Margo Maguire (19 page)

“Your men, no?” asked Roger.

He nodded as his friend spoke of the accommodations for his men. Aelia rode in the midst of them, cloaked in Mathieu’s black mantle. Seated upon Sir Guatier’s battle horse, she looked small and weary. Guatier leaned forward and spoke into her ear.

Roger glanced at Mathieu’s expression when it became clear he wasn’t listening to him. “Is aught amiss?”

Mathieu braced himself against the torrent of sensations brought on by the sight of her. “No…you were saying?”

Roger frowned. “You looked as if you just swallowed a bad herring, Mathieu. Are you sure—”

“Certain.” He cleared his throat and turned away from Aelia and the men surrounding her. “What were you saying about the knights’ quarters?”

“You’re sure you want to keep the Saxon boy with your men, Mathieu?”

“Aye.”

“And Wallis’s daughter?” Roger asked. “She’ll be secure in a guest chamber?”

“She is resigned to go to London. We’ll have no trouble from her.”

Mathieu glanced in her direction once again and caught sight of her as she stumbled, but he knew better than to go to her, or watch as she ascended the stairs to the great hall.

“I’ve worked up a good thirst,” said Roger. “I say we stop in the wine shop before going back to the hall.”

Mathieu ducked under the lintel of the tavern and followed Roger. They took seats near the fire and soon a bushy-bearded Saxon brought a couple of mugs to them. He was followed by a young serving maid, who set a plate of bread and cheese upon their table.

“She’s a beauty, is she not?”

Mathieu looked up at the girl, who smiled and posed before him with her hands upon her hips and her breasts thrust forward. She ran her tongue over her lips in a blatant invitation. “Saxon?” Mathieu asked.

“Aye. The old man will not stand in your way if you’d care to take her upstairs.”

She was comely enough to tempt any man, but Mathieu was unmoved by her beauty, or her willingness to assuage his lust. He lifted his cup, but the memory of his last bout with too much ale made his stomach quake.

“’Twould take the edge off your journey, Mathieu. Do you some good,” Roger said as he took a long swallow of his own ale.

“I’ll decline for tonight,” he said, setting his cup aside. “’Tis nearly time to rejoin your lady wife in the hall.”

Roger laughed aloud. “I’m sure I misheard you, old friend.”

Mathieu muttered under his breath. There was no good explanation for his lack of interest in the Saxon woman. “It’s been a long day.” It had to be fatigue.

Roger clapped his mug onto the table and wiped his mouth. “Then mayhap I’ll do the honors myself,” he said as he stood, taking the girl by the hand and heading for the stairs. “Don’t wait for me.”

“Aye,” Mathieu said with a shrug. “If the maid is willing…”

Roger paused and laughed ruefully. “I forget myself,” he said, releasing the lass. “There is much more to show you, and then we shall return to the hall together.”

They walked to the gates as Roger explained what additional fortifications he’d made to them and the walls. “I don’t really expect trouble from the east,” he said, “but Hélène is still apprehensive here, so far from…well, from Rouen, to be honest. She did not care for London, and this land is remote….”

“Your wife is not content at Rushton?” asked Mathieu. He did not understand how the woman could be dissatisfied with her husband’s holding. ’Twas a much richer estate than the meager property Roger had held in Normandy. And here in England, he had no overlord but the king himself.

King William had made him a baron. ’Twas not unlike Mathieu’s own reward—plentiful lands and a beautiful, noble wife. He and Mathieu were the new lords of the realm and would build their houses in unison.

“Women,” said Roger, shaking his head. “They like their comforts, their entertainments. Hélène is far from her mother and her friends. And—” he shrugged “—she prefers them to me. To Rushton.”

“No doubt she’ll soon become accustomed to England. And you.” Mathieu hoped for no less with Clarise.

“Well, she’s happy now, overseeing preparations for
a fete in your honor. As I said, ’tis not often we have guests here.”

