in a loose grip. P’raps she should have been better prepared. After all, abduction was not unheard of, though times had passed when it was common.

Yet, still, Annice was totally taken aback when le Draca said in a rolling growl, “Permission to wed you, milady.”

A
s all the color drained from Lady Annice’s face and she began to tremble, Rolf added harshly, “Do not be misled by my proposal, sweet lady, for I promise you I will make a very bad husband.”

As she pushed away from him, a surge of color returned to her cheeks, making her eyes look an even brighter blue. Lines of strain marked each side of her mouth, and her voice was tight.

“ ’Tis a poor jest, my lord. Of all the men in England, you are the one I would least consider as a husband. And my brother will never agree to a marriage between us.”