Juliana Garnett (25 page)

But that changed nothing. She was only too aware that men could easily put behind them any softer emotions in the bright light of day. Yet she could not say what had touched her the last eve, save Rolf’s admitted awkwardness. That he had not only been aware of the strain between them but didn’t mind admitting it had intrigued her.

As light grew, reaching inside the shadowed bed, she studied him more closely. Aye, he was a well-made man, indeed. Broad, hard-muscled shoulders, thick arms, and a wide chest would fill out his armor even without padding. Ropes of taut muscle banded his abdomen, tapering to slim hips and long, lean legs. Silky dark hairs pelted his chest. Yea, comely he was, as she had long known.

Fool
, she chided herself with faint derision,
to lie here admiring a man who holds thy fate in his hands.…

It was true. For all that he was comely, and he showed her a few kindnesses, she had no notion of what was to come. Would he do as Luc had done and beat her now that she was his wife? ’Twould not be the only man in England to regard a wife as mere chattel. Now that her lands were his, the wedding done and consummated, her fate lay within his hands. She could only pray that he would not be the harsh husband or fool that Luc had been.

For long minutes she lay there, contemplating the events that had changed her life so drastically in but a short time. Rolf’s slow, even breathing did not ease her fears. Would he wake with the light she had last seen in his eyes? Or would he regard her as he had done in the church and at the wedding feast—with a hostile, cold gaze?

She almost dreaded his waking. Soon she would be expected to call for her servant. That would bring a party of revelers from the wedding feast to their chamber, where there would be much jesting and teasing of the newly wedded pair. It was too soon. She could not bear the thought of curious eyes staring at her, people wondering and laughing, p’raps smirking behind their hands. An enforced marriage
would be cause for ribald jests, indeed, and she didn’t want to hear them.

A glance showed her the silk, ermine-trimmed robe draped over a stool near the bed. If she slid gently from the bed and into her robe, she could visit the garderobe without calling a servant. There should be a chamber pot nearby, but she did not wish to use it with Rolf so near. Modesty prevailed upon her to seek the privacy of the garderobe, cold though the stone privy would be.

But when she moved, she discovered that her hair was caught beneath Rolf’s heavy shoulder. If she tried to work it free and slide out from under the weight of the leg he’d thrown over her thighs, she would wake him. Trapped, she lay there considering what to do.

“
Chérie
.…”

Startled, Annice shot him a glance and saw his eyes open, heavy-lidded and penetrating as he gazed at her. She flushed.

“I but sought the means to rise without waking you,” she began, but he’d already begun to pull her toward him. His beard grazed the bare skin of her arm, rough and bristly.

Touching the chafed skin on her breasts, Rolf murmured, “ ’Tis a sin that I have marked such beautiful flesh with my beard. Shall I shave it?”

She laughed softly and touched his dark beard. “Nay, lord. It gives you the look of a bear instead of a dragon.…”

Giving a mock growl, he shifted to lie atop her, gazing down at her with a glitter in his green eyes. “Is it better to be devoured by a bear than a dragon,
chérie?”

“Nay,” she said with a slight gasp when she felt him slide between her thighs, hot and heavy and insistent. “The dragon easily bests a poor bear.”

He curled his fingers through hers and drew her arms up slowly above her head, pressing her down into the mattress. His face was over hers, blotting out light and silk hangings, eyes intent as he gazed down at her. He seemed to be searching for words, and she felt a growing disquiet.

A sudden flush heated her cheeks as she recalled her responses to his caresses. Did he think to chastise her for her wanton behavior of the previous night? Did he think her
unchaste, perhaps, like so many of the court ladies he must have known?

“I would know,” he said finally, his words deliberate and slow, “what you meant by your actions last eve.”

“Last eve?” She stiffened. Yea, he thought her wanton and would now repudiate her.

Impatiently, Rolf growled, “In the hall, when you pranced and minced about, pretending coyness where there was none.”

Her mind went blank, and she struggled to decipher his meaning. “I do not know.…”

His hands tightened. “Yea, you know well what I mean. Your pretense at coyness—was it for me? Or someone else?”

Startled, Annice could only gaze up at him. She tried to imagine another meaning but could not. Her chief recollection was of his glare and terse comment that he would speak to her later in privacy. Did he think she had eyes for another man, p’raps? Was that the cause of his hostile stares?

