Lady At Arms (14 page)

For this, had Wardieu stolen her away? If so, what did he intend to do with her?

Gilbert feared the answer—that she could not be allowed to live. Did she still?

He shoved to his feet, strode from the solar, and descended the stairs two at a time. This night he and his men would ride.

“You have never tended a wound?” Ranulf asked, ignoring Lizanne’s silent plea to be excused from the task.

“Mayhap a scratch or two.”

He frowned. “’Tis not uncommon for the lady of a castle to be accomplished in such things.”

She did not meet his gaze. “I gave up those duties long ago.”

Ranulf knew otherwise. Samuel had been very clear on this. Still, he would play her game—for a while. “Then I will have to teach you.”

He was amused by the indignation that flitted across her face. “I take to fainting at the sight of blood,” she said, backing away. “You would not want me swooning, would you?”

He caught her hand and pulled her down onto the pallet beside him, then placed her palm on the bandages covering his bared thigh. “It is nearly healed. ’Twas a clean cut. Do you not remember?”

She looked away. “It would not have happened had you not attacked me.”

“Nay, ‘twould not have happened had you not imprisoned me.”

She sighed, pressed her lips together, and began removing the bandages. When the evidence of her attack lay before her, she seemed to forget she was not a healer and leaned forward to examine the wound. “It is, indeed, nearly healed. Lucy made fine work of her stitches, and I see no redness or swelling—good signs.”

Ranulf pushed a small pot beneath her nose.

She took it, removed the lid, sniffed the creamy salve. And caught her breath. “Where did you get this?”

He smiled. “Lord Langdon’s wife gave it to me. Her cousin, whom I understand to be a lady with a gift for healing, prepared it for her household.”

Her eyes flashed and she sat back on her heels. “What else did my cousin tell you?”

“You concede too easily, Lizanne. I had thought we could play this game a while longer.”

“You did not answer my question.”

He leaned toward her. “I will not repeat her exact words, but I must say the lady appears to have no great affection for her cousin.”

Color bloomed in her face. “You are despicable. And deceitful!”

He grasped her chin. “’Twas you who sought to deceive me, Lizanne. Now, I want your word you will cease with these lies and start behaving like a lady.”

She pushed his hand away. “I will do what I must to protect myself, even if it means behaving in ways you do not approve of.”

He narrowed his lids. “I want your word.”

“I am sure you do, but do you truly believe I would keep vows made under order?” She laid her hand to his chest and pushed him back. Then she dipped two fingers in the salve, scooped up a generous amount, and worked it into the wound.

“I require fresh bandages,” she said.

He handed her strips of clean cloth, and she quickly wrapped his leg—a bit too tightly. “There. I will remove the stitches in two days.”

“Then you are not planning another escape?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she shook her head. “I plan for naught. I simply await another opportunity, which you are bound to give me.”

 “There will be no more opportunities.” He pushed the leg of his chausses down and stood. “You will not play me for a fool twice.”

She rose to her feet. “Is it only once, then?”

Ranulf’s patience was pulled thin, though mostly because of disappointment. After she had let him kiss her up in the tree, then pressed herself against him, he had thought things would be better between them, but once again she swung her barbed tongue in the absence of a sword.

He took a step toward her. “That is enough, Lizanne.”

“My lord!” called a voice outside the tent.

Ranulf shot her a warning look, then moved past her. “Enter, Sir Walter.”

The knight threw back the flap and strode inside. He spared Lizanne a cursory glance before turning his attention upon Ranulf. “The patrol has returned.”

“And?”

Walter sent a meaningful look in her direction. “No sign, my lord.”

“No sign of what?” Lizanne asked.

Ranulf looked over his shoulder. “’Tis none of your concern.”

“I would know if my brother rides for me!”

“You are in no position to know anything, Lizanne.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Does he ride for me?”

“Be silent!”

Her jaw shifted, but just when he was certain she intended to further challenge him, she retreated to his wooden chest, lowered onto the lid, and drew up her legs to sit crossed-legged.