Mathieu scowled. He was in no mood for a celebration, but when they returned to the hall after dark, he discovered that Roger’s wife had indeed organized a grand feast.

The lady greeted him warmly, taking his arm to lead him to a table where bowls of fresh water had been set out for hand-washing. Roger followed them, and beckoned a footman to come and take their hauberks. When that task was completed, Roger urged Mathieu to take Lady Hélène’s hand and join the throng in the great hall.

The lady was beautiful, dressed in a rich gown of some fabric that flowed seductively about her legs as she walked. Her hair was dressed simply, and partially covered by a veil with small, sparkling beads sewn into it. She was as elegant as he remembered Lady Clarise to be, yet Roger had considered swiving the serving maid at the tavern. By the wench’s reaction ’twas clear Roger frequented the place often.

Mathieu did not dwell on his puzzlement over it as they entered the great hall and Roger’s highest-ranking retainers and a few women greeted them. Servants were busy lighting the candles upon the dais, and some served ale or wine to all who were present. Minstrels stood near the hearth tuning their instruments, but there was no sign of Mathieu’s men.

Or his Saxon captives.

’Twas no wonder Hélène had not adjusted to Rushton. There were very few ladies about, and every one of Roger’s soldiers seemed the raw and randy sort. Their warriors’ skills had not been in use for too long, and they were raucous and undisciplined, drinking too much and behaving like louts in the great hall.

“Come, have some wine,” said Lady Hélène, turning her back to them.

Mathieu took a goblet from her. “Where are my men?”

“I’m sure they’ll be here presently,” the lady replied.

“And my prisoners?”

Lady Hélène turned a brilliant smile upon him. “They’ve been dealt with, so you needn’t trouble yourself with them tonight, baron.”

Her words should have put him at ease, but they did not. “You found a secure chamber for Lady Aelia?”

“Of course. She will stay in my chamber tonight. ’Tis not often a high-born woman comes to Rushton.”

Her words made Mathieu inexplicably uneasy.

“What will happen to your prisoners when you arrive in London?” Hélène asked.

“I do not—”

“Likely the same as what the king did with the Wessex Saxons,” said Sir Bernard, Roger’s chief retainer. “He’ll have them stripped naked and driven through town.”

“As I recall, they were pelted with cabbages and the like,” added Roger with a laugh. “’Twas amusing to watch.”

“The meal is about to be served,” said Hélène, placing her hand upon Roger’s. “If you will escort me to the dais, husband.”

The lady sat between Roger and Mathieu, and Mathieu’s men arrived shortly. Each one made his bow to their hosts, then found a seat at one of the tables near the dais, as the musicians played a lively melody. Platters of food were set before them, and Mathieu could not help but wonder how Aelia fared, locked away.

Yet he did not ask.

“How do you find Ingelwald, baron?” Hélène asked. “Will you need to make many improvements, as my husband has done here?”

“Aye,” he replied. “The gates and walls sustained damage in battle. And the hall is primitive. It needs to be enlarged and improved, but beyond that, I’ll leave it to my wife to decide.”

“Ah, yes…Clarise de Vilot—she is my cousin, you know.”

Mathieu nearly choked on his wine, and he did not know whether ’twas due to Lady Hélène’s words, or the sight of Aelia, wearing an apron like the commonest of maids, serving platters of food to Roger’s men.

M
athieu nearly shot out of his chair to go after Aelia, but grabbed hold of the table to steady himself instead. He reminded himself that she was his prisoner, nothing more.

He blew out a breath and calmed down. “I assumed you had confined Lady Aelia to her chamber,” he said to Hélène.

The lady laughed. “She is a slave, is she not? And I had need of additional help tonight.”

“My lady, you overstep your bounds.”

Hélène’s cheeks flushed with color, whether in embarrassment or anger, Mathieu could not tell. “She is merely a Saxon, my lord. Likely to be hanged with her brother when King William sees them.”

