Lord of My Heart (19 page)

Odo chuckled. “She’s a devil’s tongue on her.”

“She’s also correct,” said Leo with a dismissive look at de Pouissey. “That’s why men should marry, Lady Madeleine. It takes the edge off this obsession with saucy venison.”

Madeleine turned to him angrily, but he held up a hand and grinned. “Pax, Lady. You can’t blame us, though, for being excited about your choice. It’s the most interesting point of contention since Senlac.”

“I doubt you can equate my marriage with the conquest of England, my lord. I’m not falling to the mightiest sword.”

“You could put it on that basis if you want,” Leo said amiably, “but I wouldn’t unless you want to marry Aimery. He’s the best swordsman here except me.”

“I could dispute that,” snarled Odo.

“You tried in Rockingham. And since then he’s been training with me.”

Odo was silenced. Madeleine considered the matter with interest. Was Aimery de Gaillard a skilled warrior, then, despite his professed dislike of war and his pretty clothes? She would never have supposed he could stand for a moment against such a massive man as his brother.

If so, he’d deliberately lied to her. Well, he wouldn’t get away with that. “Perhaps I should see my suitors’ fighting skills,” she mused.

“Bear in mind, Mad,” interrupted Odo, “that the de Gaillard family need all the land they can get to provide for their tribe of males.”

“And the de Pouisseys are rich in property?” queried Leo dryly. “You’re certainly deficient in males.” He turned back to Madeleine. “I’ll ride forward and tell the king you want a test of arms later today.” He was off before she could gainsay it. Her hasty tongue had complicated everything.

“If you let them twist you to their tune, Mad,” said Odo angrily, “you’ll be a traitor’s widow before you bear the first babe.”

She caught her breath and turned. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve only to look at de Gaillard,” he said, blustering. “No true Norman would dress as he does. I’ve seen him talking in corners with his cousin, Edwin of Mercia. He’s not a man to trust as far as a bend in the road.”

“He’s cousin to the Earl of Mercia?” Madeleine asked. She knew de Gaillard was part English, but had never suspected such a close link to the English nobility. And there was a blood tie to the notorious rebel, Hereward, as well. Suddenly an alter-ego as an English outlaw was not as far-fetched as it had seemed.

But Golden Hart was in Warwickshire.

So rumor said.

“Aye, he’s hand in glove with the Saxons,” said Odo. “And they’re all just biding their time. They haven’t accepted William. One day soon they’ll rise again, and the Saxon de Gaillard will be with them.”

Sweet Jesu, perhaps he
was
Golden Hart. She swiveled to look at him, seeking Edwald and a faery prince. But now her tortured mind could only see a longhaired Norman.

Odo’s smug voice dragged her attention back. “As for Stephen,” he said, “I hope you won’t mind sharing his favors. He spent last night rutting in the stables.”

Madeleine recalled that feline smile of satiety and knew Odo spoke the truth. This morning Stephen had just come from a woman. Lord above, what now?

“Mad,” said Odo gently, “I’m the only sane choice. You know me. You like me. I didn’t realize how badly Father and Dame Celia were treating you. I wish you’d told me, and I would have done something.”

“I was about to,” she said bitterly, “when you tried to rape me.”

“No,” he protested. “Not that. I was carried away by my feelings for you. You weren’t really unwilling, just startled. But I frightened you, and I’m sorry.” He showed a lot of his crooked teeth. “You’re enough to drive any man to insanity, Mad.”

That should be flattering, surely. Madeleine didn’t feel flattered, but she began to wonder if she should reconsider Odo. It was something, at least, to be desired, and she probably knew the best and worst of him. She knew so little of men. Perhaps she had misinterpreted that attack. It seemed so long ago now, and if she were to marry Odo she would no longer have to take Paul and Celia along with him . . .

“The king wishes to speak to you, de Pouissey.” Madeleine turned so quickly that she cricked her neck. Aimery de Gaillard was riding on her right.

She turned back to her left and saw Odo’s scowl, but he could not refuse a command from the king, and so he rode forward. Warily, Madeleine turned back to the blond man, studying him. Now he looked neither Norman nor Saxon but just his own arrogant self.

He wore only a short-sleeved, knee-length tunic, a sleeveless leather jerkin, and knee-length, cross-gartered hose. But simply dressed he was not. His jerkin was ornamented with a fantastic metal design of interwoven snakes which was not only beautiful but would also turn an arrow; his belt was carved and gilded and fastened with a clasp of gold and amethyst; his hose was bright green cross-gartered with brown and white embroidery.

And of course, he wore his gaudy bracelets. She couldn’t help assessing the value of even one of those hunks of jewelry.

“Do you want it?” he asked, and she looked quickly up into those cold green eyes.

“No,” she denied, but then added, “Would you give it to me if I asked?”

“I’m under orders to woo you,” he said flatly. “If you want my gold, you have only to ask for it before witnesses.”

“I do need money,” she admitted, keeping her tone equally cool. “All that bullion is a temptation.”

He laughed, but there was a sharp edge to it. “You have the rare virtue of honesty. What a pity you have so few virtues to be honest about.”

She felt her color flare and her anger spark. “Lord Aimery, why do you dislike me? My situation is no better than yours. I don’t wish to marry any one of my suitors, but I lack the luxury of refusal. You, however, are under no compulsion, so I see no reason for your bitterness.”

He reached for her reins and stopped her horse. “Lady Madeleine, none of us has more luxury of refusal than you. You can turn your back on us all and return to your nunnery. If we refuse to accept your decision, we will be flung into the outer darkness where the king’s favor will never shine.”

