Lady At Arms (3 page)

But why? Atonement for what sins? Desire? He pulled himself back to the present and said, “The Lady Lizanne.”

Her dark eyebrows rose. “My lord knows me?” she said in mock disbelief, then stepped nearer and once more rose to her toes so her face was within inches of his and he felt her warm breath.

Forcing an indifferent expression, Ranulf searched for an advantage to her being so near, but there seemed none. If he lunged forward, he would do no more than push against her.

“I do not know you,” he rasped, “but I know of thee.”

A corner of her mouth lifting, she set herself back on her heels and began peeling the gloves from her hands. “My good cousin Bernard has been wagging his tongue.” She clucked her own, then lowered her eyes over Ranulf. “I wonder…do you not remember our first meeting?”

Did her voice break, or was it only imagined?

She lifted her head and pinned him with those impossibly green eyes.

Reflecting on her improper display in Lord Langdon’s hall, he said, “Aye, and most memorable it was.”

Her head snapped back as if he had slapped her.

Despite the circumstances, Ranulf was beginning to enjoy the game. He smiled. “Tell me, are you in the habit of imprisoning men you desire?”

She blinked. “Do you not deny it, then—that first meeting?”

He was baffled by her refusal to rise to the bait. “Deny it? Why should I? ’Twas you, not I, who made a spectacle of yourself before Lord Langdon.”

Color suffused her face. “That is not the meeting I speak of!”

Ranulf lowered his own face near hers. “I recall no meeting other than our brief one in Langdon’s hall—could that be called a meeting.”

She gave a bitter laugh, then reached up, touched the fingers of her gloves to the base of his throat, and trailed them down his collarbone.

Ranulf stiffened.

“I shall never forget our first meeting,” she said. “’Twould seem, though, you have.” She caught her bottom lip between even white teeth and lowered her gaze to the chain between his bound feet.

Though a frown drew her eyebrows near, it did nothing to diminish how lovely she was—like a rose. Unfortunately, though her petals would be soft and fragrant, her nasty thorns could prove a man’s undoing. Still, he longed to be the one to strip away her prickly defenses—

Disgusted at the realization his initial attraction to this woman had not abated, he snarled, “I demand to speak to the lord of this castle.”

She continued to consider the ground at his feet. “Hmm, well, if you refer to Lord Langdon, I must disappoint you. You are no longer under his roof, Baron Wardieu. You are under mine.”

He was not surprised. “As told, I would speak to the lord of 
this 
castle.”

She sighed. “Regrettably, ‘tis not possible. It will be a sennight ere he returns. And then…”

Her gaze flew to his and, in that moment, Ranulf realized why the chain so aroused her interest.

Once more giving his arms his full weight, he thrust his legs out before him and captured her waist between his thighs, causing the length of chain between his feet to strike her shins and buckle her knees.

She cried out as her head slammed into his chest and black tresses spilled from the collar of her man’s tunic.

“Now,” he growled, “take those keys from ‘round your lovely neck and release me.”

She tossed her head back. “’Twill do you no good.” With the back of a hand, she wiped at the blood trickling from her nose. “You will not be allowed to leave alive.”

“Do it, else I will crush the life from your accursed body.” He tightened his legs.

She gasped and, swift as a cat, raked her nails across his face.

Ranulf held, for a scratch, no matter how deep, was nothing to one who had survived bone-deep cuts.

She strained backward, clawed and pried at his thighs, but it would take far more to escape him. And from somewhere, she produced the means to do so. He caught the flash of silver and identified it as a dagger a moment before she sank the blade into his thigh.

Ranulf’s shout of pain was followed by her release.

Propelled backward, his captor threw her hands behind her to break her fall. Still, she hit the earthen floor hard, her arms going out from under her and landing her flat on her back. Surprisingly, she almost immediately regained her feet.

Clutching her ribs, she staggered toward him. “You! I will see you in hell for this.”

He glanced at the dagger protruding from his thigh. “Am I not already in hell? Witch!”

Unexpectedly , she startled at the sight of her bloody handiwork, then spun around and ran from the cell.

