Lady At Arms (20 page)

She smiled. “One day I will beat you at this game, you know.”

“Then you plan to remain a long while with Baron Wardieu?”

She looked away. “I have not much choice in the matter.”

“Methinks you have more choice than you realize, my lady.”

Lizanne absorbed his words. However, as they were too worrisome to contemplate, she pushed them to the recesses of her mind and said, “Then I will have to defeat you soon.”

He chuckled, threw back the tent flap and, as he stepped out into the cool night air, put over his shoulder, “I do not doubt you will.”

Clasping her hands behind her back, Lizanne disciplined herself to mentally retrace the moves he had used to place her in checkmate. He had been so cunning!

Shortly, Ranulf entered. “You have eaten,” he said with a glance at the cluttered tray.

“Geoff and I, but we left plenty for you.” She turned and crossed to the washbasin.

Ranulf stared at her back and wondered at the impulse that had cost him several coins—more, how his gift would be received. Rethinking it, he seated himself and removed his boots.

As he picked over the leftovers, he watched Lizanne move about the tent as she prepared for bed and, as was best, looked elsewhere when she removed her bliaut.

Clothed in her shift and chemise that covered her well enough though they were quite creased and limp from days of wear, she sat upon her pallet and began the nightly ritual of bringing order to her wild hair. When the comb became caught in a great tangle, she muttered and tugged until the teeth came free, then continued with the task.

Ranulf pushed his food aside, stood, and crossed the tent.

Dropping her head back, Lizanne frowned up at him, and more deeply when he held out his hand. With a suspicious light in her eyes, she yielded the comb.

He stepped to her back, lowered to the pallet, and drew her into the vee of his thighs. She stiffened, but he ignored her discomfort and began drawing the comb through her thick tresses that were of no better mind to accommodate him. Still, he persisted and felt her relax as he gently worked out the tangles. Not until her hair shone and fell thick and smooth down her back, did he return the comb to her.

“I thank you,” she said, and he liked how breathless she sounded. She started to rise, but he pulled her back.

“I am not done,” he murmured and swept his fingers from her chin and back over her jaw, loosely gathering her hair at the nape of her neck.

“Ranulf?” she said, uncertainty and something else in her voice.

“Patience, Lizanne.” He spread his purse strings. First he tied a bright green ribbon around her hair, lower a vivid blue one, and inches from the ends, a red one the color of ripe pomegranates.

“Now I am done,” he said.

He thought she would look around. Instead, she reached a hand over her shoulder and touched the green ribbon. “Oh.” She slid her fingers over the loops he had made into a lopsided bow. “’Tis very soft. Is it red?”

“Green.”

“I like green.”

“The next is blue.”

“I like blue too.”

“The last is red.”

She gave a short laugh. “Red I especially like.” She drew her bound hair over her shoulder and fingered the ribbons. “Oh, Ran, they are lovely.”
 

So he was
Ran
again—better than he had hoped for.

She looked over her shoulder, and the smile with which she gifted him once more revealed that mesmerizing dimple in her left cheek.

He returned the smile, wanted the one she wore for him to never fade, for the light in her brilliant green eyes to shine only for him, and to hear from her the words women spoke to ensnare a man’s heart. Aye, that was what he wanted—for Lizanne to declare herself his. If she did, he would not let her go. Would not surrender her when her brother came for her—

She turned into him, said, “Thank you,” and lightly touched her mouth to his.

Her initiation of intimacy baffled him. For days he had longed to hold her again. But, determined to give her time and space to sort out her feelings, and for him to better examine his own, he had repeatedly denied himself.

Whether or not she had discovered anything in the intervening days, he knew not. All he was certain of were his own riotous feelings and the way they defied intense scrutiny. And that her lips were yet upon his.

He drew a hand up over her spine, pushed his fingers through her splendidly thick hair, and cupped her head to draw her nearer.

She allowed it, sliding her arms around his neck, but though he was tempted to see how much more she would allow, they were not alone. Walter was in his head, reminding him of honor, of the rights and wrongs espoused by their faith, of the trust Lizanne had yet to give, of the innocence that was not his to take, of the regret that would be felt by both on the morrow.

