LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (17 page)

She released the handfuls of tunic she could not recall having grasped and snatched her arms to her chest.

He stepped back.

Shame deepening the heat in her face, she turned aside, but had put two strides between them when he said, “Rhiannyn.”

She turned.

“Henceforth, you will serve in the hall. You will attend me and my men at meal and assist Mildreth with whatever she assigns you.”

She knew she should be grateful, for such tasks were less dangerous than those she had undertaken these past days while chained to him, but still there would be contact with him. “And when night is come?”

“You will make your bed here with the others.”

As she had when Thomas lived, though that was where the similarity ended. Now she was servant to a man who would have her be his leman, not his wife as Thomas would have if she had accepted him. In which case, he would be alive.

“And your clothes,” Maxen continued. “As you play the part, so shall you dress it.”

“Aye,” she said, though how she was to obtain less fine garments she did not know.

He walked to where one of the steward’s books lay open on the floor, retrieved it, and returned to the table. “You may go,” he said.

When Rhiannyn went from sight and her footsteps faded amid the commotion of the courtyard, Maxen gave up his pretense of study. He slammed the book closed and sank into his shoulders.

He did not wish her to be right, but she was. As angry as he had been, as certain he could abandon these past years of seeking God and bending to Him, it was not easily done. Still there was right and wrong. Still there was good and bad. Still there was Rhiannyn who, by his own devices, would tempt him day in and day out.

“Lord,” he rasped, “what fool am I not to send her away?”

“I’ve a bliaut I will give you.”

Rhiannyn and Mildreth turned together to stare at the woman they had not realized listened in on their conversation.

Rhiannyn had been on her way to the kitchen, a short walk from the donjon, when she had run into Mildreth and revealed her clothing problem.

“Give me?” she asked, knowing Theta might be generous with words, but not her belongings.

Theta stepped from the kitchen doorway. “You are a bit scrawny and short, but my gown will serve you fine.”

“What price your generosity?” Mildreth asked.

“That.” Theta swept her gaze down the fine bliaut and chemise Rhiannyn wore.

“A peasant’s garments for a lady’s?” Rhiannyn said. “I think not.” Besides, for the bliaut and chemise to fit, Theta would have to let out the seams and walk with bent knees. Though she was of good figure, her breasts were larger than Rhiannyn’s, and she was taller by a good hand. Of course, if she used one of her own chemises beneath the bliaut, it would improve the look.

“Pity.” Theta sighed. “It seems you will have to serve at table dressed as you are, and further displease our lord.”

That last convinced Rhiannyn to surrender the bliaut, though not without concessions. “Very well, but I will require two of your bliauts for this one.”

“Two?” Theta laughed. “I will give you one.”

“And the chemise stays with me.”

“Then methinks you will have to look elsewhere. But do not forget the nooning meal is served an hour hence.”

Rhiannyn sighed. “I suppose I will have to make this one less fine.”

“How?” Theta asked sharply.

“A bit of dirt and grease, and a few rips will serve the same purpose.”

Horror rose in the woman’s eyes. “Two bliauts,” she said. “I can manage it.”

Rhiannyn put her head to the side. “You are sure? I would not wish to leave you needful.”

“Two.” Theta turned away. “I will return shortly.”

“You can be a sly one,” Mildreth said when she and Rhiannyn were alone again.

“When I have to be.”

Though the smile Mildreth offered was tentative and lacking the warmth it had once held, it was welcome. “That is good,” she said. “You will need it with the new lord.”

Deciding it best not to discuss Maxen with her, Rhiannyn asked after her duties in the hall.

“He wishes you to serve, eh?”

“And assist you in whatever else is needed.”

“Ain’t that kind of him,” Mildreth mused, “though ’tis probably more for his benefit than mine.”

Rhiannyn silently agreed. Having her serve him and his men would appease some of his need to avenge his brother’s death.

Mildreth sighed. “’Tis good, for I certainly could use help.”

“How?”

“Ere the meals, you will assist in the kitchen. During them, you can serve wine and ale.”

