Wings of the Storm (7 page)

"What! Where?"

While she protested, he dragged her forward a few steps, until they were next to the horse's warm gray flank, then placed his hands around her waist. The next thing she knew she was perched precariously on the rump of his horse. He swung easily up in the sad-dle before her. She watched his fluid movements with a certain amount of admiration. She managed to keep her sputtering indignation in check only by reminding herself just which one of them carried the sword—and muscles enough to treat her as though

she were no heavier than a feather.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked with decep-tive meekness as he guided the animal forward.

"To Passfair," was the succinct answer. He gave a swift glance over his shoulder and instructed, "Try not to fall off."

The high rear of the saddle didn't seem like a par-ticularly good object to cling to, and this horse was nowhere in the black destrier's league. It had a far rougher gait. Her sore hip made her position even more uncomfortable. She found herself flinging her arms around Sir Daffyd's waist.

It didn't feel at all like Sir Stephan's. There was more of it, for one thing. Stephan was all lanky skin and bones. This man was made up of hard muscle and sinew. Wide shoulders arrowed down to the waist she was holding. Even though she could feel the chain mail beneath cape and surcoat, she could tell most of what she was holding and leaning against was him. His gold hair was soft against her cheek, the thickness and texture very different from Stephan's black silk. He smelled different, too. Less of wood smoke and stable and more of...

"Lavender?"

She felt the chuckle ripple down his back. They were so close that the movement almost tickled her.

"Switha recommends it for fleas. You should try some, my lady," he suggested.

She wasn't sure if he was being helpful or implying she was flea-ridden. She probably was. She'd didn't know if lavender would keep bugs away, but it cer-tainly smelled good. She breathed deeply but didn't bother to reply, and they rode on in silence.

Daffyd stopped twice to speak to soldiers they encountered as they neared the fields, then moved on.

He seemed to forget her presence behind him. She held on tight and endured the bumpy ride.

As they reached the track leading up the hill from the village, she recalled her dream of several nights before. She remembered how, in the nightmare turned into erotic fantasy, it had been Daffyd ap Bleddyn who'd kissed and caressed her. She realized the subconscious pleasure she'd been getting from pressing so close to him. Her grip slackened so much that she almost fell into the mud as the horse began plodding toward the outer bailey.

She was going into a convent, she reminded her-self sternly. And Sir Daffyd was a brutish man with a big sword. He gave orders. He probably beat his own wife. She wasn't interested. She repeated the simple phrases several times with her eyes firmly closed so she couldn't look at the man riding the horse.

She kept her eyes closed until they reached the bustling activity of the inner bailey. Then she slid to the ground without any help from Sir Daffyd. Look-ing around the courtyard rather than at the Welsh-man, she couldn't help but notice there was rather more activity than she'd expected. There were cer-tainly more guards than she remembered.

It was Sir Daffyd who explained from his vantage point atop the gray horse. "It seems Sir Stephan's returned."

6

Sir Stephan approached from the stable,his purposeful long strides lacking their usual zest. He was tired,

Jane decided as a group of laughing guards parted to let their young lord pass.

He turned on them, snapping, "Why are you men standing around idle?" They dispersed quickly, their abrupt silence testimony to their shock at the lad's unaccustomed reproof. He continued on toward Jane and Sir Daffyd.

Tired and cranky, she amended as she made out the weary slump of his narrow shoulders. His black eyes, however, were full of angry fire. She hoped it wouldn't get turned on her. Perhaps his mission had gone badly and the heiress was now in Hugh of Lilydrake's hands. She was full of sympathy for the young man by the time he arrived at her side. She bobbed him a quick curtsy and got her shoulders grabbed by him on her way back up.

He held her, giving her bruised face and black eye a critical once-over before turning an angry glare up to Daffyd. "Did you ... ?"

"I thought you did."

"It was the dog."

Stephan's hold loosened at her explanation. "What?"

"I fell down the tower stairs after tripping over Melisande."

"Oh."

Something about his tense manner told her he was spoiling for some reason on which to vent his temper.

He would gladly have taken on Daffyd in order to defend her honor. Stephan was chival-rous, and she was a lady under his protection. And it would have made a wonderful excuse to pick a fight.