Thus, he pulled back and, as she opened her eyes, gently disengaged her arms. “I am pleased you like your ribbons,” he said and rose from the pallet.

Lizanne stared after Ranulf’s retreating back, hardly able to breathe as she searched to recall how she found herself in a place such as this—body thrumming, lips longing for what was lost to them, heart clenched so tight it ached. Worse, it was she who had first kissed him, and all for a handful of silly ribbons that she had delighted in as if she were, indeed, the child he accused her of being. Worse yet, not once had she thought to stop him from taking her where she should rather die than go. Had
he
not stopped…

Why had he? Because it was wrong? Or because Lady Elspeth was right about Lizanne Balmaine? That she was no lady, a harlot whose traitorous eyes were ever seeking a man who refused to play the part of an enemy?

Suddenly weary, she lowered her chin. And there was the red ribbon upon her pallet, doubtless having come free when Ranulf had pushed his hands through her hair.

She picked it up and, seeing it still held the bow he had tied, was momentarily tempted to toss it and the others upon the dirt floor between their pallets. Instead, she curled her fingers around it, laid down, and pulled the blanket over her.

She meant to close her eyes—to close out Ranulf—but she watched him move around the tent, readying himself for a night’s sleep. Thus, when he crossed to his pallet and drew his tunic off over his head, causing the undertunic to rise with it and bare his muscular abdomen, she again heard Lady Elspeth’s pronouncement that she was a wanton who could not keep her eyes from Ranulf.

She dropped her lids, but behind them arose an old memory that did not fit the one she had just made—far from it.

“Where is it?” she said, and opened her eyes to search it out. However, Ranulf’s undertunic had fallen back in place and covered his belly.

He met her gaze. “Where is what?”

She swallowed. “The scar. Where is it?”

His laughter was dry. “I have many scars, including the one you cut into my flesh. That is the one of which you speak?”

She pushed up onto an elbow. “Nay, the one upon your abdomen.”

He considered her a moment, lifted the undertunic. “Thankfully, you will find none here.”

Lizanne wanted to explain away its absence as merely a result of poor candlelight, but it had been too hideous…too long and jagged…too distinctly angled across his lower abdomen to not show itself in the barest of light as it had done that night.

“I do not understand. I cannot—” Her voice broke. “I cannot have been mistaken.” It was he, for it was not possible another should look so much like him. After all, there was nothing common about Ranulf Wardieu—his height, build, eyes, and especially that hair!

Had her childish imagination conjured the scar of the man who had nearly killed Gilbert and tried to ravish her? Vicious memories of that night rushed back and she groaned. There
had
been a scar!

“Lizanne, what is it?”

Eager to throw off the crimson-stained images, she opened eyes she had not realized she had closed and found Ranulf on his haunches beside her. “It makes no sense,” she whispered and dropped her head back to the pallet.

“What makes no sense? And what of the scar you speak of?”

“I should not have spoken of it.”

“But you did.”

She searched his face—the same face—and shook her head. “I want to go home. Pray, allow me to return to Penforke.”

Silence fell between them, and then he said, “Would that I could, but not yet.”

One day he would, though. He would discard her just as Lady Elspeth had said. “When?” she pressed.

“When it is done between us.”

“’Tis done!” She winced at the near screech of her voice. “I want no more of your kisses or caresses, Ranulf Wardieu. I want only to be gone as far from you as possible and to never see you again.”

Slowly, he straightened. “You lie, Lizanne Balmaine. And not well. Now sleep, for on the morrow we go to see the king.”

She felt as if punched. “We?”

“Aye, you shall accompany me.”

“Before the king, you would exhibit me as your captive? You would be so bold?”

“’Tis not my purpose, nor would I be so foolish. It is the king who has requested you attend him.”

“But how does he know of my presence?”

“This city has many eyes and ears. Your accompaniment was noted upon our arrival. I should have kept you hidden.”

A thought occurred to Lizanne, and she could not keep herself from voicing it. “Think you King Henry will approve of your abduction of me?”

