Stuart, Elizabeth (4 page)

"Robert...
of Belavoir."

With
a gasp of unholy terror, Adelise gave up the quest for courage, slid to the
floor in a dead faint. Hawise dropped to her knees beside her mistress, weeping
and crossing herself, praying in a confusing, terrified jumble of English and
French.

Jocelyn
bit down hard on her lip and forced herself to breathe deeply. Robert de
Langley, King Stephen's Norman Lion, one of the most renowned fighting men of
their age. Her father had betrayed him, had taken his lands and stolen his
castles, had celebrated wildly when they'd heard he was dead.

Dead...
he'd been dead for over a year!

A
sudden draft of air rustled the wall hangings, sent the candle flames
flickering around them casting his face in glimmering bronze. "But...
you're
dead!"
she said wildly.

"So
everyone keeps telling me."

Jocelyn
raised her chin, gripped her dagger as if it were a lifeline. "Well
obviously you didn't believe them!"

Robert
felt an unexpected flicker of amusement. He didn't think much of women in
general, even less when it came to specifics. It was a lesson painfully
learned, as most of his lessons seemed to be. But the young woman facing him
was not at all what he had expected. Certainly not of a Montagne. He took his
time, looked her over carefully, for his attention, like that of his men, had
first been caught by the breathtaking loveliness of her sister.

The
girl was small-boned and delicate, coming scarce to his shoulder, with a cloud
of unfashionable dark hair swirling well past her waist. Her face seemed the
palest oval against that wild dark hair, with a small upturned nose and wide,
full mouth, her lips parting now as she drew in her breath. But it was her eyes
that made her unique, that brought a strange, haunting beauty to a face that
might otherwise have been considered plain.

Her
eyes were set beneath heavy eyebrows—dark, startling arches that flared against
milky-white skin. They were large and expressive, some light opaque color he
couldn't make out in the candlelight. Dark lashed, slightly slanting, they gave
her an exotic look, a foreign flavor— like some Saracen wench set down in
England.

There
was something else that made her distinctive. She was facing him across a naked
blade she quite obviously knew how to use. And though it was clear she was
afraid, she didn't show the slightest indication of backing down.

He
held out his hand. "Give me the weapon, madam. I assure you you'll not
need it. Despite appearances to the contrary, neither you nor your sister are
in any danger at the moment."

She
focused those unsettling eyes on him, stared as if she could see into his soul.
Then she raised the dagger, holding it so that the hilt made the sign of the
cross. "Swear it," she ordered.

The
words should have angered him. They didn't. "I so swear."

For
a moment they measured each other, then the girl lowered the weapon, holding it
out hilt first. "You're a man of your word, so I hear. If in truth, you
are still a man."

Robert
took the dagger, conscious of a disappointment as unsettling as it was
unexpected. He hadn't wanted her to give in. He'd wanted the game to continue.

He
tucked the weapon into his belt, making his voice deliberately harsh. "I
am flesh and blood, madam. Could I boast other powers, your father would have
been enjoying all the delights of hell this year past. I plan to send him
there, though, soon enough." He smiled sardonically. "By the usual
methods, however."

If
he had hoped to disconcert the girl, he had underestimated her. She merely
stared at him a moment, then turned her attention to the beauty on the floor.
Her sister was regaining consciousness, had begun to stir and moan softly.
"Have I your leave to see to my sister?" she asked.

"Certainly.
And for the love of God, quiet that one or I'll do it for you," Robert
remarked, nodding contemptuously toward the still-hysterical maidservant.

The
girl knelt and dealt with the situation summarily. She caught the young serving
woman by the shoulder, murmured a few words that were largely ignored, then
dealt her a sharp slap across the face.

The
hysteria was conquered abruptly, and the girl turned her attention to her
sister, pulling her into her arms. The girl met his eyes. "In jest you
asked for my terms, but I give them to you in earnest. That the castle folk
here be spared, the women especially protected. That we three might remain in
our chamber, that our door be repaired with..."

She
hesitated, glanced at his men who were still staring like starving men bidden
to a feast. "...with a bolt on the inside to insure our privacy."

