Lord of Vengeance (16 page)

Gunnar quelled the urge to laugh in light of Alaric's solemnity. Truth be known, he understood firsthand how easily a man could desire a woman of Raina's beauty and wit, but here was a lad who threw his heart to any comely maid who happened to glance his way.

Normally, Gunnar would look upon it as naught more than a passing fancy, but the boy's developing feelings--and a possible alliance--with his prisoner was another matter entirely. He could have none of it.

“Alaric, as my squire and as one day a knight, it is your responsibility to put duty before all else. That woman abovestairs is your lord's prisoner and as such, your feelings for her must not exceed my own. Do you understand?”

“Aye, milord.”

“Good. As long as she is here, she is to be treated with caution. Never turn your back on her, and never give her your trust. Understood?”

“Aye, milord.”

“Now go. Surely there are duties you have left unattended. Mayhap polishing my chain mail will afford you time to reflect on your folly this day.”

“Aye, milord,” Alaric murmured. “I beg forgiveness.”

As Alaric left the hall, Gunnar's gaze traveled to the group of knights. The table had quieted, but he noted Burc yet eyed him over the rim of his cup. Something had passed between Alaric and the cur--something more than the boy realized and Gunnar knew from Burc's expression that the matter was yet to be finished.

He was about to rise and find out what was brewing, when a large-breasted serving wench approached him carrying two tankards of ale. She smiled at him, and he might have thought her pretty if not for her missing front tooth, lost in a tavern fistfight the night he took her in. Odette was a whore and made no bones about it, unless she felt she was being cheated. Then, she took no quarter: the sleeves were rolled up, fists flew, and even the toughest men had been known to fall.

She was still young, and if not for her large frame and muscular limbs, it might have been difficult to imagine her in the role of aggressor. Especially now, as she tossed her head, playing the coquette as she sashayed toward the dais, flipping a strand of pale brown hair over her shoulder and better exposing the open neckline of her well-worn bliaut.

Gunnar chuckled at her latest attempt at seduction, for each was notoriously blatant and short-lived. It seldom took long before the real Odette, crass and foul-mouthed, came to the fore. Ever since her arrival some six months ago, she'd been after him, offering to repay him for his kindness in taking her in. He always refused her advances, even on those occasions when he found her naked and in his bed in the wee hours of the night.

He didn't seek repayment for sheltering a fellow misfit, in fact his entire garrison--if he could truly call the small band of men such--was made up of refugees and other homeless wanderers. Much like him, he suspected they were all searching for a place to call home. Though this ramshackle ruin of a keep was far from anyone's ideal, it was the closest thing Gunnar'd had to a home in nearly all his life. In the short time he'd been here, he never felt ashamed of it, never gave it a thought at all, until
she
arrived.

There were a good number of things Gunnar hadn't given a thought to before the arrival of Raina d'Bussy in his life. Thoughts like honor and pride, softness and beauty. All things he'd denied himself for so long, things he wished he'd never been reminded of. He pounded his fist on the table in frustration and found Odette standing before him, frowning.

“Milord, ye look painful thirsty,” she said, handing him one of the cups.

“That I am.” Gunnar quickly took a long draught and nearly spilled the ale down his chin as Odette seated her ample backside on his lap.

“If ye thirst for somethin' sweeter than honey,” she whispered, her breath stinking of old ale, “ye know I'm willin' to provide ye that, too.”

“I appreciate the offer, Odette,” Gunnar replied as she downed the contents of her cup in one gulp then slammed it down on the table and let out a loud belch. He winced at the hearty roar of laughter that followed, painfully close to his ear.

* * *

The sounds of men laughing and cups banging on tables in the hall reached the kitchen where Raina stood over a boiling cauldron of cabbage stew, stirring with one hand and wiping the steam and sweat from her brow with the other. If the cracked skin of her hands yet throbbed from the laundry or the nettles, she hadn't had time to notice for Agnes had kept her busy from the moment they'd hung the clothes to dry. There had been rushes to gather and lay, vegetables to harvest, and game to clean for supper.

Raina could still hear the cock she had been sent to fetch, clucking and protesting as she carried it out by the feet and brought it to Agnes in the courtyard. Agnes had been waiting beside a tree stump, holding a small ax in one hand and grinning broadly. She indicated the stump with a nod of her head.

“Now, 'old still and keep yer fingers out the way, else ye lose 'em.”

Queasy with the very idea, Raina stammered, “B-but I-I don't think I--”

It was over in a heartbeat: Agnes grabbed the bird, placed her foot on the rooster's head and chopped it clean off. The headless body fell to the ground at her feet and flopped about like a fish washed ashore while Raina tried to dance out of its bloody path. Agnes meanwhile roared with laughter, doubling over and wheezing as she sputtered, “Oh, to see the look upon yer face!”

When the bird had at last stilled, Raina dropped to her knees amid the flurry of drifting feathers and retched. Thankfully, Agnes had found some shred of pity and had decided to retrieve and butcher the other two birds by herself.

All three were now roasted golden brown and waiting on platters to be served up to the men gathering in the hall. Venison from the night before would also be served, along with Raina's cabbage stew and fresh breads and cheese. She should have a ravenous appetite, but instead her stomach roiled at the thought of eating, the swirling stew boiling in the pot before her making her feel as if she were adrift on the ocean and sick to her stomach with it.

“Enough stirring,” Agnes barked, snatching the spoon from Raina's hands and thrusting a bread trencher laden with food at her. “Take this out to Lord Gunnar, then come back and I'll give ye more.”

One whole capon sat in the center, flanked by a veritable garden of vegetables and a large wedge of yellow cheese. “He's going to eat all of this?” Raina asked in disbelief.

“If 'e don't starve waitin' on ye to bring it!” Agnes shouted, wiping her hands on her filthy apron.

