Juliana Garnett (8 page)

Luc shook his head. “No. This will suffice for tonight. What the—here, boy, get away from that.”

At the harsh command in English, the boy with Alain immediately dropped Luc’s heavy hauberk, and it thudded to the floor with a solid clank. Trembling, he stared at his feet until Luc told him in a milder tone to tidy up the chamber, as it had been badly used.

Turning back to Alain, Luc frowned with weariness as the boy scurried to obey. “On the morrow, set clerks to inventorying the goods still usable, so that I will know what to tell William about Wulfridge’s value. It may be better to raze this fortress and build a new castle on the site than use it in its present condition.”

At that, the girl made a small, choked sound, and Luc turned to look at her. “Do I disturb you?” he asked in Norman French, but she only stared at him, eyes filled with turbulent emotion that could mean anything. He watched her carefully. Did she perceive more than she feigned? It was unlikely, but not impossible. Educated priests roamed England freely, and there was a priory on Holy Island off the northern coast. For a fee, the good fathers would impart their knowledge most willingly to the young men of a household, though he’d never known of an educated Saxon daughter. Still, Lord Balfour was rumored to have been an independent man, with his own ideas of propriety.

“My lord?” Alain’s query interrupted Luc’s reflection and he turned to the squire, grimacing at the fact that she could so easily distract him.

Alain repeated his question. “Is there anything else you require?”

“Yes, Alain. Send me wine, warm water to wash, and thick
blankets, along with the chains. And take that boy with you. He’s too frightened to be of much use this eve.”

“At once, my lord.” Alain grasped the boy by the shoulder, startling a squeak from him, and propelled him toward the door. “I will fetch your needs myself,” Alain said as he shut the door softly behind him.

Clad now in only sherte and chausses, Luc shrugged free of the linen garment he wore beneath his leather tunic. He grimaced. Sword cuts from the day’s fight made the garment stick to him where the blood had dried, ripping his skin as he removed it. Ceara watched, her unblinking gaze riveted on him as he tossed the sherte on the narrow rope bed. She did not look away, even when his hands moved to the cross-garters that held up his chausses. He began to untie them with swift efficiency. Apparently, she had no qualms about watching him disrobe.

“Do you watch for your entertainment, or for mine,
demoiselle
?”

She ignored his mockery and shrugged, crossing her scratched, bruised legs at the ankle. “You would not be the first man I’ve seen unclothed.”

“No? Yet you claim to be virgin.”

“Just because I’ve eyes in my head, does not mean I have oats for brains,” she retorted with a derisive snort. “Do I seem so simple as to yield to temptation at the mere sight of a man? I’ve seen nothing to recommend the male body, for all that men are prone to boast of their prowess.”

Luc did not bother to refute her, shrugging as he stepped out of his chausses and moved to the large brass brazier where coals had burned down to gray ash. Only a faint warmth still emanated from the brazier as he stripped away his loincloth.

Despite her professed scorn, Ceara averted her gaze, staring at the floor. He grinned, rubbing his hands up and down his bare arms to warm himself. It was all a bluff, of course, her claim that she had seen naked men before. The hectic color in her cheeks betrayed her.

“Foolish wench. Did you not consider that it would be very easy to discover the truth? A meaningless lie, as it is of no matter to me if you are virgin or sullied. It may well matter to William, however, as the king may yet believe it advantageous to make you a favorable marriage to a man of his choosing.”

Her head jerked up. “He would not!”

“Do not fret unduly. His other choice may be the sword. Which would you prefer? Or need I ask?”

Her mouth set in a grim line, and the color leached from her face. Luc wondered if William would find her as irritating as he did. If she were foolish enough to act with the king as she had with him, it would go very badly for her. Useless, of course, to tell her that. She would only distrust his motives.

Alain returned alone, bringing wine, warm water, and a length of chain. “There is no soap to be found, my lord. Doubtless, these Saxon dogs never bathe, and our baggage is scattered about so carelessly that I could not find our own supply.”

