Rexanne Becnel (5 page)

He lowered his face until it was level with hers and stared intently at her tear-streaked face. “The dead are buried. The rest are recovered. But Oxwich is without either lord or lady, and you are now its rightful heir.”

Joanna heard his words but after the shock of his other revelations, this last one was too much. She could not respond as she stared into his shadowed face. She? Heiress to Oxwich? It was ludicrous! It was beyond belief!

Without warning she began to laugh at such an impossibly ironic situation.

Lord Blaecston’s brow lowered at her unseemly mirth, and she felt his hands tighten on her arms. Yet she could not stop her hysterical reaction to his words.
She
would inherit Oxwich—a woman unworthy of such an inheritance? Hadn’t her father deplored just such a possibility? Hadn’t he made her mother’s life a hell on earth and driven her to desperation in his demands for a more fitting heir—a son? Her saintly mother had sinned against her church and her God when she had made that profane leap to her death. Though the priests had deemed it an accident and buried her as was proper, Joanna had always known the truth. Her father had accused her mother of some inexplicable shortcomings, but Joanna knew those were not her mother’s great failing. Her mother’s true sin had been to take her life—and to abandon a child who had needed her so much. And now her father’s cruelty was proven all for naught, for the daughter he’d judged so unfitting was to gain Oxwich after all. Only she didn’t want it.

Tears stung her eyes anew as she drew a shaky breath. On her face was a grim parody of a smile. “Forgive me sir, I am … I am taken aback.”

“So it would seem,” he remarked coolly. “Laughter was hardly the reaction I expected from such sad news.”

Joanna jerked out of his grasp as if he had struck her. “You do not understand—” Then she broke off, unwilling to share any of her pain with this stranger and unable, in any case, to give words to her feelings. “Thank you for the diligent execution of your duty, Lord Blaecston. As I said, however, I should now like to be alone.” She stared at him aloofly. “Unless, of course, there’s something else.”

Joanna did not flinch beneath the hard stare he gave her. But at that moment her original assessment of him was reinforced. Although he had comforted her in her first shocked reaction to his news, there was no trace of kindness on his face now.

His brow was wide, his face lean with a straight, proud nose. He would be a handsome man, the aberrant thought came to her, if he would smile. But his expression was fierce now, and it made his strong face harsh and an already intimidating demeanor menacing. In the deep shadows cast by the cedars he was tall, dark, and intense. Not a man easily dismissed.

Then his gaze flicked over her once more with that impudent awareness she’d sensed so briefly in Sister Edithe’s chamber, and her caution wavered under her instinctive outrage at his intentional rudeness. Before she could respond with an appropriately cutting remark, his lips curved up in a taunting smile.

“Never may it be said that I kept a troubled soul from her prayers. When you are ready to depart for Oxwich I am at your service. However, we must leave no later than the day after tomorrow.”

“Depart for Oxwich!” Joanna stared at him as if he were quite mad. Then her expression became bitter. “I have
no
intention of returning to Oxwich Castle.” She lifted her chin and stared at him, conscious of the enormous sense of relief that simple statement gave her.

“I’ll never return there,” she added as she purposefully shed the last of her ties to her old home. “If you came here with the thought to return me to my father’s house, I thank you for the kindness you intended. But it is my plan to take up the veil. My father’s death and that of his heir do not change that whatsoever.”

It was his turn to stare at her dumbfounded, and Joanna’s mouth lifted in a faint smile. “I know this is not what you expected, Lord Blaecston. No doubt you thought to find me eager to return to Oxwich. To be mistress there.” She shrugged, then took a deep breath. “I do not know who should be next in line. There must be a cousin or … or someone. And even if there is not, the king will undoubtedly have someone deserving of such a grant.”

It was her final words that brought Lord Blaecston from his silence. But though his words were cool and reserved, she sensed that she had somehow angered him greatly.

“I think it is too soon for you to make such a decision. Perhaps after your prayers you will be more composed.”

“’Tis my intention to become a sister of the Gilbertine Order, Lord Blaecston. Oxwich ceased to be my concern five years ago.”

“Your commitment here is not final, and your duty to Oxwich and your family is clear.”

