Love at First Sight (17 page)

He could see!

He adjusted his grip on the sword. Let the attackers come. Let them come in droves. By all that was holy, none would take his life this night.

He could see!

“S
IR
G
AVARNIE!”
Henri bellowed again, and fair threw Golde from his horse. ’Twas a miracle she landed on her feet.

“Henri!” a man shouted to Golde’s left. “The baron—”

“My liege!” Henri shouted a third time.

An ache welled in Golde’s chest that had naught to do with her injuries. She’d seen the two arrows protruding from the groomsman’s back; had seen the baron go down. Then the lights had been extinguished.

Sir Gavarnie was dead, else he would have answered. The empty ache swelled and she choked for breath. To never see his dark face again, to never hear his rumbling voice, to never feel his touch. Though he’d admitted to killing his wife, Golde knew better. She could feel it in her bones. He had not done it, and—

“Form up.”

Her heart paused, then hammered at Gavarnie’s sharp-honed command in the darkness. Her knees near buckled, so great was her relief.

She gulped air, then bent double, clutching her ribs. Why had he not answered sooner? The great oaf. She should have known no arrow would be sharp enough to pierce his thick hide.

The ground vibrated and she smelled horse, heard the sound of mud sucking at hooves, the blowing breath of the animal. If she did not move quickly, she would be trampled. She staggered forward, widening her eyes in a effort to see.

“Call off,” Sir Gavarnie ordered, and she followed the sound of his voice.

“Lund,” a man reported. “Henri,” the liegeman who’d been charged with her care snapped. “Bogo.”

When no other names were offered, Henri urged, “Mount up behind me, mi’lord. Let us begone.”

“Silence,” Sir Gavarnie hissed.

His voice sounded near, and Golde made straight for it. The thought of an arrow sinking between her shoulder blades lent her impetus. Abruptly she bounced off a horse’s rump and her feet slipped. Gasping, she stumbled sideways and crumpled to her knees. She’d scarce hit the ground before a hand bumped her forehead, then slipped to grasp the neckline of her tunic. Cold steel pressed against her throat.

“Nay,” she pleaded, trying to shield her neck with her hands.

The grip on her tunic loosened and the sword was withdrawn. “Quiet,” the liegeman Lund whispered.

Praise God it was one of the baron’s men. She started to stand, but Lund’s hand stayed her. Wet, grainy mud had already seeped through her tunic and chainse to her knees. Now it began leaking into her boots.

She clamped her teeth together as a shiver produced tearing pain in her ribs. Yet the wretched ache was preferable to being skewered by an arrow.

Unable to see, she strained to hear any sound that might indicate their attackers yet lurked about. Crickets whirred, but other than that, all was still. No brush rustled, no twigs snapped. The air did not stir.

She felt like a blind insect wrapped in a giant cocoon. No wonder the baron was so often dark of spirit. ’Twas maddening to have no sight.

“’Twould appear we are safe for the moment,” Sir Gavarnie said at last. “What became of Nigel and Stephan?”

When Lund made no attempt to help her up, Golde clutched his forearm and pulled herself to her feet.

“Stephan went down at the same time as Trelle,” Bogo intoned.

“Nigel was a good space ahead of us,” Henri offered.

Lund moved away from her as he spoke. “I saw Nigel look back and extinguish his lamp.”

“Bogo, a light,” Sir Gavarnie ordered.

“Are you certain, my liege?”

“I’ll not leave our dead lying about. Dismount and hold the lamp low, that none can draw a bead on you.”

Sparks flew as a flint was struck and a small pool of yellow light flickered to life. Golde’s gaze immediately latched onto the baron where he stood encircled by horses and the remaining liegemen.

Her heart leapt upward to clog her throat. Sword drawn and legs braced, it appeared he looked directly at her. A lusty, pagan barbarian. A savage who would enjoy a contest between himself and the devil. A powerful chieftan of yore who would embrace her unholy eyes as a sign of good fortune, not evil.

His gaze shifted away . . .

She sighed, ignoring her discomfort at the slight exhale. Would that the baron could see, and that his fearless heated look was meant for her.

G
AVARNIE LEANED
over the small bed, holding a rushlight nearer Ronces’ and Alory’s sleeping forms. What changes three months had wrought. Ronces had thinned considerably. Gone was the child he remembered, replaced by a boy on his way to manhood.

Alory, on the other hand, appeared to have gained every bit of weight that Ronces had lost. And he was sucking his thumb, a habit Gavarnie had thought long dead. With his chubby body and his thumb in his mouth, Alory appeared to have regressed from boy to babe.

Gavarnie smiled wistfully. Would that his sons were yet infants and he could hold them, to once again see their innocent toothless grins while he played with them. To blow on their soft, rounded bellies ’til they squealed with laughter.

He fought a sudden urge to reach out and touch them, if only to smooth the hair from their brows. But he dared not. Were the boys to wake, they might guess he could see, a secret they would be hard-pressed to keep. '

And he wanted none to know he’d regained his sight. Better to let his enemies think him incapacitated. Mayhap they would grow careless and, perchance, reveal themselves.

His thoughts ran to Golde as he straightened.
Look to your own house for betrayal.

He’d been right yestereve. Golde was the betrayer in his house. After tempting him beyond endurance with her body, she had known he would follow her to the village. ’Twas she who’d lured him from Skyenvic’s protection, that he could be killed.

