Linda Needham (13 page)

“Aye, I know.” It pleased him that she should think that of him, though the chiding way she offered it pricked his pride as she began to quiz him. “Do tell me about him, then. This paragon friend of yours. What’s his name?”

Her transparent interest in this possible hus
band pinched sharply, assaulted his pride, made the man’s name difficult to say. “His name is Conrad.”

“Conrad.” Said softly, as though she were tasting it for flavor and texture.

“The third son of one of Stephen’s stewards in Rouen,” he added, needing to steal her back for a moment, “recently knighted for his loyalty to the king.”

She quirked him a smile and sat down on the blanket chest at the end of his bed. “Where did you meet him?”

“We squired together as young men. We’ve met often since then, and in the current war.”

“What color is his hair?”

Bloody hell. “His hair?”

“Of course, Alex.” She stood abruptly and went to the brazier, rubbed her palms together over the burgeoning flames. “I want to know what Conrad looks like, if I’m going to marry him. Is his hair blond?”

A woman’s question to be sure, intimate, searching, and it angered him to the marrow. “I don’t know, madam. It’s medium, I guess. Brownish hair.”

“Light brownish?”

“Perhaps. I don’t remember.”

“How can you not know the color of your friend’s hair? Is it curly? Straight?”

“Maybe curly. Maybe not. I don’t bloody
know!” Alex searched for details he’d never thought to catalog. “Blazes, woman. The last time I saw Conrad he’d just yanked off his blood-gouged helm, and his hair was matted against his head and dripping with sweat.”

“What about his eyes? Are they kind?”

“I have no earthly idea, woman. I’ve never had the urge to pay that close attention to him. And if I had, he bloody well would have knocked me down.”

She studied him in silence, chewing on the inside of her cheek as though impatient to be done with the matter.

No,
eager
. “How soon will I meet him, Alex?”

Aye, how soon? The whole affair had seemed a part of some distant future. Now the inexorability of it struck him in the center of his chest.

“Less than two weeks. Conrad will be here with the king’s entourage.”

She paled and her fine-fingered hands stilled inside the folds of her kirtle. “So soon?”

He felt compelled to soften the blow for her. “Not that Conrad will necessarily be in any financial position to acquire your wardship.”

“Or even interested in a broken-down castle and a penniless, untitled heiress.”

He found himself thinking that only a fool would pass her by. Or a man who had grander plans, who needed more than he could find in Carrisford.

“There’s no guarantee in any case, Talia.”

“None but your opinion that Conrad is a good man.”

“He is that.”

“Well, then, Alex, that is guarantee enough for me.”

But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly. He owed her far more than that, though he couldn’t afford to worry about her future beyond the moment; he had a king to satisfy.

“Now, Talia,” he said, hating this dance between them. “I would like to submit a request.”

“You need my laborers,” she said matter-of-factly, over her shoulder on her way to the door.

“Despite my men working every day to put the courtyard and the lists aright, the castle remains a disorderly mess. I need every sound body if Carrisford is going to be ready for the king.”

“Of course, Alex.” She stopped at the door and smiled as though she knew all his secrets. “Whatever you need, it’s yours.”

Leaving Alex with a single traitorous thought:

I need you, Talia.

T
he amazing woman could have been a general leading the vanguard at the head of Stephen’s army.

Alex paused to watch her from the picket walk, where he was binding timbers together with wet rawhide, pleased that the high October sun had already begun to dry and tighten the lashing, that the walls would be solid again.

In a little more than a week Stephen would arrive with his entourage, and there was still much to be done to impress the king and prove his own industry. He’d been granted the wardship and a dozen knights with the proviso that he would garrison a defensible fortification. Succeeding would well serve his plans for a more strategic castle.

Things were coming together far more quickly
than he could have hoped for, much of it with Talia’s help.

And now, like a magical piper, she was leading a parade of happily dancing children across the courtyard just below him, each of them carrying bundles of sticks and heading for the baketower.

