Prisoner of My Desire (19 page)

She almost burst out laughing when she heard him suck in his breath. But when she brought one hand back to pat his buttock, he startled her by swinging around and pinning her with a look that for once she could not read. She gave him an owl-eyed look of innocence in return, which brought the tiniest curve to his lips before he recalled himself and glared a warning at her. She was supposed to be aiding him in dealing with Isabella’s confession, not distracting him from listening to it.

And then they both noticed the sudden silence behind them, just before Isabella asked impatiently, “Warrick, who
is
that woman?”

He turned back around. Rowena stuck just her head around his wide shoulder.

“She is my prisoner,” was all Warrick offered in answer.

“Lady Rowena of Kirkburough,” Rowena added at about the same instant, well aware that he would not have, and aware too that he would not like it that she did.

She was right. The rejoinder he came back with made her flinch.

“Lady
before
she became my prisoner. Now she is the wench who will bear my next bastard.”

Rowena sank her teeth into the back of his arm—hard—to thank him for that unnecessary disclosure. He moved not a muscle to acknowledge he had even felt it.

“I see,” Isabella said coolly.

“Do you finally? Good. Mayhap now you will explain why you found it necessary to follow me in here with this tale of childhood lovers when I expressly told you in the hall that I was not interested in hearing it. Think you that your love is a requisite of our marriage?”

The brutal coldness in his tone made Isabella pale even more. Rowena, behind him again, winced and felt a moment’s pity for the other woman.

“I—I had hoped to make you understand,” Isabella said miserably.

“Indeed do I understand. You love me not. I care not. Love does not happen to be what I require of you.”

“Nay, Warrick, you do not understand at all. I cannot wed you now. I—I am already wed to Miles.”

A long silence followed. Rowena was shocked. She could not begin to imagine what Warrick must feel.

His voice, however, was amazingly mild when he finally asked, “Then what do you here, with your father, who seems to think he brought you here for a wedding?”

Rowena stepped to Warrick’s side, too curious now to miss a word of this. The lady was wringing her hands, but Rowena was surprised to see that Warrick did not seem to be as disturbed by this news as he should be.

“When my father found me in London, Miles was sent to York on the king’s business, so not with me. I—I could not tell Father the truth. He had forbade me to see Miles again after he had refused his suit. He wanted you for a son-by-marriage. No one else would do.”

“Lady, I cared not for your father’s approval to wed you. ’Twas your consent I asked for, and you gave it.”

“I was forced to give it. For the same reason, I could not tell my father I had wed with the king’s blessing. Miles is Stephen’s man. I have given up much to have him, but he is all I want. But my father, he would kill me if he knew what I had done.”

“Think you that you have less to fear of me?”

Rowena was sure the woman was going to faint, so horrified did she become at that question. Rowena could have kicked Warrick herself for deliberately frightening Isabella. And she did not doubt ’twas deliberate. She knew him well enough now, and was too familiar herself with his ways of quick retaliation. Isabella, obviously, was not.

Seeing someone else being the recipient of
Warrick’s enmity was strange. Even stranger was her desire to defuse his anger for his own sake.

“You will like his dungeon, Lady Isabella,” she said into the tense silence. “’Tis really quite comfortable.”

Warrick looked at her as if she had gone mad. But Isabella just stared at her blankly, not understanding what Rowena was implying.

“Well, you
are
going to toss her in your dungeon, are you not, my lord?” she continued. “Is that not where you put all females while you wait to see if they are—”

“Rowena,” he began warningly.

She gave him a sweet smile. “Aye, my lord?”

Whatever he would have said would not come out while she was smiling at him like that. He made a sound of exasperation instead, but when he glanced at Isabella again, his expression was not as dark.

“So you hied yourself to London to wed your sweetheart?” he said to Isabella. “Tell me, my lady, was this your plan when you journeyed to me, or did it precipitate when I was delayed in meeting you?”

