Lord of Vengeance (23 page)

Gunnar groaned. The last place he wanted to be was abovestairs in his bedchamber. His men thought he had already sampled Raina's pleasures and in fact had been singing praises to his virility most of the night, which made his decision to refrain from doing so that much harder to uphold. His only hope was either to outdrink or outlast these men and he would gladly take whichever occurred first.

“Another flagon, I say!” He clutched his head in his hands, frowning into his empty cup as the knights around him chuckled.

“'Twould take a bloody barrel of wine to keep me from beddin' that beauty,” one man announced to the delighted assent of the others.

“Tame her?” countered the first man. “Mores the like she'd have you slavering at her heels.” His remark earned hearty chuckles from the others.

Gunnar remained silent, scarcely aware of the conversation until someone said, “Why, if I hadn't more sense, I'd say milord is afeared of that wench!”

“Who said that?” he barked, his head snapping to attention.

A young knight gulped audibly. “'Twas a jest, milord.”

Gunnar might have found it humorous if it were not so close to the truth. He rose, ignoring the swimming haze clouding his vision and making his legs unstable. Rupert arrived at last with the requested flagon of wine, which Gunnar snatched roughly from his hands. He put the decanter to his lips and took a long draught, negligently letting the wine trickle down his chin and onto his tunic. He exhaled deeply as he brought the flagon down, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth as the knights stared up at him in wonder. “Now, if you'll pardon my haste, lads,” he said with a wolfish grin, “I'll leave you to your jests. There's a wench abovestairs in need of my attentions.”

With flagon in hand, Gunnar strode away from the table and out of the hall, leaving the goading laughter of the knights behind him. He started up the stairs and paused.

Jesu,
was
he afraid of Raina d'Bussy?

He thought of what he'd likely encounter upon entering his chamber, pictured her haughty expression, her impudent mouth and flippant tilt of her chin...the tempting softness of her curves.

Hell yes, he was afraid of her. But like any other fear he had learned to overcome, he had to face her. That was the only way he could rid himself of the bothersome feeling.

He took the rest of the stairs two at a time then drew himself up to what he hoped was an intimidating height and opened the door to his chamber. The light from a torch in the corridor traced a glowing path through the dark chamber to his bed. The scowl he had prepared to greet her with faded the moment his eyes lit on her sleeping form.

Curled up on his bed like a babe, Raina slept quietly, her breath coming in short puffs between her parted lips. Gunnar stared at her for a long moment, fighting the urge to cross the room and touch her, contenting himself simply to gaze upon the willful beauty in repose.

She didn't look so fretful now. She looked like an angel fallen from heaven who'd landed softly, blessedly, in his bed.

Damnation. How was he ever to harden his heart to this gentle, slumbering lamb? What sort of monster would it take to look upon her with anything but tender affection, with pure and absolute reverence? To his chagrin, it seemed he was not made of that stuff.

Insane as it felt to admit it, particularly to himself, Raina d'Bussy's virtue was safer with him now than it would be in an abbey full of octogenarian monks. A fact that had nothing to do with wine or want, but rather, fear. Fear that she would not turn him away, fear that she would feel too good in his arms and too pleasurable in his bed.

Fear also that if he claimed her, he'd be loath to let her go when the time came to meet with her father.

So for tonight he would content himself with sleeping beside her and for the rest of their time together, he would think no more of making love to her. Praying the time would pass quickly, he stepped inside the chamber and as gently as he could, closed the door.

* * *

Raina awoke, startled by the sound of the door shutting with a clunk. A heavy footstep scuffed in the rushes, dislodging something that rolled across the floor. She heard Rutledge curse under his breath and her eyes flew open, though she herself was far too alarmed to dare so much as breathe. But she didn't have to draw breath to know that he smelled of wine. Goodness, he might have even bathed in it.

The room was dark, without even so much as the benefit of embers from a dying fire, but she knew for certain she was yet in his bed. Heaven help her, what a dolt she'd been to climb onto it even for a moment! Now she was faced with either feigning sleep and hoping he was too drunk or too chivalrous to consider molesting her, or she could throw herself from the bed before he reached her and avoid the issue entirely.

From behind her, at the other side of the bed came the sound of his footsteps, the soft thud and slosh of a wine flagon being set on the floor. A rustle of fabric preceded the jingle of a buckle as Rutledge removed his baldric and set his sword against the wall beside the bed. She rolled over to find him facing her, pulling his tunic over his head.

Though she was fully clothed in her gown and chemise, Raina felt exposed, vulnerable. She gathered up the sheet to her bosom for an added measure of security. “If you have designs on crawling into this bed to ravish me while I sleep, you are mad.”

“Indeed, I would have to be,” he answered wryly, then added, “but 'tis my bed, and if you think a few scraps of fabric would prevent me from ravishing you if I wanted to, then
you
are mad.” He shot her a smug grin as she scrambled off the mattress.

“I shall be content to sleep on the floor,” she declared, “with one eye open!”

“You needn't trouble yourself, lamb. I have no intention of doing aught but resting my bones. It makes no difference to me where you sleep, but I should hate to stumble over you in the middle of the night should I have need of the garderobe.”

The bed was quite comfortable and it had been days since her back had reclined on something softer than stone and a bit of straw. And the idea of him traipsing about in his bedchamber during the night was rather unsettling. Warily, she climbed back onto the mattress. “If I am to share your bed with you--to sleep--I must insist that you keep your braies on at the very least.”

He shook his head. “I have always slept without the hindrance of clothing, and I'll do so as well this eve. You should try not to fret over it so.”

Try not to fret over it? Good Lord, she could scarcely think of anything else. “The bolster will remain between us as a barrier, then,” she said, placing the feather pillow in the center of the large bed.