He loved her determination, loved the way she dived into her work and shepherded her people through every task.

What he didn’t like at all—resented to the marrow—was that he was doing all of this for another man. Cleaning up after Rufus and the slovenly barons who had come before, restoring order to Carrisford so that he could raise a sizable profit from Talia’s wardship and find a suitable heiress for himself.

He had a few already in mind, and a nod of support from Stephen—wealthy daughters of powerful barons, widows with valuable doweries, marriage bargains struck in ransom for the life of a captured knight.

And the ancient titles entailed to them. The possibilities were endless, the power enticing, driving the intricate design of his life.

Legitimacy.

If one made plans and worked them hard enough, even a bastard could achieve it.

A dozen sons to cleanse his line of its curse, each borne of his loins and his legally married wife.

Vast, enviable holdings to ennoble his name.

And absolute loyalty to a king who rewarded that loyalty with power.

His was a hard-forged plan, developed when he was cold and shivering in the gorse hedges on the edge of Henry’s encampment, praying that he wouldn’t be caught.

Praying for vengeance against his betraying father. In the name of his brother.

And here at Carrisford he felt unerringly sure of himself and his careful strategies, certain that he was in the right and ready—until Talia turned lightly as the children trooped into the tower, raised her hand against the sunlight, and looked right at him.

Looked and smiled.

His heart stopped, then bolted, sending bits of desire shooting through every part of him, drawing him to the edge of the picket.

Perhaps Conrad wasn’t the right man for her.

After all, he wasn’t her sort. He was, well…bloody hell, he
was
her sort.

Affable, intelligent. Even-tempered.

Jealous, old boy?

Aye. He was, hot with it. Sizzling. Jealous and overwhelmed with envy for Conrad, or whoever would win her in the end.

He seethed with the dizzying temptation of his golden-haired ward. And yet he couldn’t let it matter.

Because she wasn’t in his plans.

The day remained bright and beautiful, the air ringing with the satisfying sounds of hammers and shouting and in the afternoon Alex took his regular tour of the lists.

He stood at the railing, doing his best to watch without comment, because he was truly pleased with the progress of the squires. They looked bigger already, broader shouldered, more agile than even a week ago.

“Do please be careful if you’re planning to go in there again, Alex.”

Alex girded himself for the sight of her, the fresh scent of her, of lichen and autumn’s gold. She was beautiful, her kirtle a messy accounting of the work she’d been doing in the forest, softly curling strands of hair framed her face.

“Not just now, Talia.” Since he certainly didn’t want her to know the truth, that she had the power to distract him from the most ordinary moment and lay him out flat, he sidestepped the issue. “We’ll have another go-round with the estate records tonight. I want Stephen to know where I began this venture, as well as how far we’ve come.”

“And Conrad, too, of course. The man who might be my husband. He’ll want to know exactly what I’m worth.”

That will be immediately apparent.

“Just now I’m far more concerned with the king’s accounting. Especially in the armory.” He
would have continued, but he noticed the boy standing beside him, just beyond his reach.

“What is it?” Alex asked, without turning fully.

“Uhm, well, I was just wondering if…I mean, it wouldn’t by any chance be
time
, would it, my lord?”

Good God, the boy had grown a half dozen inches in the last week alone. Which did nothing to help the fit of his mis-stitched tunic.

“Time, boy?” Alex asked, “What do you mean?”

But the boy wasn’t listening anymore; Talia had turned him and was inspecting the sorry tunic.

“Dear me, Kyle. You’re still wearing this sad old thing? How can you possibly work in it?”

Kyle shrugged, his great puppy eyes following her every move. “Dunno, my lady.”

“Well, I do know. Loyalty, Kyle, and kindness. But at far too high a price. Come to me this evening; I’ll give you another.”

He clutched the baggy fabric in his thin fingers, his eyes wide and frantic. “But Fiona will—”

“Fiona will believe me when I tell her that you ripped your tunic beyond repairing when you fell out of the granary while repairing a roof tile.”

