Love at First Sight (37 page)

G
OLDE FELT SUFFOCATED
and wanted no more than to rest her weary bones. It seemed days had passed since she’d last slept. Ducking her head, she backed from the tangle of castlefolk that surrounded Gavarnie and the children in the great hall. Doubtless, she would be returned home on the morrow.

“I know’d it all along,” she heard a kitchen maid remark. “His lordship am’t the kind o’ man wot would kill his wife.”

“Oh go on,” another woman huffed. “’Twas me wot said he didn’t do it.”

Golde rolled her eyes. One would think Gavarnie was the only person who did not know he was innocent.

“De Warrenne should pay for his crimes,” a liegeman cried out.

Shouts of agreement rose to the rafters, and Golde headed for the screens passage. Now, she supposed, plans would be laid for the Baron of Adurford’s demise. Not that the man did not deserve it. But faith, ’twould be less difficult to hate de Warrenne had Gavarnie not been so cruel.

She paused, realizing her feet were carrying her to Gavarnie’s chamber. What was she thinking? She could not sleep there.

Mayhap Nicolette’s room.

Aye. The girl’s chamber would be quiet. Nicolette was happily ensconced in Gavarnie’s embrace amidst the gaggle of castlefolk. She was halfway to the child’s room when a hush fell over the hall below.

“There will be no retaliation against the Baron of Adurford.” Gavarnie’s voice rang hard and uncompromising. “He had naught to do with his wife’s schemes.”

Golde’s steps slowed. After his mean treatment of de Warrenne, she’d wondered if Gavarnie intended to ruin the man.

“’Twas Sir Nigel who would see himself as lord of Skyenvic,” Gavarnie continued, “and he is dead.”

At his words, a collective gasp wafted over the hall.

“It was de Warrenne who ensured Ronces and Alory’s safe return.”

Golde’s shoulders slumped and she dragged her feet along the corridor. ’Twould have been easier to return home if Gavarnie had left her with some disgust for his person. But nay. The great lout had to be noble and extend his protection to the Baron of Adurford, instead of decrying the man.

By the time she reached Nicolette’s room, Golde’s eyes were watering. She pitched herself on the little bed and curled into a ball.

’Od rot Gavarnie. He was to blame for these incessant weeping fits.
I would ask you to marry me, but you would doubtless decline. Her eyelids drooped.

“Hmph.” Let him ask. She would accept his proposal with such speed, ’twould make his head spin.

She sighed. Would that it were so. But now that he knew he’d not murdered his wife, now that his sight had been restored, his confidence had returned. He no longer needed her. . . .

She could not have slept more than a few moments when she felt arms sliding beneath her shoulders and knees. Cracking one eye, she found Gavarnie bending over her.

Joy leapt about in her heart and head. Had he come for her?

Just as swiftly, doubt replaced her ebullience. “What are you about?” she grumbled.

He lifted her in his arms. “You cannot sleep here, mistress. Your great weight will break Nicolette’s bed.” She blinked, then glared and shoved against his chest. “Put me down, thickwit.”

“Nay, ’tis in my bed that you belong.” He had the audacity to grin.

Acute disappointment near strangled her. “You want naught but another sample of my charms.”

“Kindly cease thrashing about. It only arouses me and we have more important—”

“Matters to attend,” she spat. “Say it and I will knock your teeth from your head.”

“Nay. ’Tis family matters to which we must attend.”

Family matters? Did he think she would allow him to get her with child without marrying her? She stilled, and eyed him as he carried her across the threshold into his bedchamber. He deposited her on her feet beside the bed.

Golde glanced about. Ronces, Alory, and Nicolette sat sullenly upon the beautiful red coverlet. Hesper and Roland stood nearby.

“Now,” Gavarnie addressed the children. “You will do as mistress instructs, or she is like to place a spell on you that will raise great, green warts on your faces.”

“But Papa,” Alory whined. “’Tis not fair.”

Ronces elbowed him in the ribs. “You sound like a baby.”

“Do not.”

“You awe both bwats,” Nicolette accused.

“I’ll leave you to it, mistress.” Gavarnie bowed to her, then headed for the door.

“Leave me to what?” she demanded of his back.

“They need baths,” he called over his shoulder.

“’Tis not my place to see to such. They are your children.”

“You will soon be their mother, so you had best accustom yourself to the chore.”

The imbecile fair sprinted from the room before Golde could say aught. Of all the gall. Did he think she would marry him just because he said so?

And he’d left her with the dirty work.

“Roland,” she snapped. “See to the tub.”

“’Tis already filled, mi’lady.”

A tingling sensation swept over Golde.
Mi’lady.
It sounded so . . . wonderful. Not that she would never admit it.

“I am not bathing with her,” Ronces groused.

Golde affected a horrified tone. “I should hope not. You are far too old for such.”

Ronces’ small chest appeared to swell.

“Me, too,” Alory declared.

Golde pursed her lips and regarded the boy. “What think you, Ronces?”

The older boy heaved a sigh. “I suppose he can bathe with me.”

“A moment,” Golde commanded.

Both boys halted where they’d slid off the bed. “Ladies first.”

“Yea. Ladies fiwst.” Nicolette tilted her head back and stuck her tongue out.

Golde rolled her eyes.