He was deadly serious. “But he favors you.”

“That has little to do with it.”

The riders behind split and rode around them. No one, apparently, was going to object to this tête-à-tête. Nor was Madeleine. He seemed to be in a mood for plain speaking, and perhaps at last she could make sense of everything.

“Why don’t you want to marry me?” she asked, studying his face again for Edwald. It was hard to be sure. If he was Edwald, surely he’d jump at the chance of controlling a barony and using all its resources for the rebellion.

“I don’t want to marry a woman I don’t like.”

She gasped. “Why am I so repulsive to you? In all honor, I am no more a sinner than the next person. Without vanity I have to say I am not hard to look at. Why?”

His eyes were hard. Nothing like Edwald’s. “I speak English,” he said, “and I know Baddersley. You are a harsh and ruthless woman. Doubtless those are excellent qualities in some circumstances, but they are not ones I seek in a wife.”

“Harsh?” she queried blankly. “Ruthless?”

He slipped off his horse and stood with his hand on her pommel. “Does that description offend you?” he asked. “I would have thought you’d glory in such terms.”

She looked down at him, and then at his hand on her saddle. Madeleine’s mind was fogged by the awareness of his hand so close to the join of her thighs where they were stretched across the horse, by the warm weight of his arm across her thigh. She looked around dazedly. The two of them were alone. “The hunt . . .”

“Ride on then.”

Eyes fixed unseeingly on that hand, Madeleine made no move to start the horse. He hated her, and yet her body responded to him as to no other. Except Edwald.

“Speak to me in English,” she said.

He was surprised, but after a moment he quoted from a poem. “ ‘Time and again at the day’s dawning / I must mourn all my afflictions alone. / There is no one still living to whom I dare open / The doors of my heart.’ ” The clear, musical English flowed from his tongue with a crisp beauty she had never heard before. Nothing like Edwald’s rough voice.

She sighed. “What do you want?”

“Your word that you will not choose me as husband.”

It should be easy to comply, for had she not decided she’d be mad to marry him? But that was before she’d found out about Stephen. “I don’t know,” she said. “I
can’t
marry Odo. I can’t tell you why, but I really don’t think I can. And I don’t want to marry Stephen . . .” She looked sideways at him. “Odo says he’s been dallying with the castle women.”

He smiled derisively. “And that turns you against him? Odo and I aren’t virgins, you know.”

“I suppose you’ve dallied with the Baddersley women, too,” she said bleakly, thinking of Aldreda. He was right to laugh at her naiveté.

“Of course I have.” A flicker of pleasant recollection passed over his face. “It was a highly memorable encounter.”

Madeleine’s teeth gritted, but she knew him far better than was reasonable, and with a flash of inspiration asked, “On this visit?”

His eyes widened. He grasped her arm and pulled her off the horse.

“What . . . ! Let go of me!”

He had her in a hard grip, one hand at the back of her neck as if he’d break it. Her heart was thundering, yet not just from terror. She remembered Odo’s attack and her immediate rejection and disgust. Now she was afraid but also drawn toward something, like a moth toward a deadly flame. “What are you going to do?” she whispered.

“Kiss you.”

Her lips tingled, and she licked them, unacknowledged hopes beginning to spiral up to her brain. “I thought you didn’t want to marry me.”

“You’re not going to like it,” he promised. “Either crude Odo or philandering Stephen is going to seem a treasure in comparison.”

Hope shattered into acid fragments. She pulled back, but his grip tightened. It bit on an old bruise, and she cried out.

He relaxed his hold instantly and she saw his shock at having hurt her. He might threaten, but she doubted he could really brutalize her, so why was he trying to? “Why?” she asked again. “Why?”

He tightened his lips, changed his grip to a manacle on her wrist, and dragged her away from the restive horses to a mighty oak. He flung her against it and leaned forward, his hard body confining her. “I don’t like you, Madeleine de la Haute Vironge. I don’t want Baddersley. If you force me to marry you, I will make your life a misery.”

The rough bark of the tree bit into her flesh and revived some bruises, but discomfort was drowned by the smell of leather and sweat, by the hard warmth of his body overlayed by ridges of metal and jewels. His cruel words clashed with messages her soul drank in. “I don’t want to marry you either, you know!” Even as she cried it, she knew it was an utter lie.

And he knew it, too. “Let’s make sure of it,” he said. One hand snared both her wrists with ease. The other grabbed her jaw and forced it open as he clamped his lips bruisingly to hers. His tongue, thick and heavy, thrust deep into her mouth, a vile invasion. Madeleine gagged. She struggled but could scarcely move. Her protests produced only mewling, choking sounds.

Blackness started to gather . . .

Then, with a groan, he freed her mouth and pulled her away from the tree into his arms. His hold became not a prison but a haven. When his lips returned to softly brush hers, Madeleine didn’t shrink away. When his tongue tentatively brushed against her teeth, her own tongue flicked of its own volition to greet it. It had learned its lessons well. She looked at him, bewildered. His eyes, too, were dark, confused, and troubled.

His hand played on her back as if on his lyre, soothing hurts and bringing music to her senses, promising dizzy delights. When his toying fingers found a breast, she whimpered, but it was not a protest. This magic, too, was familiar, and her body leaped to it and could not be deceived.

This was Edwald. This was Golden Hart. She smiled.

Abruptly, he drew back, as dazed as she but horrified. “You’re my death and damnation, witch.”

It cut like a blade. “I mean you no harm,” she protested.

His hand came up to her throat again, but gently. His thumb rubbed against her jaw. “Then don’t marry me, Madeleine.”