Suppressing the urge to instruct her in the proper behavior of a lady, Ranulf turned his attention to the remains of the meal brought earlier. Between bites, he discussed with Walter provisions, disputes, and preparations for the next day’s ride.

“Where are we going?” Lizanne asked when mention was made of King Henry and his Eleanor.

Ignoring her question, Ranulf accompanied Walter to the tent opening.

“Your home?” she suggested.

Walter gave Ranulf a pitying look. “I shall leave you to her,” he murmured and turned away.

“Is that our destination?” Lizanne pressed.

Ranulf dropped the tent flap and swung around. “You will show me respect in front of my men!”

She put her head to the side. “Aye, 
my lord
—when you earn it.”

He was across the tent in seconds. If not for her reaction to the force of his arrival—shoulders shrugging up to her ears, eyes wide—he would have yanked her off the chest.

Flexing his hands to keep from curling them into fists, he said, “Regardless of what you think I did, Lizanne, I would never beat you.”

She lowered her gaze over him, paused on his hands, and looked up. “Why?”

Having never before considered his aversion to hitting a woman, he did not immediately answer. It was simply something he did not do. “Though I have had to kill many men, I have never hurt a woman.”

Before Lizanne could rethink her words, she demanded, “You do not consider forcing yourself upon a woman harmful?”

Wardieu frowned. “You know I desire you, though I do not understand how it can be when you hate me with nearly every look and word that passes your lips, but I have not forced myself on you. And I will not.”

She averted her gaze. She had wanted answers to the questions she had posed in Sir Walter’s presence but had knowingly pushed Wardieu toward anger in search of further proof that the man whose kiss had caused something traitorous to move inside her was the same who had done terrible things on that night years ago. It had seemed worth the risk of physical harm to return herself to the singleminded place she had been when she had imprisoned him at Penforke. But he denied her that proof—as if there was no proof at all.

“I would like some fresh air,” she said.

She felt the bore of his gaze, but he said, “I will escort you.”

Outside, the sky was deep purple, pinpoints of light sprinkled upon its canvas. Did Gilbert see the same sky?

She paused to search the gathering darkness. Three days had passed since she had been taken from Penforke. Surely, he had arrived home by now and, finding her absent, gone in search of her.

“Hurry, Gilbert,” she whispered, then lifted her skirts and hastened after Wardieu.

Directly ahead, a group of men who were gathered around a fire halted their conversation at the approach of their lord and his captive.

Lizanne lifted her chin in an attempt to project dignity in an otherwise undignified situation. Once she and Wardieu were past, the men’s talk resumed.

At the outskirts of the camp, Wardieu leaned against a tree and watched as his men broke into boisterous song.

Standing a short distance away, Lizanne clasped her hands behind her back and savored the rare moment of peace between her and this man.

“What is it they sing?” she asked after several minutes. “I have not heard it before.”

“I am surprised you do not know it. ’Twould seem your brother finally did something right by you.”

She turned to him. “You have no right to speak against Gilbert. Unlike you, he is honorable.”

Wardieu sighed, pushed off the tree, and strode away.

Regretting the harsh words that had shattered their peace, Lizanne followed and drew even with him as they neared the group of men. This time she did not look away from them but favored each with a level stare.

The men ribbed one another and exchanged winks, then one of the younger knights began a bawdy song that told the story of a great baron and his mistress. The others quickly joined in.

It was a song with which Lizanne was familiar, having heard it during the late-night watches at Penforke, but then it had been an earl, not a baron. She squared her shoulders and plodded ahead. Though Wardieu might not understand the relevance of the choice of song, she certainly did.

At the edge of the group, she pivoted and, almost immediately, the raucous voices faded away.

When all eyes were on her, she put her hands on her hips and finished the lyrics. “Ere he goes afightin’ on yon green hill, she will clasp him to her and he will take his fill!”

Silence, save for the crackling fire.

Lizanne curtsied. In the next instant, she was being pulled toward the tent.

Wondering from which fount she drew such scandalous spirit, Ranulf pushed her in ahead of him and yanked the flap closed.

