The Virgin Proxy (12 page)

She ran for the door. Although she fully expected to be chased down, they let her go. She could hear Devaux laughing as she stumbled shakily down the corridor back to the women’s chamber.

* * * *

“It seems she dislikes the idea of sharing,” said Thierry, pouring himself some wine.

Guy pulled on a fleece-lined robe and belted it. “She will come around to the idea. In time.” He and Thierry had always shared women and there should be nothing special about this one to prevent it. But he would not force her. “She’s skittish. A wild pony.”

“So I see. A virgin?”

Guy did not answer that. He hadn’t told Thierry how the Saxon woman took his wife’s place in the bridal bed. She had yet to confess the truth and he needed to hear it from her lips before he spoke of it to anyone.

Guy sensed, for the first time in twenty years, that they both nursed a secret. He remembered Thierry had sat close to the woman at supper twice now and showed a lively interest in her conversation, not just her titties. He cleared his throat and walked back to his couch. “Are you certain
you
want to share, Bonnenfant?”

“Of course. As you say, she is just another Saxon peasant girl.”

Still no eye contact.

He felt a quick spur of annoyance. If Thierry had deeper feelings for this difficult and challenging woman then he was a fool. One wench was much the same as any other; he kept telling himself that, as he poked at the fire and drank his wine.

So she was angry with him now. What of it? He’d make amends tomorrow.

Chapter Nine

“She said you can have it back, my lord,” the guard muttered nervously, placing the filigree cuff in Guy’s palm. “She said she wants nothing from you, my lord.”

His first thought was to chase her down and demand an explanation. Second thought was to let her boil away in her own anger. Let her worry. Let her wonder what he would do to her for this disrespectful behavior.

His anger—already vast that day, at everyone and everything—suddenly over-flowed. Thierry was there with the Saxon wench, chatting again in an easy, familiar manner. She had forgiven his friend it seemed, for last night’s incident. No doubt she blamed it all on
him
, even though Thierry was complicit in the scheme. The two stood by a dappled grey mare, the wench feeding it carrots while Thierry rubbed its muzzle. Their hands had almost touched again.

“Woman, what are you doing here?” It seemed as if the very thing he’d feared had come to pass; the acquisition of a wife had brought other women here to invade his male dominated space. Particularly this woman who tricked him, cursed him, aroused him with one sultry glance and made him feel a fool.

Her reply was pert. “Feeding the horses. What does it look like?”

Fury snapped out of him, “Do not address me in that disrespectful manner. This is no place for you. Why do you not tend to your mistress?”

“She does not need tending.” There was no fear in her face, no backing down.

Again his admiration for her stirred, although he was all too aware of Thierry watching curiously, waiting to see what he would do. “Go inside.”

“But Thierry offered to take me out for a ride.”

Now he was just as furious with his friend as he was with her. “You are a distraction to my men.” He inhaled a sharp breath. “And you are under my feet, in
my
way.”

“Then walk around me.”

He stepped closer, fists clenched at his sides. The horse whinnied, ducking its head, shaking its mane.

The woman stood her ground. What happened last night, it seemed, had given her brazen attitude an extra push, made her even more heedless of his orders. Abruptly he realized it had given her more cause to despise him.

But when he stared into her eyes he saw they were reddened, her eyelids a little puffy.

His actions had hurt her.

A strange cold emptiness lay in his gut and he didn’t like it. He looked to blame anyone else but himself. Rounding on Thierry, he exclaimed, “Why are you here? Have you naught useful to do?”

“The lady is fond of horses it seems,” the other man replied genially. “We were just talking about her childhood and how sheildhood ait”

“
The lady
does not go outside the gates. If you have nothing else to do, Bonnenfant, I can find you something.”

The woman exhaled a heavy sigh and pushed between them, leaving the stables with her mantle fluttering behind her, a fulsome oath muttered into the breeze.

Guy whirled around to face his friend. “I don’t trust that woman. She is not to go outside the walls, do I make myself clear?” It was the first time he’d ever raised his voice to Thierry, the first time he’d ever pushed his role as lord and master over their friendship.

“
Apologize!
” Guy roared, something snapping in his temple. “I see she knows how to play you, Bonnenfant. Be wary!” He swung away and then stopped, too hot to let the matter rest. He strode back again. “She’s only fluttering her lashes at you so that you’ll let down your guard,” he added, softening his tone, patting his friend on the shoulder. “I’m sorry to tell you this, as I now see you harbor some silly fondness for her, but the woman is clearly out to cause trouble here and I suppose she pays attention to you because she found a weak spot in your conscience.”

Thierry leaned away from that patronizing hand and propped his shoulder against a beam. Silent, he observed his old friend through narrowed, wondering eyes.