Never mind if a few days ago she'd gotten the impression he liked Sir Daffyd.

Daffyd asked, "Is your lady bride well? Safe with-in your walls?" He leaned a forearm on the high saddle horn, voice lowering suggestively. "Is she pretty?"

"She's here," was as much answer as Stephan seemed willing to give. Jane was shocked by the look of sour disdain twisting Stephan's pale features. "As for well ..." He gave a mocking laugh.

"Worse than you expected?" Daffyd questioned sardonically. "Not to your taste? No beauty?" He backed his horse and turned it toward the gate. "If it's a choice between a fortune and a pretty face," he went on, tossing the last words over his shoulder as he reached the gate, "I'll take the pretty face every time."

"I bet," Jane mumbled under her breath. Stephan made a rude gesture at Sir Daffyd's departing back before facing Jane squarely. Alone with her, his expression changed from arrogant annoyance to boyish petulance. He ran a soothing thumb, very gently, under her sore eye. "Poor lamb." He sighed. "Sweet Jehane ..."

"Did you come to the Lady Sibelle's rescue before Hugh could carry her off?" she interjected, hoping to raise his spirits by dwelling on his heroic exploits. He straightened his shoulders and gave his wide grin.

Some teasing devil in her prompted her to add, "Does Sibelle think you're wonderful?"

His face fell back into depressed lines. "Yes," he said unhappily.

How bad could the girl be? Jane wondered. She was only fifteen. Even in this time fifteen had to be kind of unfinished. She touched his cheek sympathet-ically. "Tell me."

He brightened. "About the fight?"

About Sibelle, you . . . "So there was a fight," she coaxed agreeably.

He linked his arm in hers, leading her toward the castle door. The servants gave them a wide berth, but Melisande and her kids came bounding up as they neared the steps. This closeness with Stephan felt good after the uncomfortable proximity of the ride with Sir Daffyd. Stephan was safe.

He told her, "There's truth to the rumor Hugh har-bors Sikes and his men."

She hunted through her memory for the reference. "The outlaw leader?"

"Aye. At least Hugh must have let them know there was gold in it for them, even if he didn't actually send the brigands to set the ambush. Oh, he put on quite a show." He gave a delighted laugh. "We were attacked at a narrow turning of the road, and I was

burdened down with the girl and her women and her baggage."

He waved a long-fingered hand toward a row of three two-wheeled wooden carts and a box-shaped closed carriage, drawn up in a ragged line near the entrance steps. Jehane assumed the carriage, which was a springless monstrosity, had conveyed the baron's daughter from her home to Passfair. Riding pillion behind Stephan would have been more com-fortable, certainly more fun. Of course, a girl raised in a convent wouldn't have any experience of riding and might be shocked by the intimacy the position required. She turned her attention back to Stephan as he went on.

"We were set on by the outlaws first. They didn't fight very hard. They ran off, expecting me to give chase into the forest while Hugh and his men came up from behind to snatch the girl." He snorted derisively.

"It didn't work," Jane concluded.

"My liege would whip any first-year squire who fell into such a ruse."

"And who is your liege?" she asked.

He hesitated dramatically before saying, "You would have heard of him, even inJerusalem. Guillaume le Marechal." He preened, giving her a proud, expectant look.

She didn't disappoint him.
"The
Guillaume le Marechal! The man who trained King Richard? The perfect knight? The crusader? The man who was with King Henry when he died?" William the Mar-shal himself.

The man whose contemporary biogra-phy she had done the newest and most definitive translation of.

Her jaw dropped.

She forced herself to calm down and say, "Real-ly?" though the word came out high-pitched and none too steady.

He nodded and went back to his tale. "I've had better training than to be tricked by the likes of Lilydrake. He's a dull-witted, greedy fool with more ambition than sense. There was a small fight with very little blood. Hugh showed us his back-side fast enough. I brought the lass home. She's mine," he added as they entered the hall. "I sup-pose I really must keep her. But she'll have no joy of it," he declared miserably. His long, handsome face took on a determinedly stubborn expression, the wide, mobile lips pressed together in a thin line.