Mathieu clenched his teeth. ’Twas unseemly to make anything of the way she was treated. Hélène was correct. Aelia was no more than a Saxon slave, and subject to the whims of the Norman nobility, whatever they may be, though he found that he no longer cared quite so much for the company of his Norman peers.

’Twould be best to turn his attention to the acro
bats who jumped and tumbled adroitly before the dais and let Aelia do whatever she was bade. Yet Mathieu could not take his eyes from her, watching as she moved among the tables with trays of food, pitchers of ale.

Mathieu sipped sparingly of his wine as Roger freely imbibed, laughing and clapping at the antics of the entertainers. Hélène sat back in her chair and watched dispassionately, as if it would suit her just as well to leave the company and retire.

“Where is the Saxon boy?” Mathieu asked the lady as Aelia left the hall.

“In the stables…sweeping floors, I imagine.”

“’Tis a recipe for trouble,” Mathieu muttered.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?” Hélène said.

“’Tis naught.”

Aelia never looked toward the dais. No doubt she knew he was there, but she refused to glance toward the table where all the Norman nobles sat. He took note of his men, sitting at a nearby table, perhaps vaguely aware of Aelia’s role as a serving maid, but most certainly unaware of Osric’s location. They should know better than to leave the boy to his own devices here.

Mathieu’s attention was drawn by an outburst of laughter in the crowd of men to his left. He glanced toward them and took note of a blond serving maid who was the brunt of their joke. Her long braid swayed as she pushed their hands away, but they grabbed at her and prodded her unmercifully.

She suddenly dropped the tray she carried, then turned and ran. ’Twas Aelia.

Lady Hélène tittered with laughter and beckoned a few of Rushton’s soldiers to come to her.

“The Saxon prisoner seems to think she is above
serving our men,” Hélène said. “Go find her, and show her what her place is.”

Roger roared with laughter, then kissed his wife’s hand. “Well done, my sweet.”

With tears of anger clouding Aelia’s vision, she ran through the cold until she reached the stable, but when she called to Osric, he did not answer. There was naught he could do to help her, but ’twould be a comfort just to see him.

She would not think of the Norman bastard, Fitz Autier, who had abandoned her. She did not care that he sat upon the dais beside Lady Hélène, listening to the Norman woman’s patter, and doing naught to rectify what had been done to Aelia. She shouldn’t have expected him to intercede for her. ’Twas clear he denied what he felt when he saw her, refused to acknowledge any connection between them.

Her one decent kirtle had been taken from her, and now she wore a rough, woolen rag given her by the old woman who followed Hélène’s every move. Aelia had been required to assist Hélène in dressing for her fete, and had been sent to the kitchens to assist the other Saxon servants in preparing for the Norman festivities.

’Twas not so terrible a fate. She should not feel like weeping just because Mathieu Fitz Autier had not corrected her situation. There could be no more denying she was naught but a slave.

Wagons and saddles, harnesses and other equipment were stored in the next building. Aelia looked for a lamp and called Osric’s name once again. She heard a voice behind her, but ’twas not her brother’s.

“There she is,” said a man at the far end of the corridor.

Three Normans staggered toward her, one carrying a torch. Aelia backed into the building and shoved the door shut in their faces. She hurried to the rear of the structure, but smashed her knee on something and could only stagger in pain as the three men sang drunkenly outside.

The door crashed open on its hinges and the Normans shoved their way in, laughing and staggering. Aelia retreated, hoping she would be able to find a door or window to escape the drunken louts. If they were inebriated enough, she should be able to get away from them.

But she could find no other door.

“Thought you’d evade us?” asked the tallest one, who swayed the most as he walked.

Aelia pretended not to understand him, and kept moving, feeling her way along the wall, searching for a shuttered window. But the men stalked her purposefully.