If
the young woman's voice was cool, his was ice. "Let me share a lesson in
diplomacy, madam. One you obviously haven't learned yet from your lord father.
Never negotiate in good faith. It gives your opponent too great an
advantage."

He
put his hand to her dagger, settling it more snugly into his belt. "And
never surrender your own advantage until you are certain your terms have been
met. Yours are rejected, madam. The people of Belavoir are mine now, and I
assure you I need no tutoring on how to treat them, certainly not from a Montagne!
As for your door, I've no time or men to be squandered on foolish women's
fancies. I've sworn to your safety and that will protect you far better than
any thickness of good English oak."

He
turned and moved toward the doorway, aware of a rising unfocused anger, of a
quickening current of feeling he couldn't identify. He'd been wasting time here
and he didn't know why. Montagne's daughters were an important part of his
plan, but his men could handle things from here.

"My
lord of Geis!"

The
girl's voice was peremptory, hitting him like a lash. He swung around, his
anger unexpectedly coalescing, catching flame. "Don't call me that, madam,
for I no longer hold the county of Geis! My estates in Normandy are forfeit, my
title outlawed. I retain only what I can reclaim of the lands my family held
here. Lands your father and that hellspawn Chester pledged to protect, then
ravaged and divided while I was busy fighting Stephen's war in Normandy. Lands
our dearest sovereign didn't even deem it worthwhile to hold for me in my
absence."

He
drew in a breath to stem the familiar flood of bitterness, but for once it was
beyond his control. Montagne and his children had sat here in his castles in
safety, in luxury even, while he and his son had been hunted like animals
through Normandy and half of France.

Now
Adam was dead. He wanted someone to blame, someone to punish, and the only
available target was Montagne's daughter.

His
eyes traveled over the girl appraisingly, insultingly, lingering on her mouth,
her white throat, on the generous curve of her breasts. He sent her a smile,
one his enemies had learned to dread far more even than his frowns. "You
may address me as my lord or simply as Robert. Whichever you find appropriate
during our continued sojourn together. I expect it will be long and rather
boring. Perhaps together we can think of ways to make it more pleasurable. I
assure you, I am at your service..." He hesitated, smiled again. "Day
or night."

The
girl didn't flinch or even blush as he had expected. She continued to meet his
eyes evenly. "My lord, then," she remarked, unmoved by his sudden
outburst of temper or the calculated insult of his words. "I seek not to
tutor you, only to speak a simple truth. The people of Belavoir
are
your
people. They have remained so in their hearts, despite the fact that my father
has ruled these lands. They've made the best of what they had, a situation poor
folk have no power to amend. Do them no ill now because they were forced to
serve another master. You are legend to them, legend and dreams. Don't diminish
yourself in their eyes."

The
silence that fell was suffocating. It was difficult to breathe. Never had he
felt so small, so conscious of being in the wrong.

So
unequal to being a legend.

One
of his men shifted his feet. Another cleared his throat. Robert drew in his
breath. Whatever he had expected from the girl, it wasn't this. He hadn't expected
to come off the worse from an exchange with Montagne's daughter.

He
forced a smile. "Snatching a bit of victory from your defeat, madam? I've
a great deal of experience in the latter of late, very little of the former.
Perhaps you should tutor me after all."

He
turned his head slightly. "Roger, find Rolf outside in the bailey. Tell
him to stop his work on the stairway. He's to bring whatever he needs and
repair this door at once. Edmund, you and Gerard guard the hallway. No one
enters this room without my order. No one—including you. Aymer, see that
everyone gathers in the hall. These people should know by now that they've
nothing to fear. That I'm flesh and blood and no demon from hell."

He
glanced back at the young woman. Her face was a mask of alabaster, her haunting
eyes unfathomable, her thick hair falling like ebony silk to the floor. He had
an unexpected urge to plunge his hands through it, wrap it around his arms,
feel it against his bare flesh.

He
held himself perfectly still, aware that his heartbeat was quickening, that his
body was flushed and on edge in a way that had nothing to do with the recent
fighting. He wanted this woman, wanted her in a way that had the blood pooling
hotly in his groin, in the raw, elemental way men had wanted women since the
beginning of time.

