LordoftheKeep (9 page)

“There!” she cried, pointing to a knot of men and women who
were shifting the remains of some poor soul’s shattered home. “Widow Cooper!”
She searched the crowd frantically for the five grandchildren.

The widow paused in her labors and turned, her face fiery
red from her exertions. Emma heaved a sigh of relief when she spied the widow’s
son, moving among those who rendered aid. Huddled nearby, the familiar faces of
his children gaped at the rubble like a row of crows on a branch. “Thank God,”
she said to Lord Gilles. “They’re safe.”

Gilles stilled his mount as the gelding shifted and danced
when Emma leaned over to touch her friend’s cheek. He forced his mind from her
bottom wriggling against him. He tightened his grip to hold her still as she
clasped her friend’s hands. A shiver, not brought on by the chill wind, coursed
his body.

“Praise God, yer not part o’ this,” the widow said, kissing
Emma’s hand.

Emma felt the heat on her cheeks. What must her friend
presume from her position in Lord Gilles’ lap? She stammered an excuse for her
actions when Lord Gilles cut across her words.

“Have you need of more help, Mistress? Is anyone trapped
beneath yon building?” He flexed his fingers about Emma’s waist, drawing her
tighter against his chest. Heat flashed up her cheeks.

“Nay, my lord, there’s naught but a few goats lost here. But
we’re in need of a few more hands to shift the stone as these people counted on
the goats to see them through the winter. Can’t let them rot.”

“You shall have what you need.”

Emma had but a moment to lift her hand to bid her friend
goodbye when Gilles wheeled his mount and made his way back to the crowd who
worked at the wall. In moments, he’d commandeered men who were doing naught but
gawking at the mountain of rubble. He sent them to aid Widow Cooper, then
turned his horse again.

Emma sat in the shelter of his body. Warmth radiated from
him. He’d drawn the edge of his mantle over hers. Every inch of her body was
aware of him, aware, most especially, of the nearness of his hands as he tugged
at the reins. He wore no gauntlets. His hands were red from the cold, and she
almost gathered them to her to rub them back to warmth. ‘Twould be an
impertinence…nay, a madness.

There was nowhere to put her hands. The most likely place,
the horse’s mane, had put them in his way as he plied the reins, shifting the
horse skillfully through the crowd. She kept them balled in fists instead, or
clutched her mantle’s edge. But the constant movement of the horse as Lord
Gilles rode about, calling orders, directing the workers, made her wobble
against him constantly. She wanted to hold onto him, but didn’t dare.

Again, he seemed to read her mind. “‘Twould be safer if you
held my arm. Should you fall off, you would suffer a grave injury.”

Gently, she locked her fingers about his forearm. She felt
the strength of him through the wet cloth of his sleeve, and knew immediately
that she had not the right to touch him. “‘Twould be safer yet to put me down,
my lord.”

“Aye,” he agreed. Emma wanted to bite her tongue, for he
looped his reins in one hand and wrapped his other arm securely about her
waist. In a moment, she was sliding back to earth. Her skirts tangled on his
boot and she fought them down. “Thank you, my lord, for helping me search for
my friend.”

Gilles reached out for her hand. Her fingers were cold as
they met his. “Go back to the keep and see that Mistress Sarah gives you a
warming drink and dry clothes. Tell her that if others have the same need, the
chests in Lady Margaret’s chamber should at least clothe the females.”

Lord Gilles held her hand as if she were a fine lady and he
a courtier. She felt breathless and, despite the disaster, she did not want to
relinquish her hold. “Rest assured, my lord, I shall do your bidding.”

She looked at her hand in his. An urge to bring his fingers
to her cheek made her draw back as if a snake had bitten her. Head down, she
whirled away. Lifting her skirts, she ran from him, her heart wild in her
chest.

* * * * *

Gilles, disconcerted, stared about his hall, which held
twice the normal number of folk. Roland joined him. “Quite a spectacle, is it
not?”

Gilles nodded, stripped off his sopping wet mantle, and
tossed it to Hubert. “I had no idea my wife had such a colorful array of
garments.” Dotted about the hall from high table to low, women sat in bright
silks and woolens. “Well, well,” he muttered.