Although Thomas would have considered it beneath the woman he had wished to make his wife, Rhiannyn did not. She had been raised modestly, helping her mother with household chores, which had included cooking and serving her father and brothers. But waiting on Normans was not something she looked forward to.

“Ah, me!” Mildreth gasped. “I forgot about the lord’s bath. When he returned from the bailey, he ordered hot water to be brought to his tub.” She looked across the yard to cauldrons that fogged the air with heat. “And ’tis well and boiling.” She considered her armload of laundry. “You could help carry water.”

Rhiannyn blinked. Carry water to Maxen’s chamber so she might suffer further humiliation from what she had so recently allowed him?

“Of course, with your hand injured,” Mildreth continued, “it will be difficult.”

Rhiannyn longed to avail herself of the excuse, but she said, “I will do it.”

Theta’s reappearance halted Rhiannyn and Mildreth’s progress to the kitchen. She thrust two well-worn bliauts into Rhiannyn’s arms. “Now out of my bliaut.”

Rhiannyn would have preferred a more private place to make the exchange, but there were few about to prevent her from stepping into the shadows and changing. Too, she would have the cover of her chemise.

She went into the shadow of the donjon, removed the bliaut, and replaced it with the least offensive of Theta’s gowns. It was too large, too coarse, smelled, and was woven of dun-colored thread, but she told herself she did not care. It hung too long, and the sash was so badly frayed she doubted it would stay tied, but again, she told herself she did not care. It would serve her better than the other she traded, making her appear without shape and less likely to catch a man’s eye.

When she exited the shadows, Theta snatched the fine bliaut from her, turned, and hastened toward the donjon. As she ascended the steps, Sir Guy intercepted her and spoke something that did not carry past Theta’s ears. But it made the woman smile and more quickly delivered her into the hall.

Wondering what news she had been borne, Rhiannyn frowned at her companion.

Mildreth shrugged and grimaced at the picture Rhiannyn presented. “A shame,” she said. “Now even I look better than you.” She swung toward the kitchen. “Come, I will show you where the buckets are.”

Wishing Mildreth had not said anything, Rhiannyn followed.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Perhaps he would have been tempted if she had not pranced into his chamber wearing the bliaut he had last seen on Rhiannyn, reminding him of what he had given up by not seeking further truths from the woman he should not want. But Maxen could not take what Theta offered, and not only because she was not Rhiannyn, but for the recent reminder that the act of repentance stolen from him did not give him leave to reject the teachings of the Church.

He reached up, pulled Theta’s arms from around his neck, and set her back from him.

She opened her eyes wide. “Milord?”

As he peered into her face, he wondered again what hold Rhiannyn had over him. In a dark way, Theta was more beautiful, her woman’s body more voluptuous, yet she left him unmoved.

“Not now,” he said and turned away.

Behind, he heard the crackle of rushes as she followed. “But milord”—she slid her arms around his waist—“Sir Guy thought you might like company.”

He was not surprised the knight had sent her. Guy knew the appetites of the Maxen of old, and when he had returned to the hall following Rhiannyn’s exit and his lord had barked at him, he had surely believed he knew the cure for Maxen’s mood. But it was not Theta.

He turned. “Leave. Now.”

He glimpsed resentment a moment before she covered it with a seductive smile. “Later, then.” She smoothed her hands down the bliaut that was too snug, though it emphasized her breasts and plentiful hips to good advantage. Doubtless, it had been traded for the clothing he had ordered Rhiannyn to wear for her new duties.

The bliaut off one shoulder, she fluttered her lashes. “Do not be too long in sending for me, milord. If ’tis not you, it will be another.”

Which was among the reasons he did not desire her. The leavings of other men she had lain with, including Thomas, held no appeal, though before he had taken his monk’s vows, he had enjoyed the pleasures of experienced women who sought his attentions.

“So be it,” he said.

Resentment once more rising in her eyes, though this time she did not turn it into a smile, she pivoted and stepped around the screen.

Blowing breath up his face, Maxen turned to the bed, tugged off his tunic, and tossed it on the mattress. As he reached to his braies, he glanced at the tub that had been delivered earlier. And wondered at the water missing from it.