Rowena held her breath, praying the woman’s answer was not going to add another mark to her own list of transgressions. She was not that lucky.

“Miles had joined my escort that noontide. I had not seen him for months. I had been without hope. But when you were not there with your men, it did seem fortuitous—I mean—Miles and I, we saw it as our only—”

Isabella finally stopped, flushing furiously, but
added after a moment, “I am sorry, Warrick, truly. I did not mean to deceive you, but my father was so desirous of a marriage to you.”

It was uncalled-for, outrageous, but Rowena simply could not resist interjecting, “’Tis too bad he could not wed Warrick himself.”

She regretted the impulsive remark immediately. Levity was misplaced with such a serious subject. Warrick could not appreciate it and would be enraged with her. Isabella must think her crazy. And then Warrick burst into laughter. His eyes caught Rowena’s surprised look and he laughed even harder. ’Twas Isabella who did not appreciate it.

“How dare you make light of this?” she demanded of Rowena. “My father is still like to kill me when he—”

“Not if Warrick breaks your betrothal contract,” Rowena pointed out.

Warrick stopped laughing at that suggestion. “God’s blood, ’twould start a war. Better she gets the beating she rightly deserves and I assure Lord Reinard I am not aggrieved over the loss of her.”

“That does not relieve her plight,” Rowena reminded him.

“Do you imagine, wench, that her difficulty is now a concern to me?”

Rowena ignored that. “The alliance was good enough for you, my lord. Are your daughters spoken for, that one of them could not form the alliance in your stead—if the family has unwed sons?”

Warrick shook his head at her in bemusement.
“Get you gone about your duties, Rowena, ere you think to promise away my castle as well. This matter does not concern you—except for your own indirect part in it—which I am not like to forget.”

“Ah.” She sighed, unimpressed with the warning. “I see I am due for more of the dragon’s fire—”

“Go!” he cut in, but his expression was not daunting. In fact, it was just short of breaking into a grin.

She smiled at him for good measure and heard Isabella say before she closed the door on them, “’Twas an excellent suggestion she made, Warrick.”

“I am not surprised you wouldst think so, lady, as it solves your dilemma nicely. It does not, however, get me the son I desired.”

Rowena did not wait around to hear the lady renew her apologies. But she left wondering about the sex of the babe she carried. A son would be nice for a firstborn, but a son was what Warrick wanted. The question was, would a son gain her an offer of marriage, or guarantee her losing her firstborn child?

Warrick was not sure what complexity the wench was perpetrating on him, but he had already drawn the conclusion that he did not mind it. What Rowena hoped to gain with her strange behavior he could not guess. Not that it mattered. What he had planned for her would not change—well, mayhap only slightly, for he no longer had any desire to make her suffer. Her puckish wit was also a pleasant surprise. As solemn and determined as she had been at Kirkburough, he would not have expected a playful side to her.

Kirkburough—’twas not her town, nor would it be now. But for the first time, he wondered who Rowena was and where she had come from.

“Have you spoken to the lady yet about Emma?”

Warrick turned from watching his men testing their skills against Sheldon’s knights on the training field. For a moment he had no idea what his friend referred to—until he saw whom Sheldon was staring at. Rowena was crossing the bailey to the washhouse, her arms piled high with linens. So easily was she noticeable, her long braid glittering in the sunlight, her bright red chemise only visible at her neck, arms, and feet, but such a contrast to the drab dun bliaut she wore. In no conceivable way did she look like the servants around her. ’Twas almost ridiculous to call her so, yet he would continue to do so, regardless of how others saw her—or called her.

He was chagrined, however, that he had completely forgotten the new task he had agreed to give her. Obviously, when she was near him, his thoughts gravitated in only one direction.

“With Isabella’s coming and going, there was no opportunity—”

“Say no more,” Sheldon interrupted what was in truth a lame excuse. “’Tis appalling the treatment you have had from that family, and young Miles, the boy must be mad to think he could steal your bride and not die for it. ’Tis a shame. I know his father and—”

“God’s blood, Sheldon, do not put deeds to my hand that have not entered my head.”