A faint smile curved her mouth. Jealous? Rolf of Dragonwyck? Could it be that she had misread him after all? Yea, ’twas growing more apparent that she had. ’Twas not hostility that drove him, but the tiny seeds of jealousy that had been inadvertently planted.

Drawing in a deep breath, she murmured, “Since I first set eyes upon you at Stoneham, I have thought of no other man, milord. ’Tis you who have governed my thoughts, whether I willed it or no.”

It was true. As much as she might dislike the capitulation of her heart, somehow this fierce warlord had taken it. ’Twas not just his actions of the night before, but other, small things, that had slowly turned her mind away from fear and hatred to admiration of him. For all that he was rumored to be such a brutal man, his servants loved him. The people of Dragonwyck were fiercely loyal, men and women. He did not mistreat them but gave freely of his time and possessions. Autocratic? Yea, at times, p’raps, but no more so than most men.

There were times he could have dealt most harshly with her. In the same circumstances another man might well have
done so. She was his hostage but had remained defiant, and openly insulting. Yet he had done no more than lash out at her with words. If she had so defied Luc—yea, she would have borne the bruises for many weeks after. Rolf of Dragonwyck had not lifted a heavy hand to her.

But it was the small gesture of displaying her father’s colors and device that had meant the most to her. Of all things he might have done—gentle wooing, expensive gifts, even promises—he had given her the greatest gift of understanding her heart.

Worming her arm free of his tight grasp, she lifted her hand to cradle his jaw. His beard tickled her palm, and there was a wary set to his mouth and eyes as he gazed down at her.

“My lord and husband,” she said softly, “I have no explanation for what I did not do. Thou hast misread me, I fear.”

Rolf sat back, hands resting on his thighs as he gazed down at her with a bemused expression. Then he smiled faintly. “Yea, p’raps I have. When first I saw you, I knew you a woman of honor. Your dealings with me and my son were admirable.”

“And have I changed so greatly?”

“Nay,” he said, shaking his golden head. “ ’Tis only your circumstances that have changed.” He paused, then added softly, “I should not have yielded to the temptation to abduct you. I did you a great disservice, I fear.”

She reached up to stroke the thick pelt of curls on his chest and felt his muscles contract beneath her fingertips. “Nay, lord,” she murmured, “no disservice that has not been rectified a hundredfold.”

He caught her hand and held it tight in his, pressed against the taut band of muscles on his abdomen. She could feel the quick intake of his breath, the slight quiver beneath her palm. Looking up, she saw an odd expression on his face, half torment, half pleasure. His lips crooked in a rueful smile.

“My good fortune cannot last forever. Wilt though now tell me thou art a sorceress, mayhap? A changeling sent to bedevil me?”

“Yea, lord,” she said, her breath catching slightly in the
back of her throat, “I am sent to plague thee with vows of loyalty and love.…”

The green of his eyes grew deeper, and he bent slowly to brush his mouth across her lips. That action drove everything from her mind but the need to feel his arms around her, and she reached up to pull him to her.

Before she succeeded, there was a loud knocking upon the chamber door. A voice shouted outside, filled with urgency. Rolf’s head jerked around and he swore softly, bemoaning the lack of his weapon.

Hard upon the knocking, the door opened, and it was Vachel who stood framed in the entrance. He paused, barely visible through the silk bed hangings. “Milord,” he said abruptly, “there is trouble afoot.”

Rolf had already swung his body to the side of the bed and was rising. Without regard for his nudity he strode toward his steward. “What kind of trouble?”

“A traitor in our midst.”

“Traitor?” Rolf reached for his discarded clothes, ignoring Vachel’s effort to assist him.

Annice sat up in bed. She clutched the coverlet to her chin and listened with growing horror as Vachel informed his lord that the keep was under assault.

“Someone opened the east postern gate,” he said grimly. “It had to be done from inside. No man could have managed to get in without aid.”

“What is the damage?” Rolf’s voice was muffled as he dragged his tunic over his head. “Has Sir Guy formed a defense?”

Vachel hesitated, then said gravely, “Sir Guy is still wounded, milord, and was given a strong draft to ease his pain. His mind is fogged.”