Water sloshed over Rhiannyn’s bandaged hand. Thankfully, it was no longer boiling as when she had first taken up the buckets. Barely noticing the heat, she stared at the woman coming from Maxen’s chamber with one shoulder of her new bliaut askew.

Theta looked angry, but upon noticing Rhiannyn, her tongue darted out to taste her lower lip and she changed course and halted before Rhiannyn.

“As eager as Thomas,” she purred. “Ah, but how would you know, hmm? Thomas wanted you as his wife only. It was me he wanted in his bed.”

And her he’d had.

Unwanted emotions gripped Rhiannyn—hurt, sorrow, even jealousy that Maxen might have lain with Theta. Nay he
had
lain with her, she forced herself to acknowledge. Sir Guy his messenger, he had sent for the woman for no other purpose than to bed her.

But why did she care? She had not cared when Thomas continued to take Theta into his bed after proclaiming Rhiannyn would be his wife. In fact, she had been grateful he had channeled his desire into another. But she was not grateful Maxen had done so.

A movement past Theta drew Rhiannyn’s gaze. Maxen came around the screen, chest bare, braies all that covered him hips to calves—further confirmation he had done with Theta what he would have done with her had she not stopped him.

Though it seemed his intent to advance farther into the hall, he halted when he saw the two women.

His stare sent her emotions soaring where they had no right to spread their wings, and she determinedly told herself it was not hurt she felt but relief, not sorrow but joy, and certainly not jealousy.

Theta followed her gaze around and whispered, “Fear not. He has no need of you now.”

Rhiannyn squared her shoulders and stepped past her. Staring at a point beyond Maxen, she continued forward. Blessedly, she was allowed to pass without comment. But after she emptied her buckets into the tub, Maxen stepped into her path.

“What is this?” He flicked the sleeve of her ill-fitting bliaut.

She pinned her eyes to his chin. “More appropriate, my lord. Exactly as ordered.”

“Not exactly, but I suppose it will do.”

“It does just fine. Now do you step aside, I will bring more water for your bath.”

He inclined his head and let her pass.

The buckets swinging from her hands, she contained the expression of her relief until she exited the hall and once more gained the shadows of the donjon. Assuring herself she needed only a few moments to compose herself, she dropped the buckets and leaned back against the wall. But the moments grew long as she fought anger and hurt. She swallowed hard, but the lump in her throat lodged itself again. She unclenched her hands, but the tension remained. All because Maxen Pendery had pulled back when she had asked it of him—and, instead, turned to Theta.

“Rhiannyn?”

She opened her eyes.

Christophe stood before her. “Something is wrong?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I am not feeling well. That is all.”

“Your hand?”

It pained her some to carry water, but it was insignificant compared to this other thing she felt. “My hand is fine. It is my head that fares poorly.”

“Perhaps I have something that will help.”

“It will pass,” she said and stooped to retrieve her buckets.

“With the injury to your hand, you should not be hauling water,” he said as she stepped around him.

She continued to the kitchen, and five more times came and went, in silence emptying the water while Maxen watched from the chair in which he reclined. However, the last time she rounded the screen, she stuttered to a halt. He sat in the tub, head back against the rim, eyes closed.

Lest she suffer further humiliation, she nearly retreated, but another part of her would not allow it.

Arms aching, the cut fingers of her hand burning, she carried the buckets to the tub. She set one down, lifted the other, and stared ahead as she poured the water. She did the same with the second and turned away.

“You are not going to assist with my bath?” Maxen asked.

Her back to him, she said, “It is not among my duties, but if you would like, I shall send a squire.”

“Or Theta.”

She nearly startled. “Or Theta.”

“Of course, I could make it one of your duties.”

She glanced over her shoulder, but quickly looked forward again. “I ask that you do not.”

“I see no harm in it.”

Certainly not for him. “I prefer not to, my lord.”

“Rhiannyn.”

Something in his voice tugged at her, but she refused to answer it.

“Rhiannyn,” he said again, and his wet hand encircled her wrist, pulled her around, and tugged her forward.

Given the choice of joining him in the tub or dropping to her knees beside it, she chose the latter.

He released her wrist and moved his hand to her jaw. “Do not believe everything you see—or are told.”