Turning, he crept to the boys’ chamber door, which he’d left ajar. Though he’d devised orders that would carry everyone away from the upstairs corridor, he made certain it was empty before stepping into the hallway. Then he hurried toward Nicolette’s chamber at the opposite end of the hall. Once inside, he tiptoed to the girl’s bed, where he studied her features.

Light brown hair, curly where it wasn’t matted, a square little jaw beneath a stubby nose; though her coloring was yet shaded by her recent illness, ’twas more pink than pale.

He frowned. Whatever had made him think Nicolette looked like Isabelle? In no way did the child resemble his wife’s sleek, Nordic appearance.

The girl coughed, startling Gavarnie. He’d best return the rushlight to its sconce before he was discovered. ’Twould be difficult to explain why a blind man had need of a light.

No sooner had he closed Nicolette’s door behind him and replaced the light in its holder than his bedchamber door swung inward. Hesper appeared, a troubled crease in her brow. She glanced in his direction.

“Mi’lord, ye are alone?”

“Eustace is making his rounds,” he grumbled, masking his features with blankness. “I would see to mistress’s comfort before I retire. What is the delay?”

Hesper winced and kneaded her back. “Yer forgiveness, sir. The poor dearling cannot get herself from the tub, and I am not much help. I’ll fetch Eustace and have her a’bed a’fore ye can blink.”

The woman shuffled toward the stairs, and Gavarnie scowled. Despite the fact that Golde should be put to the whip for her treachery, he could think of naught but the sights Eustace would see.

Her breasts, her thighs—

“A moment,” he called after Hesper. “I would not have you disturb Eustace.”

The servant turned back toward him and he looked at a rushlight behind her, careful to keep his gaze unfocused. “I will help with the maid.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Hesper’s features cloud. “Mi’lord! ’Tis not yer place to be fishin’ women from yer tub.”

Again he thought of Eustace viewing Golde. She of the night-and-day eyes, of raven-black hair, of smooth virgin flesh. Sperville’s description of her “striking” looks was an understatement of immense proportion. ’Twas like calling a diamond a clear piece of stone. Never had he beheld such beauty as that he’d witnessed in the lane when Bogo had lit the lamp.

Gavarnie beckoned to Hesper, who was eyeing him with no little puzzlement. “I’ll not have my liegeman disturbed in his duties. I am to blame for mistress’s condition. ’Tis my obligation to see to the matter.”

Hesper frowned. “If ye insists, sir.”

She hustled back to him. Touching her fingertips to his elbow, she led him toward the bedchamber.

’Twas not just his lust that prompted his actions, he assured himself. Had he not planned this show of concern by insisting Golde recover in his comfortable chamber? Was it not his intent to pretend affection for Golde that she would relax and grow careless? Then he would learn who had masterminded the ambush.

Upon crossing the threshold, Hesper paused to close the door.

Gavarnie’s gaze flew to the tub, where the curtains were drawn away. Candlelight haloed the area. It reflected off Golde’s wet, black hair where she sat with her back to him. He inhaled deeply. The room was fragrant as the forest after a summer rain.

All his fine reasoning deserted him as excitement curled through his loins. Did the wench look as good as she’d felt last eve? He strode forward.

“Mi’lord?” Hesper questioned, a note of curiosity in her tone.

At her query, Golde’s head swiveled in his direction, a grimace contorting her features. He halted and fixed his gaze on one of the candles at the foot of the tub.

Lackwit, he chided himself. Doubtless, Hesper was wondering at his abilities, as was Golde. “’Tis all right. I am quite familiar with my chamber. The tub is there.” He pointed in the general direction.

“More this way,” Hesper directed, again taking his elbow.

“Nay,” Golde rasped.

Hesper faltered, but Gavarnie continued on, unassisted. He let his knees bump the bath before he stopped. “How do you fare, mistress?”

“Take yourself off,” she hissed.

He allowed his gaze to drift toward her voice. Bold lips pouted at him, full of challenge. ’Twas amazing that such pink sweetmeats could spew such venom. His gaze slid lower, following the trail of thick, wet tresses. Inviting swaths of moist skin peeped from beneath the black mass.

He eyed the exposed flesh. ’Twas shimmery, like the glowing pink color found in oyster shells. Soft and smooth, yet durable enough to withstand all but the most insistent of predators.

It required no effort to produce a warm tone, “’tis my understanding you are unable to get yourself from the tub.”

Her lip curled, and he just managed to prevent himself from remarking on the dirt she’d missed on her chin. In fact, it appeared the green eye was ringed with it.

“I would sooner drown than be assisted by you.”

The little witch. She could not be unaware of her appealing appearance. Had doubtless practiced the sultry look until her lips held just the right fullness, her eyes the perfect come-hither sparkle.

He cleared his throat. “I have apologized for the distress I have brought upon you. I will be sleeping on the floor while you repair in my bed. Despite my exhaustion, I have waited up half the night to be certain of your comfort.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “’Twas my thinking you would prefer the service of a blind man to help you from your bath. Since you obviously have no objections to presenting your unclothed body to anyone, I shall summon Eustace forthwith. You have my wishes for a speedy recovery.”

Pretending to grope for balance, he turned. Hesper was eyeing the proceedings with a good deal of interest from where she stood near the bed. He took slow, deliberate steps toward the door.

Insolent daughter of a hellhound. How had he managed to find appeal in her tart tongue, to enjoy her stinging humor?

What lowly Saxon wench would dare instruct a lord’s son on the proper manner of gutting a person? Who would dare chastise a lord of the realm for bellowing like a bull? What brazen miscreant would dare demean a baron’s chamberlain with a name like Spindleshanks?