“My Sarah was loath to take the weaver’s word that you
wanted to rifle Lady Margaret’s coffers, but when Sarah saw the pathetic garb
of the villeins you sent here with William, she did not really care if you had
offered the suggestion or not. You did suggest Lady Margaret’s clothing for these
unfortunates, did you not?”

Gilles nodded. “Aye. ‘Twas done as I directed.” He smiled
with satisfaction as a yellow gown he had particularly loathed on his wife went
by on a wench who most likely sold her favors at the village tavern. “That gown
always made my wife look bilious.”

Roland snorted. “I hope Lady Margaret does not return to
haunt you when she sees who is wearing it. The bodice does strain the—”

“Imagination?” Sarah finished with a cuff to her husband’s
arm. “You’ll keep your eyes in your head.”

Roland grinned, hugged her close, and nuzzled the warm skin
of her neck. “Aye. I’ve eyes only for you, my love. Could you not find some
filmy silks for yourself?”

“I’ve no need of silks,” Sarah said, sighing and leaning
against her husband.

Gilles coughed. Sarah slipped from Roland’s arms. She turned
her attentions to other matters with a grin. “Hubert has seen to a hot tub in
your chamber, my lord.”

“My thanks.” Gilles bowed, then crossed the hall. He looked
neither right nor left. His strength had been tested. Not the strength of his
body, but of his spirit. He wanted to hear no more of misery for a few hours.
In truth, he had need to cleanse his spirit before cleansing his body.

With that in mind, he made his way to the wall-walk that
encircled the high stone keep and connected with another walk running atop the
outer defensive walls. The wooden walk was four feet wide. He propped himself
on his forearms in a crenel, the gap between two merlons, and stared out to the
waters of the bay. The parapet was his favorite spot for thinking through a
knotty problem. The sentries did not trespass here when he appeared. They
respected his need for solitary silence.

The rain still fell in a light drizzle. Every muscle in his
body screamed with fatigue, but he dreaded sleep. He would see the dead in his
dreams, he was sure.

He breathed deeply and imagined the hint of lavender on the
air. A ghostly flutter of cloth caught his eye—not the sentry. He knew their
every step, their hours, their habits. From the dark shadows, a woman appeared.
The weaver. A flush of heat crept up his cheeks as he remembered how warm and
supple she had felt in his arms. How shameful to have his mind on his cock when
so much misery had been all around them.

“Mistress Emma.” He said her name softly. He nodded.

“Lord Gilles.” She dipped into a low curtsey.

She’d changed into a worn gray woolen gown. It was
ill-fitting and frayed at the hem.

“Forgive me for trespassing on your privacy,” she said. She
made no move to the arched entrance and the winding stone staircase that led
past his chambers to the hall below.

“You do not trespass.” He returned to his contemplation of
Hawkwatch Bay. He felt rather than saw her move close and stand on tiptoe to
look through the neighboring crenel. His thoughts spilled from his lips. “Does
not the bay appear as if it were a silver island?”

Her voice was a soft whisper in the night. “Aye.”

He imagined her saying aye to him in just such a way when he
asked her to come to his bed.

Emma cleared her throat. “My lord?”

He turned and faced her. They were near enough that he could
scent the wool of her gown, the poor soap she’d used to bathe. “Emma?”

“You saved so many this day. Should no one else say it, I
must. Thank you.”

“I but did my duty.” His voice felt rough, raw.

“Nay, you acted from within here.” She touched her hand to
the center of his chest. “Many would not have cared for some poor serf’s
death.”

A flame of passionate agony burst where her hand lay on his
chest. It was all he could do to stand still. They locked eyes.

Emma could not move. What had she done? She had touched him.
Yet she could not remove her hand. Her arm trembled. Slowly, Lord Gilles lifted
his own hand and covered hers. She felt the hard beat of his heart, felt the
warmth of him through the damp wool of his tunic. He pressed her hand against
him.

The flickering, smoky light of a nearby torch cast his face
in harsh shadow. She knew what character of man he was now. A man who thought
of others. A man who commanded, but yet did not crush those beneath him under
his boot.

“Do you remember accepting my protection?” Gilles asked her.

“Aye.” She nodded. Her mouth dried.

“I want you in my bed.”