“You are wrong in that. I
have
no duty to Oxwich,” she snapped at his unemotional words. Then she calmed herself. “’Tis true that my vows are not yet taken. But my decision is made.” Once more she smiled at him. “Now, if you will leave me to my prayers.”

The tension that gripped him was obvious as he towered over her, and she felt a momentary twinge of panic. But then he bowed, a brief perfunctory display of manners.

“As you would have it, Lady Joanna. However, I would discuss this matter with you once more on the morrow, if you would be so kind.”

“I shall not change my mind.”

His gaze narrowed. “Even though Oxwich go to the vilest of the king’s lackeys?”

“King John and his lackeys are not my concern. Just as Oxwich is not yours,” she answered. Then her hard-won composure slipped and her voice trembled with emotion. “I would not care even should the king level Oxwich Castle to the ground!”

For another long moment their eyes clashed across the tense span of the little clearing. Then he nodded curtly, turned, and left her to her unhappy prayers.

A scowl darkened Rylan’s brow when he vaulted over the stonework fence and into the horse pen. He strode toward the small group of war-horses without hesitation, unfazed when most of them shied away, for the one horse he sought did not move. He leaped onto the animal’s back, then with only his knees he began to put the steed through its paces around the inner perimeter of the compound. Over and over they made the rounds, at a trot, at a canter, and at a death-defying gallop, given the moderate size of the pen.

The lowering sun had touched the horizon and glinted gold off the dark-forested hills to the west before Rylan and his destrier ceased their determined exertions. Though the air was crisp in the breeze off the sea, both man and beast were damp with sweat from their drills. Around and around the irregularly shaped enclosure he walked, leading his horse as he went.

By the time his destrier had cooled down, Rylan’s mood was much lightened, considering the black temper he’d been in after his discourse with Lady Joanna Preston. That difficult minx had in one easy breath upset his well-laid plan, and in so doing had thought herself finished with the subject. But she sorely underestimated him if she thought he would so easily allow Oxwich—and thereby Yorkshire—to slip into John Lackland’s corrupt hands. The king had cost him his father and two brothers in the wars with France for Normandy. His mother had not survived even a month when the news of the slaughter at Valognes had reached her.

He had thought he would also die from his wounds. Only his bitterness had sustained him. That and his vow to see England wrested from John’s incompetent hands. Yorkshire at least stood firm now against the king. And his own coming marriage to Lady Marilyn would strike a serious blow to John, for John thought to wed Egbert’s sole heir to his own cousin Robert of Short.

Yes, everything was coming together. There was no way he would allow this slip of a girl to ruin everything.

He rubbed his destrier’s velvety muzzle absently as he considered Oxwich’s reluctant heiress. She had been adamant about becoming a nun and forsaking her inheritance, he was convinced of that. He’d thought that after five years in the dreary surrounds of St. Theresa’s she would be eager to leave. Then when she’d laughed so uncontrollably, he’d been sure of it. But her laughter had been hysteria, not delight. She had vowed to stay at the priory and, moreover, had displayed a considerable temper—especially when he’d let his gaze rake her entire body.

He chuckled at the memory of her outraged expression. No doubt she had not encountered many men, tucked away as she was at the tip of Flamborough Head, for if she had, she would most certainly be familiar with such glances. She was a comely one—no argument on that point—with wide brow and clear green eyes and skin as fair as a babe’s. He would find no resistance from either of the gallants he was considering for her. One look at those thick lashes and her long curling hair, and they would draw swords against one another for her hand. Though her clothes were rough and plain, Rylan had an experienced enough eye to have noticed the narrow waist and generous thrust of her breasts against the coarse wool bodice of her tunic.

The only difficulty Lady Joanna would present to her future husband was her ready temper. But then, once she was wed, that would not be
his
concern, Rylan decided.

With a firm pat on his horse’s withers, he sent the animal back to the others. Then he turned toward one of his men who waited patiently for him beside the stone wall.

“Trouble?” the man asked as he unfurled his huge body from its relaxed position.

“Only a change of plans,” Rylan answered. “Nothing more than that. It seems our meek little dove does not wish to claim Oxwich, Kell. She prefers the life of a nun.”

“Some do.”