“No matter, Alain. Warm water will do to wash away the worst of the grime.” Luc poured himself a goblet of wine, then began to wash before the water grew cold. He was aware of Ceara sitting in the far corner. Her head was tilted back against the wall, cushioned by her bright hair and exposing the clean line of her throat. She stared up at the ceiling as if fascinated by smoke-blackened beams and cobwebs. Her long bare legs were drawn up almost to her chest, pinioned by her crossed arms. Slender calves and thighs gleamed with pale luminosity. The short hem of her tunic scarcely covered her female virtues. She should have looked ragged and pathetic with her rent garments and tangled mane of hair, but she did not. The display of long limbs and shadowed mysteries lent instead an air of sensuality that was as disturbing as it was arousing.

And he did not seem to be the only one affected: keen interest lit his squire’s eyes as Alain checked Luc’s armor for breaks, his glances straying again and again to the Saxon hostage. “What do you intend to do with her, my liege?”

“What I vowed to do when it was thought it was Balfour who had rebelled. I will take the rebel to the king as he commanded me.” Luc’s eyes narrowed slightly at Alain’s rapt interest in Ceara, but the squire was too engrossed with the maid to notice.

“And until then, my liege? She is very beautiful, and only a hostage now, for all that she was once lady of this hall.” Alain’s intent gaze continued to linger on Ceara far longer than necessary. “The king may give her in marriage, do you not think?”

“It is possible. Do you aspire to wed the she-wolf?”

Alain laughed, but there was an odd note in his voice. “Stranger things have happened, even to a man of my station. And she seems not to be so willful as she was before.”

“Do not be deceived. The maid has a tongue sharp as a carter’s blade. Be wary she does not wound you with it.” When the squire shrugged in an expansive gesture of indifference, Luc said softly, “The maid is not for you, Alain.”

Alain flashed him a startled glance, and his face reddened. “My liege—”

“She is to go to William, and it is for the king to decide her fate, not for you or I to belabor the point at such a late hour.”

Luc’s brusque tone said much more than his words, and Alain was far from stupid. “You are right, of course, my lord. It is late and my tongue is clumsy with weariness. Forgive my impertinence.”

Annoyed by his reaction to the squire’s interest in the girl, Luc nodded curtly. “We are both weary and on edge. A full night’s sleep will remedy much.”

With a swift efficiency that betrayed his anxiety to depart, Alain cleaned Luc’s armor and set aright the small chamber. Luc finished washing, scrubbing his face, arms, and chest with a dripping cloth to remove the sweat and blood of the day from his skin. When he was through, Alain silently handed him a square of cloth warmed at the brazier with which to dry himself.

The squire’s unusual deference only reminded Luc of Alain’s interest in the maid, and he snatched the cloth more forcefully than necessary. “You play the part of obedient servant well,” Luc muttered.

“As you wish, my lord. Is there anything else, my lord?”

Luc wrapped the damp cloth around his waist. “Yes. Chain her to the bed, and throw some of the warmest skins on the floor for her use. I would sleep what few hours are left to me without worry of having my throat cut.”

Surprise flared in Alain’s eyes. “As you will, my lord.” He complied swiftly, pulling Ceara to her feet, ignoring her sullen glare as he fastened a length of chain around her waist, then secured it to the foot of the sturdy wooden bed.

Luc poured more wine and sipped it in preoccupied silence. When Alain hesitated, Luc stared pointedly at the door. “I bid you rest well, Alain. Shut the door after you.”

“Good night, my lord.” Alain crossed the room, turning back at the portal. “Sleep well.” He bowed stiffly and the door closed behind him with a soft thud.

Luc glanced at the pile of furs. Ceara had burrowed into them so that only the bright mass of her hair showed above the mound of pelts. Frowning, he poured himself more wine, enough to warm him but not enough to dull his senses. Like King William, he was not fond of hearty drink or the effects it had on those foolish enough to indulge too freely.