“But, my lady, that isn’t the truth.”

“The real truth would hurt Fiona’s feelings, and you’ll only continue to suffer needlessly.” The woman’s logic was as convoluted as it was astounding. “Fiona will be so impressed by your daring, she’ll forget all about the tunic and will
hie herself off to the field for a fist of flowers. Which you must exclaim over as though they were the loveliest things you’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, I will, my lady. You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. Now, what was it you were asking His Lordship about?”

Kyle shifted his eyes up to Alex, then to his boots and started to inch away. “Nothing, my lady—”

She caught his lumpy sleeve in her fingers. “You asked him if it was time yet.” Then she turned the inquiry directly on Alex. “Time for what, my lord?”

The boy muttered something unintelligible, but leave it to Talia to hear him with her mothering ears. “Time for you to begin your squire training? Is that what you said, Kyle?”

“Aye.”

“Well, is it time, Lord Alex?” The boy’s beautiful champion stood there, eyes ablaze with challenge, waiting for him to answer.

But he hadn’t any answer. Except that to recognize the boy in any way seemed a betrayal of Gilbert—as though he were his legitimate brother. Blood of his blood.

There must be hundreds of his father’s bastards running about the kingdom. Each one as expendable as the next.

I’ve sons and sons, my lord king, and sons to spare.

Sons to hold and sons to be hanged.

And this particular bastard was nobody’s bloody business but his own.

He spared the boy a glance, risked the innocent eagerness, and realized that it would be simpler all around just to agree. “I suppose it is.”

“Yaahoooooo!” The boy leaped into the air, a tangle of arms and legs. Then he grabbed Alex’s hand to the wrist and shook it fiercely. A strong grip, earnest and from the heart. “Thank you, thank you, sir. I’ll make you proud. I will. I will. I promise.”

“Go on with you, boy.” Feeling wholly unworthy of such gratitude, Alex waved him away. “To the lists. Tell Gordon to kit you out.”

“With a sword, even?” The boy’s mouth hung open in amazement.

“Go. Now. Before I change my mind.”

The boy leaped over the fence in one bound and became a ruckus in the crowd of squires.

“There’s a happy lad, Alex.” She was smiling at the mob, at the boy.

“Cosseted, madam.”

She laughed lightly, then fixed that tantalizing smile on him. “My dear Alex, you wouldn’t know cosseting if it fell on you.”

Trouble was that he did know cosseting. Craved it. Was patently aware of his yearning for the kind that Talia administered so freely.

“Tonight, Talia,” he said, gruffly grabbing back the control that he’d lost.

“Aye, Alex—the king’s accounting. By the way”—she tugged on his sleeve and he bent as close as he dared—“I did kiss you that day.”

She kissed me.
“What did you say?” He’d heard plainly, but the words made no sense.

“I just thought I’d confess to you that I
did
actually kiss you the day that you were clobbered in the lists.”

There! He knew it. Still carried the imprint against his mouth, the taste of her. “Why?”

She dropped her shoulders and sighed, shaking her head. “I wish I knew, Alex. Then I’d know how to keep myself from doing it again sometime.”

She patted his chest with the flat of her hand, flashed him a smile, and flounced off toward the guardhouse with her empty basket.

Trouble was that he wasn’t sure he could stop himself the next time either.

“Producing two thousand arrowheads a day seems plenty to me, Alex.”

“But a pittance, Talia.” Try as he might, Alex hadn’t been able to shake the woman’s preposterous warning all day, and now the threat of her stopping in the midst of their meeting and kissing him was the only thing on his mind.

“Yes, but surely the king will be pleased with the progress you’ve made on the armory.” She lounged back in his chair, the scroll in her lap, her
eyes on him, as they’d been for most of the last hour.

“A good bowman can loose nearly a dozen arrows in a minute. If I’ve got fifty very good bowmen on the battlements, I’m only making four minutes of arrows per day. That’s not a very impressive siege.”