Sheldon stared at him so incredulously, Warrick flushed to the roots of his hair. “You cannot mean to actually let the boy live after the ill he has done you. You? Are you feeling quite well, Warrick?”

Warrick was scowling before Sheldon finished, because his friend was absolutely serious in his concern. “I am in no wise addled, damn it. Merely do I not care overmuch that the lady is lost to me. The alliance stands, since I have now promised Beatrix in my stead. Lord Reinard is as satisfied as I with the end result. Verily, what have I lost but the lady herself, who was already bespoke in her feelings, so would no doubt have turned shrewish on me. In truth, I must thank Miles Fergant for his daring.”

Again Sheldon just stared, prompting Warrick to growl, “How is your arm, my friend? Grown as rusty as mine has these past weeks?”

Sheldon finally laughed. “Do I dare refuse such a pleasantly expressed offer?”

“I would not recommend it.”

“Then have at me,” Sheldon said, drawing his sword. “Just do not suddenly forget that you are forgiving the Fergant whelp. The last time you substituted me for one of your enemies, I did not rise from my bed for a fortnight.”

Warrick cocked a brow as he drew his own sword. “That bedridden time lengthens each time you make mention of it. Is it sympathy you seek, or a light practice?”

“The day you give anyone a light practice—”

Sheldon did not finish as he met Warrick’s first swing. The clang of their blades joined the others on the field, but soon only the two rang out as their men quit their own sport to watch. Rowena watched through the open door of the laundry, ignoring the bedding she had brought there to wash. Near the inner gate, a messenger who had
just arrived was now reluctant to deliver the challenge he carried, when he was directed toward the two seasoned knights hacking at each other in what appeared mortal combat.

High on the castle ramparts, Beatrix also watched her father, hoping he would trip or err in his offense, thereby making a fool of himself. She was so furious with him, she had already slapped two servants and caused her beloved Melisant to cry.

’Twas the horrid disappointment in having his betrothed arrive when Beatrix had begun to think Isabella never would, and expecting the worst, a wedding within days, only to be told a few hours later that her father was not to wed, that
she
was instead—and into
that
family. The Malduits might have been good enough for her father, but
she
could have aspired to a more lofty title, more power, more wealth, an earl at the very least. But nay, she was to have a stripling of a boy, only just knighted, who could not hope to inherit for many a year. She would not even have her own castle, but was expected to live with her father-by-marriage. ’Twas intolerable, and all because
he
decreed it so. She would,
must
make him sorry for it. That he would dare do this to her…

Warrick sat up slowly, his pride more bruised than his arse. Sheldon stood over him laughing, and with good reason. Never in Warrick’s life had he been taken so unawares, like a squire with his first wooden sword in hand. Damn that flaxen-haired wench and her eye-drawing red chemise, not to mention that de
lectable body it covered. He had no more than caught that flash of red out of the corner of his eye, just enough to be drawn into looking further—just enough for Sheldon to knock him off his feet as their blades connected low, the unprepared-for impact sending him backward, flat on the ground. And now she stood there, having stopped across the yard to stare at his ignoble position on the ground, looking as if she might be concerned, when ’twas more like she was fighting not to laugh, as Sheldon was doing.

“You realize, do you not,” Sheldon said, “that my prowess in downing the dragon will travel—”

“Go to hell,” Warrick grunted as he rose to his feet, but added with a tight smile, “Or better yet, do you care to try that again?”

Sheldon backed up, still grinning. “No fool stands before you, friend. I will take my laurels and quit whilst—”

“A messenger, my lord,” Warrick’s bailiff interrupted at that point.

Warrick turned impatiently to the messenger, noting that he was too clean to have traveled very far. He took the rolled parchment handed to him without the least change in expression to indicate that he recognized the seal.