"Now, Sir Stephan," Jane coaxed gently. "That's not a chivalrous way to treat a lady."

His black eyes sparked with defiance. "She'll come to no harm," he promised. "But she must understand our arrangement from the first. It's a pity one can't expect more from marriage than just an arrange-ment,"

he added wistfully.

The poor boy was trapped by his own culture, she thought. It bothered her to see the charming young man unhappy. She reached up to pat his cheek sympa-thetically as they walked through the screen into the freshly cleaned main hall. The scent of dried herbs was stirred up as they trod across the layer of fresh straw. She noted the cleaned tapestry had been rehung on the back wall during her afternoon in the woods.

The room was empty but for three women clus-tered around the warmly glowing central hearth. All three were plump and frumpy-looking. All three turned disapproving faces on Stephan and Jane as they approached.

As they neared the fire Jane saw the one in the middle was young, her heavily padded form swathed in layers of saffron wool, deeply bordered in red-and-gold embroidery. The color went horri-bly with her pink complexion; the decoration was overdone. The wide purple belt around what passed for a waist cut her too round form in half. Her head and several chins were blanketed in gray-and-black barbette and veils. The inappropriate combination of finery and heavy veiling gave the impression the girl was half nun and half— What? Heiress to a barony?

Jane didn't need any introduction to know she was being stared at with pure loathing by the Lady Sibelle LeGauche. Quickly she took a decorous step away from Stephan. She wondered disloyally if the lad had planned their cozy entrance to inform his betrothed he wasn't completely hers.

Well, he's not mine,Jane wanted to shout. Actual-ly she wanted to kick the young strategist on his tiny behind.

Stephan grabbed her hand and led her to the girl. "Lady Sibelle," he announced. "Lady Jehane FitzRose, my chatelaine." He put a lot of emphasis on the last two words. It seemed he wanted to make it perfectly clear who was in charge here.

The girl refused to look at her. She merely gave a cold, wobbly nod in Jane's direction. Her women, on the other hand, glared in open hatred. Jane responded with an edged smile and a rattling of the official keys dangling from her belt. It made her feel like the war-den, but imperious behavior seemed to be expected from her. The women sniffed disdainfully in unison but judiciously went back to warming their hands around the fire. While everyone stood in uncomfort-able silence for a few minutes, Bertram led in the ser-vants, who efficiently went about setting up the hall for the evening meal.

Sibelle had eyes only for Stephan as he grudging-ly offered his arm to lead her to the high table. The girl wiped her hand furtively on her skirt before placing two fingers on the edge of Stephan's black sleeve.

Keeping as far away from him as she could without letting go, she tripped her way up the dais step.

Jane winced as she watched Sibelle lurch to her chair. It really would help if she watched where she was going, she thought. And what fashion guerrilla had put together that outfit? She shook her head and caught sight of Bertram watching the young couple from the pantry door. She and the old man exchanged one pained, understanding look. His assessment was easily read. Things were not going to be easy around here for a while. Jane agreed. Bertram waved the scullery servants forward to serve the first course. Jane squared her shoulders and went to take a place at the main table.

She ended up seated on Sibelle's left. The girl turned out to be left-handed, fane's bruised face hurt when she chewed, and she still hadn't worked up much appetite for the local cuisine. She made a meal by dipping coarse bread in greasy goose broth fla-vored with old onions and played a mental game of considering the origins of Sibelle's name to keep her mind off the taste of her dinner.

Perhaps they were a left-handed family; therefore they were of the left—
Ie gauche.
Or the first baron was born on the wrong side of the blanket and was

rather proud of the fact. It could be, she considered as she watched Sibelle first spill soup on her bosom, then knock the salt cellar across the table, that she was called LeGauche because she came from a long line of klutzes. The poor kid was quiv-ering from terror. Too bad there was so much of her to shake.

As the meal proceeded in ever more strained silence, fane began to be annoyed with Stephan. He was drinking sour wine and petting Melisande. The girl beside him might as well not exist. Sibelle did nothing but chew and throw furtive, adoring glances his way. Jane oversaw the servants with her good eye and tapped a foot under the table in annoyance until Nikki and Vince decided this was the signal for them to start chewing on her toes.