She touched her fingertip to the corner of her mouth, and he wondered, hoped, that she was giving her threat a heartfelt consideration. “Still, Alex, it’s better than Rufus’s rusting barrelsful.”

“Not a valid excuse for an embattled king who expects me to protect his interests here.”

“I thought
I
was your interest. Your bargaining chip.”

He refused to take her bait. “It’s all a part of the sum, Talia. You, your castle, the village, the fields, the quay, the bay, and the military interests of the king.”

“I see.”

He was damned sure she did, which pleased him as much as it irritated. “Did you clear out the cellar under the chapel tower?”

That seemed to surprise her, made her dampen her lips and then
tsk
. “Ah. It was on my schedule today, but we brought in wood for the winter, and that took much longer than I had expected. I don’t think it got done, but I’ll ask Quigley in the morning.”

She smiled at him from under long, dark sable lashes, raising his pulse and his hopes.

He would have answered, but he caught sight of the boy standing in the doorway, clad in a fresh, new tunic, one that fit rightly.

“Begging your pardon, my lord. I just wanted to say thank you to Her Ladyship for sending the tunic.”

“Come in, Kyle.” Talia was already at the door, drawing him all the way into the chamber, then turned him. “Now, let me see.”

“Fits fine, my lady.” The boy’s cheeks flamed as he bore up under Talia’s inspection. “And you needn’t spin a story for me, my lady, I truly took a fall—”

“What happened to your tunic, Kyle?” Fiona had come through the open doorway and planted herself in front of the boy. “Did all my stitches break?”

“No, uhm…” The boy looked askance at Talia, then tugged on the hem of his tunic. “I ruined it, Fiona. The whole thing.”

“How?”

“Fell off my horse in the list.”

Alex hadn’t heard that; Gordon hadn’t said anything about a fall. But the boy’s cheek did look bruised, and he’d been favoring his right leg when Talia had dragged him inside the room.

“Oh, dear, Kyle.” Fiona peered up at the new squire. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“Nahhh.” The boy bravely waved off her concern. “Not much, really. Just tore up my sleeve at the quintain. My first time, you see.”

“Taliaaaaah! Lord Alex!” Footfalls spiraled down the stairs, then Gemma burst into the room, Radish tucked under her arm. “Look what Fiona made for Licorice!”

She pointed grandly at the doorway and Lissa entered, holding Licorice under his front legs, a small, sagging green hat perched on the benighted creature’s head.

“All dressed up to meet the king.”

Alex found himself exclaiming his approval along with the others. Fiona beamed.

“What a handsome beast you are, Licorice,” Talia said, lifting the rabbit out of Lissa’s hands to nuzzle him, her voice like a warm cloud, a beacon pointing to the safe places among the shoals.

To all this cosseting.

“Talia, what else do you think I should put into the balm pot?” Brenna came streaming through the door carrying two small vials and a small kettle, and held them up to Talia. “Vanilla or rose?”

Talia sniffed lightly of the pot. “What have you put into the balm so far?”

“Beeswax, almond oil, and honey,” Brenna said, putting the small kettle into the embers in his brazier, blithely taking over his chamber as the rest of the family had.

Talia uncorked one of the vials and touched her
little finger to its opening, sniffed and nodded. His favorite of Talia’s scents: the bread ovens and the sweets. “Vanilla,” she said, “definitely vanilla.”

“That’s what I thought, too.” The young woman’s eyes brightened when she caught sight of Kyle, and then shied to batting lashes. “Oh. Hello, Kyle.”

Alex had the sudden, sobering thought that the fellow whom Brenna had gone to meet in the village just might have been his own half brother.

“Evening, Brenna,” the boy croaked, making a great show of peering with interest into the steaming pot.

Bloody hell. His chamber was as crowded as a village faire, just as noisy, as full of gamboling and laughter.

Time to take control again.