Guy cracked his knuckles, for want of anything else to do with his restless hands. “I thought we could ride today in the tiltyard. It’s been a while since we practiced in the lists.”

Thierry pushed away from the beam, arms folded, standing tall. “Excellent idea. The ladies can watch.”

Nodding, Guy turned and walked out of the stables.

The first thing he saw outside was that dratted Saxon wench up on the battlements, her curved shape silhouetted against the cool blue sky. She had not gone inside as he commanded. Further, she was up there again, where he’d expressly forbidden her to go.

* * * *

She heard him coming, but kept her face turned away. Let him try to haul her body down the stone steps. Perhaps he’d fall and break his damned Norman neck.

“Woman! Did I not tell you to go and tend your mistress?”

“Sybilia does not need tending. She tends herself very well.” She smirked at the distant scenery. “Better than I can tend myself it seems.”

He stopped just a few steps from where she stood. The wind pulled at her skirt, slapping it against her legs.

“Why did you let Thierry watch last night?” she demanded, still not looking at him. “I thought you were interested in hearing about my life. You told me I would never be hurt again. All the time it was a trap. It was cruel of you. I hope you enjoyed it.” She was afraid that if she looked, his powerful pre sence would draw her to him again and make her forget what she had to tell him. When he found her in the stables just now, she’d yearned for just one kind word, perhaps even a smile. How quickly she learned he had no intention of giving her either. She was in his way today.
Under his feet
, he’d said. It hurt like the sharp prick of a thorn.

She turned to face him at last and found such a look of utter yearning on his handsome face that it swept all her words away over the battlements. Why he’s a boy, she thought—shocked. The body was that of a man full grown, but inside he was young, still learning and unsure. She had no idea what she meant to say next and it seemed as if he was lost in much the same dilemma. A moment passed and then another. He struggled; she saw it in his jaw, his tight lips, but especially in his eyes. Too much blue, like a rare, luxurious cloth too fine for her to wear and yet coveted all the same, because she was a wretched sinner.

He stepped closer. She backed away.

“Sybilia will be angry if she hears you sent for me last night,” she exclaimed hurriedly. “She has already commented to me on your lusty, wandering eye, my lord.”

“Why do you come up here and look out so wistfully?” he demanded. “There is nothing out there better than I can provide for you within these walls.”

“I will not stay here. I will go where I am free and no one can give me orders. Or hurt me intentionally for their own amusement.”

But it felt that way. Last night, for the first time in her adult life, she’d wept. There was no one she could turn to with this dilemma. She hated him. She yearned for him. He should not be looking at her this way—yes she could feel the heat of his passionate regard even with her face turned away—and she should never let him close again, especially after his trick last night. His aggressive virility was too much.

The enemy. A Norman. Men like him had…

He moved. Hands cupped her face and he turned it, forcing her to look at him. The hunger in his eyes was brutal, the lines of his face suddenly more severe, his mouth determined.

He squinted down at her. Wind blew through his dark hair and ruffled it like the hand of an indulgent mother. “There is no other woman like you, Deorwynn.” His lips lowered, hovering an inch above hers. “Nowhere in the world. Of that I am quite certain.”

* * * *

When he rode into the tiltyard later, he immediately saw Thierry already there, astride his stallion, leaning over to chat with the ladies who watched from the wooden stands under the canopy. The Saxon wench laughed with Thierry as if she saw no one else in the yard. Anger swept him, almost out of his saddle. Lifting in his stirrups, helmet under one arm, he cantered over to where they were and fought for some way to insinuate himself into their conversation—a difficult task for a man who rarely conversed with women and seldom found anything interesting in their chatter. Clutching at the only thought he could find, he suggested a quick joust with his friend to begin the display.

Thierry readily agreed. “My lady,” he said, holding out his hand to Deorwynn. “Will you honor me with your favor?”

Infuriated, Guy watched as his wench untied a ribbon from her long braid and held it out for his rival. “Perhaps the lady will honor
me
with her favor,” he exclaimed, reaching for the ribbon at the same time.

A shocked murmur rippled through the onlookers under the canopy.

Deorwynn held the ribbon away from his thrusting, gauntleted hand. “I think not,” she murmured, holding it out for Thierry instead. “You will be my champion, sir.”

Snapping his head around, Guy looked for Sybilia and saw her staring with cold eyes, the color high on her face. “Ah, there you are,” he said, as if he’d been looking for her. She was clearly not deceived. His attentions toward Deorwynn were too marked. Unfamiliar with these feelings, never having competed for a woman in his life, he had no awareness of what he did or how it was perceived by others. Until that moment, as a breathless hush fell over the crowd.

He glanced sideways at Deorwynn. She was smiling for Thierry, coy and flirtatious. Ignoring him.

Very well. If that was how his naughty little kitten wished to play it.