She turned to face him, smiled broadly, and loosed joyous laughter.

He could only stare. Never before had he seen such true expression of humor from a lady. But then, he must remember she was not much of a lady.

“Are you mad?” he bit.

Eyes bright, she shrugged and, amidst laughter, said, “Do not tell anyone…but methinks I am.”

“Have done with this foolishness!”

She sighed long and high, pressed her shoulders back. “Pray do not lecture me, Ranulf.”

He nearly startled over her use of his Christian name, having only ever heard her pair it with his surname—and a good dose of sarcasm.

“’Tis the only enjoyment I have had in a long time,” she said. “Did you see their faces?”

“Clearly, I did.”

“Oh, you make too much of it.” She waved a hand. “I suppose now you will tell me how dishonorable Gilbert is—his one redeeming quality proven false.”

“Should I ever meet this brother of yours, I fully intend to have words with him regarding your upbringing.”

She sobered. “You will meet him. That I can promise.”

Ranulf was as certain of it as she. “I want no more improper displays. Do you understand?”

“You have no humor,” she said, then shrugged. “Very well. I give you my word I will not sing with your men again. Is that all?”

“It will do for the time being.” He jutted his chin in the direction of her pallet. “Now remove your bliaut and go to bed.”

“But it is too cold not to wear it.” She clasped her arms about herself.

“Remove it, Lizanne.” He strode to his chest and lifted the lid. When he turned and found she remained fully dressed, he glared.

She held up her hands. “I know. If I do not, you will.” She blew out a long breath, loosened the laces, and tugged the bliaut over her head. Clad in her chemise, she hurried to the pallet and quickly slid beneath the blanket.

Ranulf followed and dropped the tunic he had removed from the chest beside her. “If you require more warmth, wear that.”

He saw her surprise a moment before she looked away.

“I have business to which I need to attend,” he said and crossed the tent. “Get some sleep. Another long day lies ahead.”

“When will you return?”

He looked around. “Shortly, but do not worry. Aaron and Harold will be just outside should you require anything.” He hoped it was all the warning she needed.

Hours later, Ranulf returned. Light-headed from one tankard too many of ale, he paused just inside the tent. Only one candle still burned, though it flickered uncertainly in its puddle of hot, melted tallow. Still, it was enough to see that Lizanne lay on her pallet with her back to him.

Knowing it best not to think in her direction, he made his way across the tent, pulled off his tunic, and started to lower to his own bed.

She whimpered.

“Lizanne?”

When she did not answer, he crossed to her and touched her shoulder. She was warm, her garment damp. A moment later, she quaked and made a low, miserable sound.

Ranulf turned her onto her back and saw she had donned the tunic he had given her. Why it should please him that it covered her as it had last covered him, he did not delve.

“Lizanne?”

She gasped and shook her head, but did not awaken.

He touched the hair upon her brow. It was damp as well and, when he brushed it back from her face, she cried out and slapped at him. However, before he could restrain her, she slumped and began sobbing.

He grasped her shoulders and gave her a firm shake.

“Nay!” She tried to pull away.

He shook her more forcefully.

Once more, she struck out, and this time her ring caught the flesh of his lower jaw.

Merciful Lord, she has done it again!

Wondering at the likelihood of further wounds gained at this woman’s hands, he lowered himself onto her pallet and lifted her onto his lap.

Weeping now, she gripped his tunic.

“Lizanne, you are safe.”

He could not be certain, but he thought she shook her head.

Crooking a finger beneath her chin, he raised her face toward his, murmured, “Safe,” and pressed light kisses to her temples and damp eyelids.

Long after her weeping subsided and the candle had burned its last, he held her and, throughout, struggled against the temptation to lie down with her and give his body its rest. He knew that though she clung to him now, her response at awakening in his arms would surely be far different from this. Thus, when he was certain she was clear of whatever terrible thing hunted her in her sleep, he eased her onto the pallet, pulled the blanket up over her, and left her none the wiser that she had needed him.