Mi’lady. Lady Golde. Baroness of Skyenvic. Her lip curled. Washer of Soiled Children would be a more apt title.

Still, by the time Gavarnie returned, her spirits were revoltingly bubbly. After inspecting faces, necks, and ears, he kissed the children and bade everyone a good night.

Once alone with Gavarnie, Golde crossed her arms over her chest. “I believe there is one important family matter you’ve neglected, mi’lord.”

“Indeed?” His black eyes twinkled and he sauntered toward her.

Golde held up a hand. “Was there something you’d intended to ask of me?”

“Aye. Could I have my tunic back?” He reached out to pull at her girdle.

“Dolt.” She swatted his hand. “That is not what I meant.”

He gave her an innocent look, but continued to work at the belt. “Ah, yes. Did the children behave?”

The girdle fell to the floor and Golde gave him a sour look. “If I am to be a mother, I will have to be married.”

“Oh, that.” He pulled her into his arms. “The deed but awaits the blessing of a priest.”

“What if I do not wish to marry you?”

His lips found her neck and she shivered at his gentle kiss. “It matters not what you wish in this instance,” he whispered in her ear.

Golde closed her eyes and wrapped her arms about his waist. “You are an arrogant brute.” Her breathing quickened as his hands caressed her back.

“Yea. I can see you are greatly distressed.”

She drew back and searched his face. “Make no mistake, mi’lord. Your cruelty toward de Warrenne, when the man sought only to explain himself—”

“Willful wench,” he grumbled, though he yet clasped her back. “You must e’re spoil the moment with your flapping mouth. I see you will require much kissing during the years ahead.”

“I have not agreed to any future between us,” she declared.

“Very well. If your reservations are a result of my actions toward the Baron of Adurford, then you may rest easy. I but wished to leave the man with his dignity. He would have interpreted any sympathy on my part as pity.”

Golde scowled. “Sympathy! ’Twill be years before he recovers from your mean treatment.”

“Exactly. Meanwhile, he owes me naught for my shrewd observations. A trick I learned from a clever witch.”

Golde raised a brow. “I am clever, am I not?”

“Pff. I speak of your great-grandmother, who was clever enough to send you here. Though I wish she would cease jabbering at me. ’Tis unsettling to hear a voice when no one is about.”

Abruptly Golde’s mood soured. She didn’t doubt that Mimskin spoke to Gavarnie. Nor should she be surprised. Was there anything her great-grandmother did not interfere with? “What does Mimskin say to you?”

“She says you should return my tunic. It is far too large and does little to flatter your shape.”

“Liar,” she snapped.

Gavarnie heaved a great sigh. “Your greatgrandmother speaks to me only when you are in danger.”

Golde pursed her lips to keep from smiling. While it was comforting to know that Mimskin would e’er watch over her, ’twas most satisfying to think that Gavarnie would now have to share the burden of Mimskin’s needling.

“If you would,” Gavarnie redirected her thoughts, “kindly return my tunic.”

She hedged. “You will have to wait. I have nothing else to wear.”

He grinned, a cat eyeing a fresh fish. “You need wear nothing.” He began rucking the material up.

“I have not yet said I will marry you.”

“You will.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I love you.”

“Should I not love you as well?”

His hands halted their busywork with the tunic. “How could you not? I am handsomely pockmarked, I am willing to curl my hair if that is your wish. And I am very good at satisfying your desire.”

“’Tis no wonder your tunic is so large. It has to fit over your swollen head.”

“Hear, hear, mistress. You love me well, and you may as well admit it.”

His hands again tugged the tunic upward.

“Very well,” she admitted. “I love you. But do you not think we should await our nuptials before we—”

“Faith!” He gaped. “Is this some new fashion? Where are your underdrawers?”

“They were soaked. ’Twas the only pair I had.”

“Well . . .” His hand roamed over her bare bottom. “I suppose ’tis not so bad. Indeed, I can see where it might prove just the thing.”

She forced a stern tone against the heat that stole through her body. “Does your sense of propriety always vacillate thus?”

“Nay.” He rubbed himself against her front, watching her eyes. “Only when I am presented with difficult females.”

“I am difficult?” Doubtless, he could see her desire quicken. She fought the urge to plaster herself to him. “Already you are trying to bed me, and you have yet to propose.”

A spark of challenge lit his eyes. “Take off my tunic, and I will ask for your hand.”

Good lack, she would show some restraint, she vowed. “Ask first. Then I will think on your tunic.”

Her breath caught as he ground his leather-clad hips against her. “Think you to best me at the game of seduction?”

“We shall see.” She grasped his hips and held him tight.

“Since you are a novice,” his words sounded labored, “I will tell you the most important rule.”

“What?” Golde breathed hard, staunching the urge to tear the tunic over her head.

“Never oppose your opponent.”

A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR

A native Floridian, Sandra Lee received a BA. in elementary education, and promptly moved into the field of freelance writing without ever teaching a day of school. It has been Ms. Lee’s experience that a twisted sense of humor goes a long way toward straightening out the dangerous curves on the highway of life, especially where romance and children are concerned. When she’s not writing, Ms. Lee’s time is spent with her husband and two daughters, none of whom appreciate her pointless lectures. Ms. Lee is also ruled by two dogs and three cats, none of which obey her commands.