“Think you he will approve of your abduction and imprisonment of my person, Lizanne—the wounds you inflicted upon one of his barons? That your actions are responsible for delaying the negotiations to which he set me?” At her silence, he continued, “Do not think you will escape me by appealing to him. You may be his subject, but I doubt he would hesitate to mete out punishment for your inappropriate behavior. He is not an especially tolerant man.”

“How will you explain my presence, then?”

“With only as much detail as I need to in order to ensure you remain with me,” he said, then more softly, “Do not forget the vow you made me. Even the king cannot release you from that.”

Nearly overwhelmed with foreboding, she rolled over and gave her back to him. “I shall do my best to remember it,” she murmured, “but you would do well to remember that not even you can refuse a king…or God.”

“Nor can you, Lizanne.”

Neither having spoken a word to the other since the night past, silence yawned between Lizanne and Ranulf as they rode side by side through the gates of Westminster Palace.

Feeling the curious looks cast upon her by the bustling castle folk, Lizanne raised her chin and sat straighter in the horrid sidesaddle Ranulf had insisted upon.

Shortly, they drew to a halt and, out of the corner of her eye, she watched Ranulf dismount. When he strode toward her, no doubt to assist her down as befitting a lady, she took the matter in her own hands and dropped to her feet a moment ahead of his arrival.

As she straightened her attire, she smiled tightly at him and told herself she delighted in his glittering gaze that spoke what he would not allow to pass his lips.

He gripped her forearm.

Trying not to think about the man beside her as he led her up the steps of the palace, for his simple touch was disturbing enough, she looked up at the building before her.

During her visit with Gilbert the year before, Henry and Eleanor had been in residence at Bermondsey Castle, located at the busy east end of the city. Thus, this was the first time she had seen Westminster up close. Recently restored and refurbished following King Stephen’s reign, which had seen it fall into a sorry state of neglect, it shone like a jewel.

Inside the palace, Ranulf exchanged words with a soldier. Then, following the man, he led Lizanne up a staircase and down a long corridor. Near the end of it, the soldier threw open a door and stood aside to allow them to enter.

Ranulf urged Lizanne ahead of him into the lavishly appointed apartment, spoke in hushed tones with the soldier, then stepped inside and closed the door.

“What is this?” Lizanne asked from where she had gone to stand on the far side of the chamber with her back to the large fireplace.

“Your apartment for the duration of our stay,” he said and strode forward.

She raised her eyebrows. “Our stay? Will we be long at Westminster?”

He shrugged, his muscled shoulders rolling beneath the fine weave of his dark blue tunic. “For as long as the king decrees ’tis necessary.”

That last word sent a shiver up her spine. “Necessary?” she repeated and, for the dozenth time, wondered why King Henry had specifically requested her presence. She was, after all, hardly noteworthy, much less held in high regard. What warranted such esteemed treatment?

She peered past Ranulf where he had halted before her and swept her gaze over the furnishings a second time. They were much too fine.

In the next instant, she put a finger on the significance of her surroundings. “Ah, nay.”

“What is it?”

She laughed, a cracked sound that held not the slightest portion of joy. “The king intends to wed me.”

“Wed you?” Ranulf scoffed. “He is wed to Eleanor—”

“He intends to wed me to another!” She stepped around him and crossed to the large four-postered bed.

“What speak you of?”

“Do you not see?” She threw her hands up to encompass the room, then dropped back onto the coverlet and glared at the beautifully draped fabric overhead. “Last year, he tried to wed me to Sir Arthur Fendall. But I did not wish to wed the man and…the king was greatly angered.”

“You refused him?” Ranulf asked, coming to stand alongside the bed. “You defied the king?”

She pulled her bottom lip through her teeth. “Not exactly.”

“How exactly?”

She pushed up onto her elbows. “I made it so that Sir Arthur, that most esteemed nobleman, changed his mind about taking me to wife.”

“
How
?”

Were the situation not so dire, Lizanne thought she might enjoy the color that had seeped into Ranulf’s face.

“I wrestled him,” she said, then stood from the bed.