“You’re going to enjoy this,” said the one with the torch. He’d tossed it in the dirt in order to free his hands, then joined the game with his comrades. For that was what it was: a game to them. She was to be used and discarded the way Durand had used Rowena.

The men flanked her sides, and one of them grabbed her arm to spin her ’round and off balance. Another one yanked her toward him. Aelia swung a fist and caught him under his eye. He howled and knocked her to the floor.

The others laughed noisily as she kicked and pummeled him, desperately trying to push him away. “That’s it—pull off her skirts, Herve!”

She managed to turn over and start crawling on her hands and knees, but one of them grabbed her ankle and pulled her back. “No!” she cried, kicking again.

She reminded herself she’d been in more dangerous situations in recent months—she still had the wound in her neck as evidence. Somehow, she was going to survive this.

Their hands were on her clothes now, and one of them suddenly tore her gown from her legs. She screamed, though she knew her cries were of no avail. Surely no one would be able to hear them, and there was no one to know—or care—where she was.

The flickering torchlight cast them in shadows, and Aelia imagined them as demons biting and tearing, hurting her as they tore her kirtle from her body. All that was left was the threadbare chemise given her by Lady Hélène’s servant.

“Look what we’ve got here!” said one of them with a laugh.

As drunk as they were, the men were surprisingly determined against her struggles. They pinned down her hands, but when Herve flattened himself on top of her, panic gave her a sudden burst of strength and she managed to free one arm.

She shoved Herve and slammed her knee into his groin. He howled in pain, and when he rolled to his side, Aelia pulled his dagger from the sheath in his belt, slashing the first man who touched her.

“She cut me!” the Norman howled as she scrambled to her feet, brandishing the knife.

While Herve rolled on the floor, whimpering, the man she’d stabbed stood frowning at her in shock as the wound in his hand dripped blood.

Keeping the knife in front of her, and her distance from the attacker who remained unscathed, Aelia made her way to the door. The man made a sudden move to seize her, but she jabbed at him. He dodged away from her, taking a step back.

Aelia kept her eyes trained upon him as she backed through the doorway. But when she stepped outside, an obstacle blocked her path. ’Twas a wall of muscle and bone—another Norman.

“I’ve got you, Aelia,” Mathieu said, taking hold of her upper arms as much to steady her as to restrain his urge to destroy the three imbeciles who had ripped off her clothing and cornered her in this dark building.

Her skin was cold and she was shivering, but he felt a great shuddering sigh escape her as he pulled her back against his body. He did not insult her by asking her to release the knife, but set her behind him and faced her attackers, while she kept hold of the back of his belt.

“I’ll see you whipped.”

“Baron, she would have gutted me!”

“She unmanned me!”

“’Tis no defenseless maid who stands before us, my lord,” said the third man, the only one unscathed. “Her reaction was much too exaggerated for our horseplay. The whore doesn’t understand innocent fun!”

Mathieu backhanded the buffoon, splitting his lip and knocking him to the floor. “You three will present yourselves to your baron,” he said in a low and dangerous tone. “Tell him you assaulted my prisoner and—”

“But ’twas Lady Hélène who gave us the nod.”

“Said we were to put the Saxon wench in her place!” another added.

Aelia gave a mad shriek and lunged, but Mathieu caught her and lifted her into his arms. As angry as he was, he had to get her—and himself—away from these three before either of them committed murder.

The knife fell from Aelia’s hands when he tossed her over his shoulder. She kicked and pummeled him as he
carried her to the hall and up the first staircase they encountered. He gave her a sharp pat on her bottom. “Kick me again,
demoiselle,
and I’ll be forced to do violence.”

He was close enough to it already.

Her struggling did not stop, but when Mathieu reached the door to the chamber that had been given him, he kicked it open and strode in, dropping Aelia unceremoniously to the floor.

“You had no right!”

“Not to let you kill those men? Aye, I had the duty.”