A cold pain washed through her.
William had said much the
same. Yesterday. And today
. She jerked her hand from under his. A quick
step back and she bumped into the hard stone wall. With trembling fingers, she
clutched at the soft wool of her damp skirt. How could she have made such a
mistake? Tears rose and blurred him into a dark, formless shape.

The measured cadence of a sentry’s boots nearer, then turned
and moved away. “He will not trespass here,” Gilles assured her. She listened
to the fading sound of the man’s departure. The night became still save for the
whistle of the wind and the drip of rain from the roof.

Gilles blocked her flight by stepping in close. He cupped
her cold face in his hands. “You are lovely.” He rubbed his thumbs over her
soft cheeks. “Sweet. Yet loveliness and sweetness I can resist. ‘Tis something
else you have, some spell you’ve woven about me that makes me want you.” He
released her and turned away. How could he possibly tell her how drawn he was,
how captivated? “Nay,” he said it quietly, almost to himself. “Nay, it makes me
need you.”

Emma stood as if bolted to the wooden walk. Nothing lay
between her and the arched way to the hall, but she could not move. Of all the
reasons he might have offered, need she could not have guessed. He appeared to
be a man who had everything. Mayhap his words were ones of calculation, as
William’s had been. Before she left, she must make him understand. Just in
case. Just in case it was need that had made him speak. “My lord, I believe I
have misunderstood your protection. I paid my six-pence fine. It makes us even.
My crime is paid for. Do not seek to enter my name in your rolls again.”

Gilles jerked around at her words. “Is that what you think?
I want to shame you? I want to honor you.”

She shook her head slowly. A pain pounded in her temples.
“There is no honor in what you offer. If my father and mother lived, I would
feel no pride in my position. You see, I said vows I thought were forever, so
there is no role I can play here save mistress. It’s a fool’s role.”

He had forgotten her background. “I meant no insult. On my
honor, on my good name, I had no intention to sully yours.” They stood there in
silence for a moment. Then her words penetrated his utter disappointment.
“Vows? What vows did you say?”

She bent her head and folded her hands, yet he imagined the
flush on her cheeks. “I offered myself once, in exchange of a promise of
marriage, not, I regret, before others or a priest. Needless to say, the father
of my child denies his vows, denies his daughter.” Her chin came up, her eyes
met his. “See, my lord. I have already played the fool’s game. And though he
may deny his words, I said mine. And meant them. To say anything else makes of
my daughter a bastard. Pray, my lord, let us forget what has happened between
us.”

She turned and fled.

Gilles cursed himself for a clumsy fool. He’d botched the
offer, insulted her. He’d held her in his arms, touched the silk of her cheek,
breathed in her womanly scent. Madness would claim him if he did not have her.

The wind rose. It carried the salt scent of the sea. It
neither soothed nor cleansed. Nay, it swirled about him as his passions and
disappointment swirled through his mind.

He understood all about making a child a bastard.

Vows. Bloody vows. Pledged for eternity—to another.

* * * * *

Emma watched Angelique from the corner of her eye as she
worked at a loom in the far corner of the room. The men had accepted the child.
She tumbled in and out of a basket of yarn. Emma’s back ached. She worked from
dawn to darkness and fell into a troubled sleep each night. Lord Gilles visited
her dreams. She dreamt she could feel the heat of his skin, the touch of his
hands. There was no peace. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Time had
eased nothing, in fact, had made it worse. Each day strengthened her conviction
that he was a good man, one who cared for those beneath him.

“Sarah,” she asked her friend one day, “what think the
people of the keep of Beatrice?”

“Cock-struck. She’s little on her mind save what’s between a
man’s thighs. Poor Trevalin—and Hubert—they pant after her but haven’t enough
between them to hold her attention.” She held up her fingers spaced a few
inches apart and laughed.

Emma nodded. Cock-struck. Was that what she’d be called if
she gave in to temptation?

“Why do you ask?” Sarah swept Angelique from the wool pile
and dandled her on her knee.

“A woman has no respect if she lies with a man out of
wedlock.”

“‘Tis more like she has no respect for herself.” Sarah began
to tickle Angelique. The child’s squeals and shrieks drew all the other
weavers’ attention and allowed Emma a moment of red-faced shame.