A vile curse emanated from inside the tunic, followed by Rolf’s head as he pulled down the tunic over his shoulders. “Then who is in charge? God’s teeth, but Edmund’s loss is sore grievous. None can match him in the mustering of soldiers—what of Gareth of Kesteven?”

“ ’Tis he who is attempting to rally our men. So many are disabled from too much wine last eve.… Whoever
planned this knew well that all our men would celebrate too heartily, milord.”

Rolf turned to look hard at Vachel. “I gave the command that not all were to take part. Who countermanded my order?”

Giving a helpless shrug, Vachel murmured, “I do not know the answer, milord. But only a few men are clearheaded.…”

“By the bones of St. Jerome, there will be many more clear heads once I lay about me with the flat of my sword,” Rolf said through his clenched teeth. “What of the sheriff? Has he rallied his men to fight?”

Looking downcast, Vachel murmured, “Those men are also wine-fuddled, milord, as is the sheriff himself.”

Gritting his teeth, Rolf swore viciously as he stamped his feet into his boots. Annice lifted her voice to be heard above his growling oaths. “Vachel—tell me, where are my vassals?”

“Sir Simon is below cursing and trying to rally his men, as well as Sir Cleit. I do not know of the others.”

“And Robert de Vieuxpont?” Rolf snapped. “Where is the king’s agent?”

“I have sent servants to fetch him to the guardroom.” Vachel handed Rolf his sword, then stepped back to clear his passage to the half-open door. Flicking Annice a glance, the steward said, “ ’Tis best that you remain here, milady.”

Halfway through the door, Rolf paused and turned back. “Aye. Do not think to flee unaided, for you will only be in danger. Linger here until I send a man to tell you differently. And bar the door once we are gone.”

Then he departed, with Vachel close behind. Annice slid from the bed and reached blindly for her robe, heart hammering fearfully against her ribs. Holy Mary, but an assault! Enemies inside the well-fortified walls of Dragonwyck … aye, she was of Vachel’s opinion. A traitor must have opened the castle gates. This keep was far too strong to be taken in the normal course.

After she lowered the bar over the door, wrestling the weighty oak with panting breaths, she rushed to the window that looked out over the inner bailey. It took her a moment to unfasten the latch and push open the heavy latticed
glass and wood frame. When she leaned out, palms down on the rough stone ledge, she caught her breath in dismay.

Men battled fiercely across the stone ward and parapets. Shouts rose above the din of clanging swords and battleaxes. Some men wore only breeches and tunics, obviously unprepared for the assault that had come with the rising of the sun. A pile of straw in one corner of the bailey smoldered, tiny flames licking a path closer to a wooden outbuilding. If the fire took hold, the entire keep stood in danger of being burned out.

Annice whirled away from that window to the next, where the same scene met her eyes. In the chaos she could not identify Rolf. Most of the men wore steel helmets. She put a hand over her mouth as she struggled for composure. She must think, must not panic. First she would tend her body’s needs, then garb herself so that whatever came, she would be ready.

As she did so, she blessed the absent Belle and murmured a prayer for her safety. Belle had taken great care to place suitable garments in the bridal chamber, along with Annice’s own comb, brush, and other personal items. Through the open windows she could hear the shouts and clash of weapons, spurring her to action. It took only a short time to make herself ready; then she returned to a window.

The battle raged even more fiercely now. She leaned farther out, peering anxiously at the gate opposite. The portcullis was lowered, trapping men of both sides in the bailey. Though she could not see over the peak of the facing roof into the outer bailey, there was the distant sound of swords and battle there, too. The entire castle was under attack, and she could not tell which side was winning.

Closing her eyes, Annice tried to recall the design of Dragonwyck. She had been out but little since her arrival, and that always with a guard close on her heels. The walks in the gardens had been few. Her farthest foray from the hall had been to the village for her wedding, and that only the day before. Struggling, she searched her memory to sort out the maze of hallways and chambers that made up the living quarters of the castle.

The bridal chamber looked out over the inner ward from between a set of four bastions in the main tower. A series of parapets and guard towers rimmed the main building, with a long curtained wall enclosing the whole. The living quarters at the far end of the complex perched atop a high cliff on one side, with the rest of the castle sprawling out in front, guarded by gates, moats, and portcullises.