The Bride Gift (5 page)

“Oh?” Bridget raised a brow. “Had your skirts tossed up then, have you?”

Helena’s face heated and she glowered at her nurse.

Bridget offered a smug smile, helped her into her bed robe and motioned for her to sit. While Bridget worked at her hair, Helena tried to concentrate on the soothing stroke of the comb through her locks.

“I shall not tell you what my mam told me on my wedding night.” Bridget gave a bark of laughter. “‘Tis a wonder my husband even got my thighs open after she was done with me.” She clucked her tongue and pulled the comb through to the ends of Helena’s hair. “Such a tall story about pain and blood and things ripping.”

“Ouch.” Helena grabbed the comb from Bridget’s hand. She would be as bald as a babe if the woman kept up her infernal tugging.

Bridget cleared her throat abruptly as she recalled to whom she was speaking. “None of which is true,” she added hastily and gave Helena a sharp pat on the shoulder.

Helena wished she could feel more reassured. Actually, she wished they weren’t having this conversation at all, but Bridget seemed determined.

“What you need to know is that ‘tis best if you can relax and, after a time, you will find it quite pleasurable.”

Helena made a rude noise.
Mayhap if I were the man.

Bridget coughed again. “Very pleasurable, in fact. At the very least, if he is no good, he will get it over and done with fast enough.”

“It matters not, Bridget.” Helena waved airy fingers. Her hand still shook and she tucked it back in her lap. “Because none of it is going to happen.”

“Eh?” Bridget’s eyes narrowed like a rousted badger.

“There will be none of it.” Helena raised her chin in a regal manner. “I will not be having any of it.”

“And why is that, my lady?” Bridget drawled and slapped her hands on her hips.

“Needs must, Bridget.” Helena gave her a repressive look, sensing the fight fermenting in the older woman. “I cannot submit. Else, I will lose any chance of marrying Colin. Unless Sir Guy drops dead suddenly and I do not see that happening. At least, not soon enough to make much difference.”

“And what do you think Himself is going to make of your grand plan?”

“I care not. I must remain a maid so I can have my marriage annulled and marry Colin.”

Bridget pursed her lips and motioned Helena over to the bed. “You were never going to marry Colin,” she retorted sharply. “Your uncle told me that himself. You just had some foolish notion set in your head.”

“Roger would have come around in time. He could always be persuaded to see sense.”

“You mean, he could always be persuaded to see things your way. And it matters not now. The deed is done.” She gestured to the bed. “All that remains, is this bit.”

“I intend to resist.” Helena scooted under the covers.

“Nell.” Bridget’s expression grew serious. “This is not a game you are playing, and that is not some callow boy you are playing with. It will go better for you if you just accept this and try to make the best of it.” Her face creased into a frown. “Do not be foolish, girl. In time, you may come to find a way to deal well with your husband, but that will not happen if you turn your bedchamber into a battleground.”

Bridget leaned forward and patted her cheek with one work-roughened hand. “It is the way of the world, Nell. Pick your battles wisely.” She suddenly cleared her throat noisily and stepped back. “Besides, he’s a fine looking man. Take my word, there be many a girl who would not mind a roll in the hay with your husband.”

“Then they can have him.”

In response, Bridget rapped her sharply atop her head with the comb.

Helena didn’t see any point in arguing any further. Mayhap Sir Guy would seek his bed elsewhere this night. Merry had been sniffing around him enough to tempt a saint.

Bridget chattered on as she prepared her for bed. Helena’s mind worked frantically all the while. An annulment was still possible. She understood what Bridget said, but it wasn’t in her to calmly submit. She just needed a plan and then all would be well again.

Bridget picked up the soiled linen and left, the door swinging shut behind her. Helena wriggled deeper beneath the covers. For certes, there was something she could do. There must be.

The hour grew late. Helena made a game of counting the flowers embroidered into the fine linen of the bed drapery above her. She was still no closer to formulating a viable plan. Around her Lystanwold was settling in for the night.

Her breathing was loud in the room. She must compose herself. She drew in one after another long, steady breath. There, that was better. Her fingers belied her ease, clasped into fists by her sides. She slowly stretched them out.