Drawing deep breaths through clenched teeth, Ranulf fought the darkness that once more threatened to pull him under. Though never in his one score and seven years had he considered doing physical harm to a woman, he would not trust himself were he loosed upon Lizanne Balmaine. With one such as she, mean-spirited as Lord Langdon had warned, it would be too easy to forget women were meant to be protected rather than set upon as he now plotted.

The thick shadow that fell across the floor heralded the arrival of a large man who hesitated before stepping into the cell.

He crossed to Ranulf’s side and splayed enormous hands on his hips. “Me name’s Samuel. I be yer jailer.” His eyebrows pinched as he leaned near to look upon the injuries his mistress had scored into her prisoner’s face. “Hmm.” Lowering his great, bald head, he next inspected Ranulf’s thigh. “She got ye good, she did. Ye must have made her right angry.”

“I require a physician!”

Samuel straightened, placing himself eye-to-eye with Ranulf. “Well, now, Lady Lizanne ain’t ordered no physician. But I’ve had some experience if ye’d like me to give it a try.”

“I have no desire to lose my leg!”

The big man shrugged. “Mayhap that be what she wants. She do seem to hold a mighty grudge again’ ye.”

Ranulf calmed himself enough to ask the burning question. “Why?”

“Milady’s reasons I ain’t privy to.”

“Then do not speak to me of them!”

Samuel’s face split with a grin, showing a full set of teeth. He leaned over again and tapped the dagger’s hilt. “It ain’t such a deep wound,” he pronounced and strode across the earthen floor and out the door.

Some minutes later, he returned with a fistful of rags. With one swift movement, he pulled the dagger free and tossed it aside. Immediately, he pressed a rag to the wound to stanch the blood.

Ranulf groaned. The dagger’s removal was worse than the getting of it. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gnashed his teeth as Samuel continued his clumsy ministrations.

“Now hold still!” the man commanded and made quick work of applying a tourniquet.

Drawing deep breaths, Ranulf considered his bandaged leg. “’Twill take more than that to save my leg.”

“Ungrateful, are ye?” Samuel’s lips twitched. “Well, now…” He put his head to the side. “…methinks it’ll do fine.”

At Ranulf’s thunderous expression, he said, “Don’t ye worry. After the nooning meal, I’ll have me missus come and clean it right for ye. She knows plenty ‘bout tendin’ wounds.” Another grin and he was gone, returning moments later to secure the forgotten door behind him.

Imposing though he might be, Ranulf knew this Samuel was no jailer. Perchance, an ally.

He searched his gaze across the dirt floor until he spotted the carved hilt of the dagger the man had carelessly tossed a short distance away.

Balancing on his injured leg, he twisted his other foot into the hard, packed dirt of the floor and kicked a spray of granules toward the weapon. It took time and effort, but when he was done, the dagger was no longer visible. In its place stood a loosely mounded pile of dirt.

Ranulf leaned his head back and, through a haze of pain, began plotting. He would not leave this place without Lizanne Balmaine.

Ignoring the shocked faces of the castle folk she rushed past, Lizanne barely reached her chamber before giving up the simple meal of which she had partaken that morning.

Kneeling, she held her head in shaking hands and rocked her body. “Why?” she groaned. Why should she suffer remorse at having defended herself against that beast? Why had it bothered her to look upon the wound she had inflicted? It was no less than he deserved—a ruthless man who had taken from her nearly all she held dear. Still, it sickened her.

She drew a long, shuddering breath and stood. On legs that felt as if they might fold, she traversed the chamber, barred the door, and crossed to the large window from which she had earlier removed the oilcloth to let in the light of a cloudless day—a blessed reprieve from the past six days that had been cursed with overcast skies and constant drizzle.

The sun’s descent into the west had begun, but it was still high, casting a warm column of light over her. She closed her eyes and savored the heat upon her icy skin, but though she warmed outwardly, she could not shake the chill at her core, one that she had carried with her for four years.

She slid into the window embrasure and peered down into the inner bailey, noting but paying little heed to the young squire engaged in swordplay with a man-at-arms.