“Some do, yes. But she’s been here since she was a child. She knows nothing of the outside world. Once she tastes the freedom—and the power—she’ll have as a mistress of her own castle, I warrant she’ll change her tune.”

At the taciturn Norseman’s raised brow, Rylan became more serious. “No matter her wishes, she
must
marry to ensure Oxwich is kept free of the king’s spider web. I have no doubt she will one day thank me, but I don’t presume to think it shall happen in the next few days.”

“She’s not yet a nun?”

“Not yet, which is our good fortune, else she’d be hounded all her days for marrying. Not even Father Govan would dare marry a nun, no matter how much gold I rained on him. As it is, it shall be difficult enough gaining her verbal consent.”

“Withholding food will work,” Kell retorted with the flat assurance of one who knows. His unemotional suggestion brought a slight frown to Rylan’s brow.

“I hope not to need such measures as that.” Then he glanced around the priory yard, grown long in shadows as the sun withdrew. “I’ll speak to her tomorrow, though I doubt she is likely to change her mind. Meanwhile I’ve a plan in mind that will allow us to take her quietly. We will be well away before any alarm can sound. And once I have her in my custody, there will be nothing our
good
king can do about it.”

“T
HE GENTLEMAN WISHES TO
speak with you,” Winna informed Joanna the next morning. Curiosity—and a trace of belligerence—colored her voice, and it irritated Joanna at once.

“I am occupied, as you can clearly see,” she replied, refusing to look up from her closework. Yet despite her attempt to concentrate on the silver and gold threads she was working with two needles on a rich burgundy panel of Tartaryn cloth, she promptly pricked her finger. “Sweet mother—” she muttered. Then she jerked her eyes up to the still-waiting Winna.

“I said I was occupied. Did you not hear?”

“I heard,” Winna answered smugly. “Though methinks you are quite the fool to ignore such a man as he.” With a last arch look she smoothed the coarse fabric of her gown and sauntered from the room, clearly well pleased with herself.

That woman! Joanna fumed as she sucked the tip of her finger. She was a hussy and quite unashamed of it! Yet Joanna knew at the same time that it was not Winna or her unseemly behavior that had her so unsettled. It was that man.

The whole of the previous night she had lain in her cot, unable to sleep, recalling over and over her brief yet emotional audience with him. She had set him straight, she reassured herself. She had made it perfectly clear that Oxwich was no longer her concern and that the king could grant it to the devil himself if he were so inclined and she would not care at all. Yet she had the distinct feeling that Lord Blaecston had no intention of letting the subject go so easily.

In grim silence she railed at her father who once more plagued her.
Are you to haunt me in your death even as you tormented me during your lifetime?

With a resigned sigh she let her embroidery fall to her lap. Her father was dead. The news had taken her completely by surprise, yet beyond her initial shock she felt nothing. No sorrow. No anger. She only felt empty, as if she’d been drained of all ability to feel. She was empty and adrift with nothing to anchor her any longer.

Yet that was not precisely true, she told herself. She had St. Theresa’s Priory. It was her home now, the place she wanted to be. No one could force her to leave now and she should take comfort in that.

But even that could not ease the ache that suddenly welled up within her chest. Though it went against all logic, she was overwhelmed with acute loneliness. Not since her mother—

Joanna shook her head, refusing to allow that memory to surface. She had been lonely then, yes. She had hoped to die herself in the dark days that followed her mother’s death. But the news of her father’s passing did not begin to affect her so, she vowed. She was sorry for his second wife, and for his little son Eldon. But as for him …

Joanna rose from the workbench and moved restlessly toward the windows of the carrel. Sister Edithe had allowed her the seclusion of the prayer carrel for her work today so that she might mourn her loss in private. Instead, however, her thoughts had tumbled disjointedly, snatching at fragments of her childhood which she had firmly suppressed for many long years. And now Winna had come with a summons from that man.

At the thought of Sir Rylan Kempe, Joanna’s mind found a focus. How appropriate that word of her father’s death be conveyed to her by such a man as Lord Blaecston. Like most of his kind, he was arrogant and condescending. He even had the gall to think she should bother herself with his petty politics! How like her father he was, she decided bitterly. How alike
all
men were. The man beckoned and the woman was expected always to leap at his call.