Voices echoed in the corridor. Male voices, deep and gruff. She tensed, stilled her breathing; concentrated on the sounds without her door. Boot heels struck against the floor and carried beyond her bedchamber. Her fingers curled into balls again.

A girl giggled and then hushed abruptly. It sounded like young Merry. The maid needed watching with all the new men in the keep. She would have a word with Bridget in the morning. If she survived this night. Bridget spoke of pain and blood and things tearing. Sir Guy’s hands were huge. He could split her between them like a ripe plum. She shuddered and tugged the covers up to her chin.

Silence.

Was that a creak? She held her breath and strained her ears. A log fell in the hearth. Helena shrieked and had to clap her hands over her mouth to stifle the sound. This wouldn’t do. She was behaving like a complete ninny. What she needed was a weapon, a means to defend herself.

A chest sat near the foot of her bed, one of Sir Guy’s. A knight would have such a means of defence, would he not? She pushed herself into a sitting position to better see the chest. It stood to reason a man of war would have something stored within that could be of use.

The rustle of bedclothes seemed loud in the silence of her chamber as she rose, then stopped and listened again. All was still.

She would have to be quick. It wouldn’t do to be caught in the act of digging through Sir Guy’s belongings. The chest was unbolted and she raised the lid. The faint scent of sandalwood escaped, and she took a tentative sniff. It was a pleasant, manly smell. Fine wool was soft against her fingertips.
Full of clothing
. Helena’s heart sank. She sifted through the top layer of clothing. There was more beyond that. How many pairs of chausses did one man need?

She closed the lid. Sir Guy didn’t travel with much baggage. Something gleamed from the hearth. Her heart gave a triumphant leap. There, laid neatly beside the hearth were his weapons. Geoffrey had been cleaning them earlier. And amongst them—
oh, merciful Heaven
—was a dagger.

Guy tilted his neck to one side and then the other. His shoulder ached like the devil. Roger wasn’t the only one grown too soft for a clamber up the side of a keep. His body needed rest. It had been a very long day, but he dared not take his ease yet. Not with Ranulf beneath his roof.
Jesu
, he was tired and beyond that door was a soft, warm bed. He almost wished he’d let Lady Helena’s archer put an arrow through the man.

They called her ‘Nell.’ They must be soft in the head. Nell was a plump armful beside a roaring fire. Not a fiery, sharp-tongued vixen who would have danced as she sent Ranulf to meet his Maker. Guy’s gut clenched. She’d stood, fearless and determined on the ramparts, her entire being intent on killing her foe. It chilled him to think what might have happened had he not stopped her. Stephen’s wrath would have been legendary had she killed Ranulf.

Still, she’d been a sight to behold, standing on the ramparts with her yellow hair streaming about her like a war banner. She was a beauty, right enough. Not a sweet, biddable damsel, but a magnificent pagan queen, all curves and fire. Guy snorted. His brother, Crispin, would piss his braies if he could hear that
. Magnificent pagan queen, indeed
. The woman was a nagging pain in his sore arse.

A door creaked and he was instantly alert. And here, unless he missed his guess, came his ‘arse ache.’

The dark beyond her solar was absolute, but she needed no light to know where she was going. As the hours crept past, it occurred to her that Sir Guy had found his bed elsewhere. She’d been in the act of replacing his dagger when another idea came to her.

In her hand she held the means to solve a far more pressing problem. Ranulf also rested within the keep this night. It took her mere moments to decide if she dared or not. Of course, she dared. Sir Guy had, unwittingly, become the instrument of her vengeance. Ranulf would die and by her hand.

The idea of killing gave Helena pause. She had never stabbed anyone before.
For Bess, I can do this
. Her sister’s life had been so cruelly cut short. Helena’s earlier anger rushed to the fore. Bess had died at the hands of that whoreson. This was her chance. She might not get another.

Her blood thundered in her ears as she eased the door wide enough to slip through the gap. She was about to take a life. The enormity of it struck her and for a moment her feet refused to move further. Murder was a mortal sin, regardless of whom. Sweat trickled down between her breasts and she shivered.

She inched forward and stopped. Ranulf was a big knight. She would have to strike sure and true, in the throat, just as Roger had taught her. Panic made her mouth dry, and she licked her lips. What if he woke as she poised over him with the dagger raised?