The messenger waited to repeat the words that he had set to memory, but the Lord of Fulkhurst had no need of them, as he was reading the missive himself—or pretending to, the man thought, smirking to himself. He assumed this since the lord was not reacting properly to his
master’s words of challenge. He was no longer nervous either, after witnessing the Lord of Fulkhurst’s clumsiness on the field. The feared dragon of the north obviously depended on his men to win his battles for him.

The messenger was less sure of that opinion when Warrick met his gaze directly with the most chilling gray eyes he had ever encountered. The renowned dragon had a cruel look about him, too, damned if he did not.

“If your lord is so eager to die, I will oblige him, but at my leisure. You will have my full answer anon.” And with a wave Warrick dismissed the man.

Sheldon barely waited for the man to turn away before he asked with lifted brow, “Is it anyone I know whom you mean to dispatch?”

“You do not know him, but you have certainly heard of him. ’Tis d’Ambray, and with a new change in tactics. He now requests we meet at Gilly Field two days hence to end the war between us with individual combat.”

Sheldon whistled through his teeth. “The man must be as lacking in wits as his father was, to think you would not know Gilly Field is a ripe setting for trickery. I had heard the same challenge was issued to Walter Belleme, the old Lord of Tures. But when Belleme rode out to accept, he was ambushed and murdered. ’Twas how the d’Ambrays gained Tures and all it entails.”

“I am aware of that,” Warrick replied. “And I have taken that prize from his collection. I had even entertained the thought of letting him have
the peace he sued for—after Ambray Castle is lost to him.”

“So that is your next campaign, his own stronghold?”

“Aye, but obviously I delayed too long in the taking, giving him ample time to consider treachery as an alternative.”

“Mayhap, though you must admit, Warrick, that you are
not
an easy foe to stop once you set out to destroy an enemy. ’Tis well known that no one prods the dragon without getting burned. It has made more than one man consider murder instead of fair means to defeat you, especially when Stephen will not lift a hand against you.”

“Why should he? Half my enemies are his enemies, and he delights that I rid him of them without cost to him.”

“True,” Sheldon agreed, then asked curiously, “Were you serious, that you would not have destroyed d’Ambray completely?”

Warrick shrugged, looking again toward the spot where Rowena had stood, but was now gone. “Mayhap I am growing tired of constant war. Too many things have been neglected in the pursuit of it. My daughters have lacked proper guidance, my lands are barely known to me. God’s blood, I traveled warily across Seaxdale to reach Tures and did not even know ’twas my own fief. And I have neglected the getting of a son—”

“Oh, aye, and you are so old that ’tis nearly too late to—”

“Go to hell, Sheldon.”

The older man chuckled before his expression turned serious again. “I am sorry about Isabella. I know you were pleased in your choice of her.”

Warrick waved that aside. “Verily, I should be furious with the lady, and with her father for forcing her into deceit when he knew her heart was well set on another. But instead I feel almost—relief—to have it ended, particularly since ’tis plain that she would not have suited me as well as I had thought.”

“And mayhap you have someone else in mind already to replace her?”

It took a moment for Warrick to realize whom Sheldon referred to, but then he scowled. “Nay, you are mistaken. Never would I honor that little witch with—”

“Aye, you would—if she gives you the son you desire.”

A picture of Rowena with a babe in her arms came to Warrick’s mind and filled him with such longing he was shaken by it. But the precepts he had lived by for half his life had refused to let anyone escape retribution after doing him a harm, much less benefit in the end.

He shook his head adamantly. “’Tis inconceivable that—”

But Sheldon held up a hand, interrupting yet again. “Speak not words that you will then feel forced to adhere to.” And before Warrick did so anyway, he added, “I will see you anon, my friend.”

Warrick stared after Sheldon with his darkest scowl yet. There had been times when he had regretted that his manner kept him almost
friendless, except for Sheldon, who had known him from before his tragedies and understood what drove him. Then there were times when he was quite certain ’twas better to be friendless—like now.