He
swallowed hard, staring at the girl, forcing his breath to a normal cadence.
"We've matched swords, madam," he said at last. "I've won a
battle and now so have you. It will be interesting to see how the campaign
continues, for this war I will win." Then he deliberately turned and
strode out without looking back, his men scattering quickly in his wake.

For
a moment Jocelyn remained motionless, staring at the shadowy, splintered
doorway, listening to the sound of retreating footsteps. Then a violent
trembling seized her.

She
closed her eyes, holding tight to the still-shuddering Adelise. Robert de
Langley was an intimidating, overwhelming man! And something about him, about
the scorching way he had looked at her, shook her to the depths of her being.

"God...
dear God in Heaven," she whispered. "I thank you that we are
alive!"

***

He
had reached the darkened vault of the stairway before he realized he was
running away. Lifting a hand, Robert caught himself against the low stone
ceiling, halting his reckless, headlong plunge down the stair. In the darkness
behind him, Aymer Briavel skidded and slid into the wall, biting off a curse as
he narrowly avoided crashing into his lord.

Robert
grinned. He had never stood on ceremony with his men. They had been through too
much together, weathered too many hardships, lost too many battles, and laid
too many comrades to rest. He'd prayed with them, fought with them, whored with
them. And he'd never been hesitant to admit defeat, to own up to being in the
wrong.

"Tell
me, Aymer. Why in God's name can I face a full complement of Henry's best
Angevin knights without a qualm, but every confrontation with a sharp-tongued
woman sends me racing for reinforcements as if all hell's demons pursued?"

The
young knight laughed, as Robert had meant him to. It was best to keep things
light.

"She
was a bit unusual, that dark one. Took us all by surprise, my lord. But that
other, by the Mass! Did you note that other one? Best keep her locked up out of
sight, else every man here'll be sleepless and on edge for a month!"

Robert
laughed and resumed his descent at a more leisurely pace. "It's the
fighting that's got your blood up, Briavel—your blood and your cock. Best lower
'em if you can. Given a weapon, I'm sure that bloodthirsty whelp of Montagne's
would be happy to remove either or both. And in my opinion, she just might do
it. I'd say she's worth a round dozen of that other that's got you so
hot."

"Depends
on what you want her for, my lord. But a dozen? Sweet Jesu, I can't even bring
myself to imagine!"

The
man laughed again, made a crude soldier's comment, and Robert smiled and
continued down the stairs. It was the fighting and subsequent victory that had
roused them all. One conquest made men want another, and if women were
available the results were inevitable. But he'd never sanctioned plunder and
rape, and the men with him knew better. Especially here at Belavoir.

His
lips twitched again. Actually, he'd wager his last breath that they thought on
it a great deal though they wouldn't dare disobey. They'd wait it out, find
some willing camp followers or half-clean whores.

It
was something he'd have to look to himself. God knew, they'd been living like
monks for months. Since they'd slipped across the Channel and hidden out like
outlaws. He thought again of the dark-haired girl, of that glorious hair, those
unsettling eyes. Of how she would feel writhing and shuddering beneath him.

Montagne's
daughter.

He
blinked at the rush of heat the image evoked, at the taut, uncomfortable
expectancy centered in his groin. It would be such a perfect, exquisite
pleasure, satisfying the need of the moment, the vengeance of years.

Like
his men, he'd be thinking about it. What a shame that was all he could do.

He
took the last stair, pausing in the shadowy well and gazing out into the
torchlit hall. The room was large for a hall in England, though not nearly so
large as boyhood memory had painted it. He'd seen kings' castles and bishops'
palaces since then. But it was still a room that spoke of grandeur and wealth,
of decades of de Langley power and prestige on both sides of the Channel.

Where
most English castles were still little better than primitive wooden forts atop
palisaded earthen mounds, Belavoir had been built of stone. It was based on the
huge fortresses in Normandy and Aquitaine with comfortable innovations copied
from Saracen palaces his father had seen on Crusade. Roger de Langley had built
Belavoir to repulse all attackers and stand fast in his absences as he made the
rounds of his vast domains in England and Normandy. To stand fast for his sons
and his son's sons.