Alain had placed parchment and writing instruments on the table by the flagon of wine, but Luc found himself too weary to make a report of the day’s activities. He would call a scribe to him in the morning, and have him detail the necessary information while he made ready for his journey. If William was still at Stafford, Luc would have much farther to travel, and he did not relish the thought. Weariness rode him hard, and the wine coursed warmly through his blood, relaxing him at last. He tilted his head and drained his cup, then set it atop the table.

Removing the damp cloth from around his waist, he tossed
it onto a small, three-legged stool and turned toward the bed. Ceara was sitting up in the hillock of fur pelts, watching him. When he paused, she rose to her knees in a soft clink of chains. Hazy light filtered over her, gilding her shoulders in a rose-gold sheen. She was naked. No tunic draped her slender body, nor did shadows conceal the thrust of bare breasts.

Riveted, Luc stared at her. His belly clenched in a tight knot. She was lovely, tempting him with the sudden need to reach out and touch her, to skim his hands over the deep pink rosettes that rode the high crest of her breasts, to tease them into taut peaks with his tongue … despite his own nudity and the brisk chill in the air, he was suddenly sweating. Involuntarily, his eyes dropped lower. Bruises had blossomed on her arms and thighs, tokens of Norman regard, but it was the shadowed juncture of her legs that held his gaze much too long.

Silent and unmoving, she watched him. A fey maid with pagan eyes and tempting curves, sweet-faced and hell-bent, as dangerous in combat as in captivity.…

Belatedly, he realized that there are some reactions near impossible for a man to control. To his chagrin, his naked body had betrayed him.

Ceara’s gaze dropped to his loins. She smiled, a slow sensual curving of her mouth until the dimples on each side of her lips grew deep. In a husky voice, she purred, “Ah, so even Normans know how to rise to the occasion, I see.…”

L
UC STARED AT
her without moving, his body revealing his desire but his face revealing nothing. Ceara waited with trembling determination. If she was to be bartered to a man, it would be under her own terms, not those of a Norman king. And while she detested the means, she had few options left to her. William would likely marry her off. This man would hold Wulfridge. If she could bind Luc to her, she would not lose her rightful legacy. It was chancy, but the ultimate prize would be worth the risk.

Cool air prickled her skin, and the strained silence was as heavy as the chains around her waist. She knew that Luc was right. She was no seductress, though it galled her to hear that he found her unappealing. Never before had she attempted this; indeed, her experience with desire had not been to lure men, but to keep them at the sharp end of her dagger. How did she proceed? She felt every bit as inexperienced as she was, and more than a little embarrassed. As the silence dragged, she flushed so hot the chill went unnoticed.

It grew increasingly difficult to keep her eyes from straying to ascertain if his desire was flagging. Why did Luc not respond?
Say something? Or move? But he just stood there holding her gaze, his expression unfathomable.

When he finally stirred, it was to close the distance between them in two long strides and jerk her up. The chain bit into her skin, and piled furs fell away to puddle at her feet and tickle her bare ankles. Luc’s voice was low and savage.

“Do not think to play me that way,
demoiselle
. I have long dallied at the lists of love and know well how to parry your foolish attempts to draw me into a honeyed trap.”

Embarrassment and despair knifed through her. His rejection was as frustrating as it was humiliating. If she had to change tactics, she would, but she knew what must be done to keep both Wulfridge and her life. Later, once she was again lady of the hall, she would find a way to rid herself of this arrogant Norman. But until then …

“You misread me, my lord.”

“How is it possible to misread this?” His hand shifted to sweep down the slope of her body, lingering on the swell of her breast in a slow caress. A thrumming ache made her nipple tighten to a taut peak that he teased with his thumb and finger until she could barely hear his muttered words: “Nay, I think it unlikely I would misread your intentions.”