He shrugged with apparent disinterest. “As you wish.”

Raina stared at him helplessly as he worked to untangle a difficult knot, watching those deft fingers, her heart climbing to her throat. The tie fell loose and the fabric went slack around his hips. “For mercy's sake,” she squeaked. “Must you--must you
bare yourself
right here, before me?”

He chuckled like the very devil himself and glanced up at her. “You needn't watch if you find the idea too shocking.”

“Heathen.” With a scandalized huff she spun about, crossing her arms over her chest and angrily giving him her back. “Never have I met a more ill-mannered, uncivilized brute. Did you learn naught of honor or the decent treatment of other people in your training to be a knight?”

The bed ropes creaked as he seated himself on the mattress. “I was knighted without training at ten-and-five,” he said evenly, “on the battlefield. My appointment had more to do with necessity than honor, and as for decent treatment of other people, well, I'll credit you, a man learns little of chivalry when he spends nearly every day of his life fighting and killing just to survive.”

Raina scowled at the wall. She might have expected him to defend himself, to dispute her accusation or perhaps apologize for affronting her sensibility. She certainly did not expect him to reveal anything of his past. Nor did she expect the sharp, humorless chuckle that followed a moment later.

“Chivalry and honor,” he grated from behind her, his voice full of sarcasm. “If I had not been fostered out as a page at nine years old to be schooled in those useless skills, I might have been at the tourney--might have been able to do something--when my father was slain in cold blood. Chivalry and honor were of no help to me when I was sent home to be at my mother's side as she mourned, nor did they serve any purpose when Wynbrooke was beset by fire and battering rams.”

“Wynbrooke...” she said, realization suddenly dawning on her. She regarded him over her shoulder, turning warily and finding him leaned forward over his knees, his head braced in his hands. It was the posture of a man in pain, a man dealing with old memories, bitter and left too long out of the light. “You took me there, that first night--”

“Aye, you saw the place--what remains of it--in all its humiliating splendor.” He would not look at her and for some reason his rigidness of both body and voice created a small but piercing ache in her breast. “Tell me,” he said, his voice rasping in the quiet chamber, “did you see any lessons in chivalry or honor in the rubble, my lady? Any basis for the decent treatment of other people in the cinders?”

“Nay,” she admitted softly. “I did not...and I did not know--”

“Nay, like as not, you didn't.” He turned to face her at last, his expression hard, emotionally shuttered. “So if I am less than gentle with you, if I trample your delicate sensibilities, my lady, forgive me. I'm too old and tired to embrace chivalry's edicts and likely too far gone for honor, but my word is true and you can trust me. I have no intention of ravishing you this eve or ever. Now, get in this bed and let me have some rest, will you?”

Raina moved tentatively, tucking her legs under the bed covers and snuggling deep within. The bolster felt cool against her arm, the awkward silence stretching between them colder still.

“You confuse me so,” she said into the darkness. “I know not whether to hate you, or--”

Her voice caught in her throat unexpectedly. She felt such overwhelming sympathy for him, such a keen ache in her heart for what he must have suffered...what he had lost.

But more than that, she felt something else for him. Something that traversed the chasm of pain and enmity between them, surpassing even the threat of his vengeance. It was understanding, and something stronger still.

Something she felt almost certain had to be...love.

“I wish I'd never met you,” she whispered, then rolled away from him onto her side.

* * *

Gunnar felt the soft tremors ripple through the mattress as she wept quietly beside him. He quelled the urge to comfort her, trying to shut her out, to gird his heart and be the man he had just claimed to be.

Fear her? Aye, he did, more so now than ever. Because in that moment, that space between one hitching heartbeat to the next, he could envision himself holding her.

Loving her.

Losing her.

And so he lay beside her in the dark, willing his arms to stay at his sides while he remained awake, not daring to move until her body stilled and her breathing deepened, and then for several hours more, cursing fate and her father for throwing them together, and damning himself for caring.

Chapter 14

Raina came fully awake as a shaft of sunlight caressed her cheek and warmed the length of her bare leg, which stuck out from beneath the coverlet. She knew she was in Gunnar's bed; would have known it even if she could not smell his scent all around her. She feigned a stretch to determine whether he still slept beside her and found only a cool expanse of bedding.

She sat up then and peered about the room.

He was gone.

A fresh tray of food sat perched at the end of the bed and, feeling famished, she reached for a wedge of cheese. On a table across the room, a basin of clove-scented water beckoned. Gunnar had obviously taken it upon himself to see that she was fed and comfortable, and further, that she could enjoy a bit of privacy as well. Raina washed and ate, thoroughly contented and trying in vain to suppress her feelings of gratitude.

Finished seeing to her personal needs, she had just gathered up her mending when Gunnar's voice in the bailey drew her attention, along with the sounds of men's laughter and the clash of swords, now familiar. This morning, however, it was not the usual, chaotic clattering of a dozen weapons meeting in practice, but rather the measured duet of two swords. Curious, she rose and went to the window.

The knights had gathered in a circle watching two men spar. There was no mistaking Gunnar's large frame. He wore no mail nor helm, as did his prudent opponent. Despite the suit of mail, she recognized the lanky build of his challenger at once--Alaric.

She was about to call out to him, to wish the lad well in triumphing over his swaggering, cocksure lord when Gunnar stripped off his tunic.

Mother Mary, would she always be so affected by the sight of him? she wondered, spellbound, watching him move.

With his raven hair wild about his shoulders and his strong arms effortlessly swinging the heavy blade over his head in a show of skill and form, he looked every bit the pagan warrior. His deep voice, calling out instructions to Alaric, resonated off the walls of the bailey as he parried and easily lunged out of the reach of the squire's blade.