Raina scurried out of the kitchens and onto the courtyard path that led to the hall. A hound sleeping in the shade of the keep's wall roused as she made to pass him. As the brachet eyed the trencher in her hands, his floppy ears perked up. He whimpered and licked his chops before beginning a sideways lob toward her.

“Stay where you are, you ugly beast.”

Raina picked up her pace. She felt the hound at her heels the moment before he leapt for the trencher. She cuffed him with her elbow, but he leapt again, this time knocking the trencher out of her hands and on to the ground. She caught the cheese in one hand, but the vegetables scattered everywhere. The dog snapped up the chicken in midair then plopped down and began gnawing at it.

“Fie! Give me that.” Setting the cheese aside, Raina lunged for the bird, trying to tear it from the hound's jaws. He growled and hung onto a leg, his brown eyes showing nigh the same determination Raina felt. She pulled harder. “Let...go!”

The leg broke off in the dog's mouth and Raina clutched the rest of the bird to her chest then picked up a turnip and pelted it at the dog's big head. He winced, slinking off into the shade with his meager prize.

Raina stood, wringing her hands in her skirts and scanning what remained of Rutledge's meal. The trencher was still in one piece, but everything else was now lying in the dirt. It seemed she had two options: return the ruined meal to the kitchens and face Agnes, who would surely launch into a tirade over her carelessness, or, salvage what she could and continue on to the hall and serve it to Rutledge.

Deliberating over which would be the lesser of the two evils, she retrieved the trencher and placed the bird and the cheese on it, then began collecting the spilled vegetables. She picked up a turnip and blew it off. It didn't look terribly damaged; surely everything was still edible. Besides, she decided as she wiped off the rest of the items, with Rutledge's unsophisticated tastes, he'd likely never know the difference anyway. Restoring the trencher to some semblance of order, Raina dashed into the keep and entered the hall.

She spied Rutledge immediately, on the dais, lounging in his chair with a wench on his lap and a mug in his hand. He saluted Raina with a smug nod as she appeared from behind the screens, he seemingly unaffected by the strumpet now whispering in his ear. His raven hair was still damp from a recent washing and he sported one of the tunics Raina had laundered that morning. She only prayed he'd worn a fresh pair of braies too.

His entire wardrobe--meager as it was--was now laced with itchy nettles. Smiling in anticipation, Raina headed toward him with his supper.

“I was beginning to wonder if I might never be served,” he quipped. His gaze went to the mangled assembly on the trencher and he frowned. “What's this? Did you first sample my meal before bringing it out?”

His buxom lapdog giggled and whispered something in his ear before Raina could stammer a believable excuse for the sorry condition of his supper.

Rutledge grinned, his gaze fixed on Raina. “I believe the insult was directed at me.” Odette was dispatched to the floor with little ceremony.

Raina watched as the woman swaggered off the dais and quickly draped herself over another man. “Your lapdog seems rather fickle, my lord.”

Pivoting on her heel, she fixed a scathing glare on him and gestured around her. “I'm certain there are others here who wish to eat. Agnes sent me with directions to return once you had your meal so I might assist her with the other trays.”

His brows quirked in interest. “An intriguing suggestion,” he said, but then he winced, reaching over his shoulder to scratch feverishly at an unseen itch. “What the devil?” he grumbled, now plunging his hand into the unlaced neckline of his tunic and scratching as if to draw blood.

“Fleas, my lord?” Raina suggested, trying unsuccessfully to keep the glee from her voice.

He shot her a perturbed scowl, but his expression softened with a flash of momentary puzzlement. His hand still obscured within his tunic, he stopped scratching suddenly and his face darkened with dawning comprehension. Very slowly, he withdrew his hand and, pinched between his forefinger and thumb, was a wilted nettle leaf. Eyes narrowed, he held the little discovery up for Raina's consideration. “Now, how do you suppose this got in my tunic?”

She shrugged lamely, trying not to laugh at his discomfort. “Perhaps the fleas put it there?”

“Indeed.” He let the leaf flutter to the floor at his feet. “Perhaps the smug little flea standing before me ought to come up here and scratch my back.”

Raina gulped, unsure what alarmed her more: the thought of touching him or the idea that she would have to do so in front of the entire keep. “I don't think--”

“Mayhap next time, you will,” he interjected with a wry smile. “And it wasn't a suggestion, lamb. Come up here.”

With hesitant feet, she climbed the two steps of the raised platform and stood, fists clenched, at Rutledge's side. He began eating his meal, seemingly more interested in the roasted chicken than in her or her discomfiture. No one in the hall appeared to take notice either, everyone talking and feasting and paying no mind to the dais.

“Go on,” Rutledge directed her with a nod of his head.

Scandalized at the thought of placing her hands on any part of him, Raina reluctantly complied, taking her place behind him and unable to do more than stare at the wide expanse of his back and shoulders, unsure how to begin. She flexed her tired fingers, took a deep breath and placed her hands lightly on his shoulders.

She thought he might have flinched, but she could not be sure, for the jolt she experienced upon feeling his tight muscles beneath her palms took the breath right out of her and left her heart fluttering in her throat.

At first she couldn't move and just stood there with her hands resting on those thick, hard shoulders as he bent down to his trencher, eating and drinking and apparently oblivious of the maelstrom of new and fascinating sensations she was weathering at his back.

Never had she felt such power, such masculine strength. Even with her hands spread wide, she couldn't span the width of his shoulders. Over the rough linen of his tunic, she squeezed the thick muscles, testing their strength and marveling at the ridges and valleys that formed with his slightest move. He made a low, rumbling sound in the back of his throat as she scratched and kneaded his shoulders, exhaling a deep breath that seemed to release some of the tension she felt within him.