Her heart began to gallop against her ribs.
Coward or avenger, which am I?
The darkness dipped and swirled and she took a deep breath to clear her dizzy head.

‘
Murderer!
’ her conscience screamed, even as her shoulders slumped. The hand clutching the dagger weighed heavy against her side. She couldn’t do it. She was too craven to avenge her sister’s death.

The darkness shifted suddenly and her heart leapt into her throat. She opened her mouth to scream, but a large palm fastened over her mouth. A solid wall of muscle pressed against her back. The smell of sandalwood surrounded her as hard fingers closed over her wrist.

“Nay,” a voice whispered, one she was beginning to hate. Her momentary relief that it was not Ranulf restraining her quickly became a surge of bitter anger. She wriggled furiously against his hard length, but he held her fast.

Relentlessly his fingers pressed into her wrist. Sharp pain shot up her arm. Her fingers opened to drop the dagger.

His massive hand against her mouth muffled her cry. He released her and she swayed on her feet before regaining her balance.

Guy bent and grabbed the dagger from the floor. Helena fumed in feeble silence as he tucked it securely into his boot. He stepped back into the darkness; she could just make out his dim form as he took up his position against the wall again.

He’d been skulking in the dark, watching her. Helena glared at him, a murky shape in the shadows, as he lowered himself to the floor and stretched out his legs.

He had her dagger in his boot. Actually, his dagger, but she’d appropriated it as the means of her revenge.
Blast.

Though she could not see his eyes, she felt his stare burn as the sun would on her face. “Sleep,” he rumbled. “I will guard.”

She whirled about and returned to her chamber. She wasn’t glad he watched out for her. Or relieved that he’d stopped her. He was an overbearing oaf. She eased the bones in her sore wrist. He would stand guard outside her chamber. Over her. She could still feel the press of his hard chest against her back as if he were branded on her skin.

She shut the door and dropped the bar into place.

Loudly.

Chapter 6

Oddly enough, Helena slept well, only to awaken to the sound of Bridget’s grousing. The old woman was at her most peppery in the morning. Helena lay still for a moment, her mind slow to absorb all the details of the previous day. And night.

“Awake, are we?” Bridget laid out a washcloth.

Sunlight streamed through her casement as Helena sat up. “It appears late,” she commented.

“For some.” Bridget sniffed. “Sir Ranulf left shortly after sunrise. Sir Guy said to let you sleep. What do you make of that, then?”

Helena slipped out of bed. She wasn’t going to make anything of that.

Guy had remained vigilant outside her chamber through the night. She would need to think on that. True, he’d stopped her from taking her vengeance, but she was a tiny bit relieved he had. It spared her the disgrace of being too cowardly to stab Ranulf right through his black heart. At the same time, it bothered her. Had he been merely watching to see she was safe? The way he was invading every part of her life didn’t please her.

“I must dress.” She padded over to the water basin and plunged her hands into the washing water. The shock forced a gasp from her. Bridget hadn’t seen fit to take the chill off. The water was still biting cold from the well. Helena held her breath as she splashed it over her face and neck.

“He is in the practice yards,” Bridget offered as she helped Helena to dress.

“Hmph.” Helena feigned indifference.

“I thought you might like to know, as he did not spend the night here.”

Helena ground her teeth. She should have known Bridget would not just let it be. “He stood guard,” she returned blithely.

“Did he, now?” Bridget fixed her with a stare.

“I found him lurking outside my door,” Helena huffed indignantly. It galled her how easily he’d disarmed her and sent her back to her bed, like a wayward child.

“Verily?” Bridget brought her hand to her chest and sucked in a loud breath. “He stayed awake to guard your door, throughout the night? The dreadful fiend.”

“Oh, be silent.”

The hall was empty except for two older serving men laying fresh rushes. Helena greeted them and made her way down to the bailey. The bright sun stung her eyes.

The clash of weapons rose from the practice yards. The young maid, Merry, and every other female occupant of Lystanwold it would seem, clustered about in a gaggle. The men were at arms practice. Not an unusual sight in a castle such as Lystanwold. Except this morning, there were more than double the usual number, most of them young and able bodied.
Very able bodied
.