She tried to shove past him, but he barred her path. A fire had already been started in the grate, and Mathieu saw her clearly for the first time in its flickering light. She wore naught but a sheer linen chemise that was torn and stained, and the scrape at her shoulder had started to bleed again. She looked like a warrior princess, fierce and proud.

“Duty!” She quivered with anger.

“Do you know what Roger de Saye would have done had you killed one of his men?” He shook her once, then pulled her into his embrace. “
Gesu,
Aelia…”

His mouth came down hard upon hers, but she resisted, pulling away from him even as she kept a death grip on his tunic. She turned her head, though her hands remained closed upon his chest. “I don’t want this, Norman!”

“Neither do I!”

She did not release him. With fire in her eyes, she pulled his head toward hers, and kissed him with a fierceness that took his breath away. He tipped his head to deepen the contact, tasting her anger and her passion.

He broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against hers as he caught his breath. “You belong to no other, Aelia.”

She fisted her fingers in his hair, and Mathieu felt the flutter of her pulse in her throat, the quickening of her breathing, and knew that her arousal matched his own. But he had no intention of rushing this lovemaking. His lust had burned too hot, and for too long. He would woo her, and seduce her until her nerves were as taut as bow strings.

Like his.

Her taste was intoxicating, more sensuous than any kiss he’d shared with more experienced women.

She began to untie the laces at the neck of his tunic, tugging the sherte away from his chest. Mathieu pulled it over his head, then slipped the torn chemise from her shoulders and lowered his mouth to her breast. The nipple responded to his tongue, tightening into a hard pebble. She made a soft moan and slipped her fingers ’round to his nape, holding his head in place as he slid his hands down her belly, to the very heat of her.

She was hot and moist, the hard bud of her arousal ready for his touch. Her knees buckled when he caressed the spot, but she placed her hands upon his shoulders and steadied herself against his intimate touch.

Mathieu turned his attention to her other breast, sucking and licking until she whimpered with need. It aroused him to know he was the only one who had touched her this way. He was the only one who’d roused her to the peak of desire, and he would carry her over the edge. He would own her, heart, body and soul.

Taking her hand, he pressed it against the front of his braies and shuddered with the painful pleasure of her touch. She was untutored and hesitant, but before night’s end, she would know about pleasing him, and learn the limits of her own pleasure.

Her eyes glittered in the firelight and she gazed up
at him heatedly. Mathieu was certain he had never seen anyone so beautiful.

Or so beguilingly innocent. She trembled with nervousness.

“No need to fear me,
ma belle,
” he whispered.

“I am not afraid of you, seignior.” She showed it by opening the belt that held his braies, and pushing them down his legs with his hose. But when he was fully naked, her eyes widened and she began to tremble again.

Mathieu did not give her time to think, but lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed, gently placing her in the center of it.

“So beautiful.” He kissed her then, deeply, as he slid one hand down her body, from her throat to her thighs. He’d never felt anything so soft or so fine as her skin.

He traced slow kisses down her neck, then pressed his mouth to the tip of each breast. Encircling her waist with his hands, Mathieu felt her flesh quiver at his touch.

She took his head in her grasp and guided him back to her mouth for her kiss. Though she was untutored in lovemaking, she’d learned from their earlier encounters.

And more.

Her tongue was hot and sweet as it darted into his mouth. She raked her nails over his shoulders, then down to his hips, pressing his body tightly against her as she moved restlessly upon the mattress. Mathieu took one of her hands and placed it upon the hard shaft of his arousal.

“Touch me, Aelia.”

She closed her hand around him, and when he groaned, pulled her hand away. “I hurt you?”

“No.”

Gingerly, she tried it again, and Mathieu placed his hand over hers, guiding her, showing her how to please him.

Her breath quickened as she made him burn, his flesh seething, pulsing with need. He pressed his mouth to her breast once again, sucking, laving the nipple with his tongue. He wanted to be inside her—now. Yet her pleasure was as important as his own.