Clasping her hands against her mouth, she began chewing the edge of a thumbnail. For the first time, the implications of her abduction of Ranulf Wardieu began to burden her. Previously, she had given little thought to what the consequences of her vengeful act might be, filled as she was with the need to free herself from years of painful memories and to avenge Gilbert.

Such a surprise it had been to discover Ranulf Wardieu was of the nobility. However, she had put that aside, telling herself it mattered not that he had been personally sent by King Henry to preside over a dispute between Lord Langdon and one of his vassals.

Of course, it would have been much simpler had he been but the common villain he had portrayed years ago. But now…

Dare she believe her taking of him would leave her and her brother, Gilbert, unscathed? Though she knew little of Ranulf Wardieu, he would surely be missed. And soon.

Unbidden, his image forced itself upon her. His rank of nobility, with its accompanying speech, mannerisms, and clothes might have thrown another off his scent, but Lizanne would know him anywhere. That long, shockingly pale hair. The large, powerfully muscled frame—a bit huskier, perhaps. And those eyes that had stared at her with such anger. They were as black as she remembered, yet different as if—

“Curse him!” she rasped. It was he. Could be no other. Drawing her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them.

The revenge she had envisioned these past years while honing her body and weaponry skills to a level that vied with her brother’s men, was so close that she had but to raise a hand to bring it down upon Ranulf Wardieu’s head. But could she? Dare she?

If only Gilbert had not been waylaid in his return from court. Surely, he would have challenged the man properly and seen justice done. After all, had he not more reason to hate Ranulf Wardieu? Was it not he who bore the marks of that fateful night upon his lame body?

Her weakening resolve found strength in the memories that had driven her these years, and she called to mind the image of her brother and his pronounced limp…his agony…the lost laughter that had once lit eyes now rendered empty of nearly all but suffering. Wardieu had done that to him.

And what of her? Had she not also suffered? Had not her betrothed, a man with whom she had believed herself in love, broken the marriage contract, citing she was no longer chaste? Aye, she had suffered, but not as much as Gilbert.

Now nibbling the inside of her bottom lip, she searched for a means to exact her revenge. For exact it, she must. But what to do?

Tears of frustration welling, she tossed her head and, out of the corner of her eye, caught another glimpse of the duel in the bailey below. The young squire had backed his opponent into a corner and was taunting him as he prepared to deliver the mock thrust that would name him the victor.

She stared as he thrust gracefully forward, withdrew, then laughed joyously and waved his sword heavenward. 
Foolish
, she told herself as the idea came together.
Terribly foolish.

“Nay,” she murmured, “perfect.”

A knock at the door brought her head around. “Milady!” Her maid’s voice floated into the chamber. “Ye are needed.”

As distinct as her words were, Lizanne knew the girl was on her hands and knees in the corridor outside, mouth pressed near the large gap between floor and door.

“Can it not wait?” Lizanne called.

“’Tis a child, milady. She is hurt.”

Lizanne jumped up and hastened to the chest that contained her medicinals—a chest that had been her father’s. “A moment, Mellie,” she called, dropping the lid back against the wall. As happened each time she delved within, memories visited her.

Though more often a woman’s domain, her father had been fascinated with the healing properties of herbs. He had encouraged his daughter’s interest in healing, taking her “herbing” with him from a young age. In the end, though, nothing could save the old baron from the terrible sickness that had feasted upon his body. And the attack on Lizanne and Gilbert’s camp had wrested from him his last hold on life. Another reason Wardieu must pay.

Blinking away tears, Lizanne gathered the pots she might need, her fine sewing needle, and strips of clean linen. Then she ran across the chamber and threw open the door.

“Where is the child?” she asked as Mellie straightened from the floor.

“Belowstairs, milady. A dog bit her.” Relating the details of the attack, the maid kept pace with Lizanne all the way to the hall where the child’s weeping mother sat upon a bench, her precious one clutched to her bosom as the servants clustered around.

At Lizanne’s approach, all stepped aside to allow her access to the sobbing child. “Send for Lucy,” she instructed Mellie as she sank to her knees.

“She has been sent fer, milady.”

“What is keeping her?” Gently, Lizanne pried away the mother’s arms and turned the child about. She was a pretty little thing, perhaps four years of age.