Love at First Sight (8 page)

Comfort, fuzzy and warm. Her terror vanished and she reveled in a cool mist that drifted over her.

The baron’s heart thumped once, reverberating, the pulse-beat rippling over the fine hairs that covered her flesh like so many divining rods. How safe she felt. As if Delamaure were protecting her. As if he would never allow harm to befall her.

Then his breath seeped outward, draining away her sense of ease, bleeding over the fog.

Stained crimson
.

Rage?

Not hers
.

Delamaure’s?

Or was it directed at the lord?

The crimson color separated into browns, reds, golds— sifting through the mist—spinning faster, drawing her into the vortex—until the shades merged to form a solid image
.

’Twas the baron’s bedchamber
.

Tapestries, wild and fantastic, hung on the walls
.

How had she not seen them last night?

Strangely dressed horsemen, oddly shaped castles, their pastel hues, time-faded. She felt their texture, fine and worn soft. The riders’ ululations called, echoing dimly in her ears. She tasted bland grittiness on her tongue. An elemental odor transcended the scent of arid heat
.

Was it brine?

Nay, ’twas sharper, more bitter
.

The great four-posted bed drew her attention. There was something there. She should not look. Away, her thoughts whispered urgently
.

But ’twas as if some giant serpent had captured her will. The bed dragged her onward until she hovered directly over it
.

Good lack!

A beautiful blond-haired woman stared heavenward, her blue eyes death-shrouded
.

Now she recognized the cloying smell
.

’Twas blood. Everywhere
.

Splattering the woman’s waxen face. Covering her bare torso. Raging over the white bed sheets like a flash flood
.

Hatred. Fear
.

The woman’s?

’Twas as if her cold, dead fingers were reaching out, clutching at Golde’s insides, drawing her into some visceral pit from whence she would never return
.

Churning emotions buffeted her and sweat broke on her brow. Breathing, harsh and ragged, filled her ears
.

’Twas hers
.

She had to escape
.

Suddenly a white-hot light flashed from the midst of the sanguine fog. It lanced through her eyes and shot to the tips of her fingers and toes
.

Golde yelped.

Quickened by the stab of agony, her arms and legs at last responded to her command to flee. She shot from beneath the baron like a stone from a sling, then scrambled to her feet.

“Whore’s gleet, wench,” the lord snarled.

Panting, she looked to see him push himself to sit from where he lay on his belly.

“She tripped you, Papa!” the sword-wielding brat howled.

Ignoring the boy’s accusation, Golde’s gaze swept the hall. Servants stared silently at their lord, many with hands covering their hearts. Bright sunlight spilled through the windows, illuminating the room where before she’d seen naught but fog. The bug-child struggled to remove the pot from his head, but the bar-handle kept catching beneath his chin and he began to wail.

Golde wrapped her fists in the folds of her skirt as her body trembled. Saint Blaise! What had happened here? All appeared normal, yet she could not deny what she’d just seen.

“. . . not to blame, Ronces.” Delamaure was grousing to his sword-wielding son. “’Twas God who created those great bumbling feet of hers.”

Golde attempted to muster some anger at his remark, anything to restore her bearings, but ’twas no use. Instead, she lowered her head, anxious that none see her discomposure. Was she going mad?

“Allow me to assist you, mi’lord,” Sir Nigel offered.

She watched from beneath lowered lashes as the steward hurried toward Delamaure.

“I need no aid.” The lord’s tone could grind granite. Golde glanced surreptiously at him when he made no move to rise. In opposition to his forbidding countenance, she could yet feel the solid reassurance of his body pressed against her back. The comforting beat of his heart. The gentle hush of his indrawn breath, urging her body, her soul, to awareness. Whatever had made her feel thus?

She squared her shoulders and gathered the reins of her wild imaginings. ’Twas exhaustion, and lack of food, and, and . . . And the overgrown lackwit would have crushed her to death were she a smaller person.

Her anxious feelings subsided and her breathing slowed. Who would not be stricken with thick-comings?

She tripped you, Papa.
Her lip curled as she thought on the brat’s accusation. Now, she supposed, the baron would rebuke her for causing his fall. And she hoped he would, for she welcomed the opportunity to respond in kind. ’Twas his fault she’d been scared witless. Brushing bits of straw and dirt from her tunic, she anticipated his ire.

Instead, he addressed the brat, Ronces. “Collect your brother. I would have you and Alory escort me to my chambers.”

Ronces scampered to remove the pot from the bug, Alory’s, head—yet a younger, chubbier version of his lordship, Golde reflected. Then both boys raced to grab their father’s hands. They pulled him to his feet, a task not unlike two ants drawing a bear onto its hind legs.

“Where is the wench?” Sir Gavarnie demanded.

A pox on the man, Golde swore. Had he not just ordered his sons to assist him to his chambers? What need had he of her?

Ronces turned him in her direction, but before the lord could speak, the brat tugged urgently on his sleeve. Cupping his grubby little hands around his mouth, the child whispered in a voice loud enough to be heard the length of the hall, “Never oppose your opponent.”

The baron’s lips twitched as if he might laugh, then he pursed them and his features grew stern.

“Come along,” he commanded, motioning in her direction. “I now have protection from those oversized feet of yours.”

Golde searched his severe, pock-ravaged features. His comment stung and . . .

Nay. She was no longer a child. Never again would such hurtful taunts affect her.

She glanced over her shoulder at the great entrance doors. The urge to run through them and return home was so acute, her muscles twitched in anticipation.

Instead, her legs carried her straight to the baron. ’Twas impossible to deny him. Despite the macabre scene her demented thoughts had just conjured, she could not forget the comforting feel of his body atop hers. Never had she experienced such soul-snatching awareness.

Nor have you known such terror,
a voice whispered in her head.

I
AM NOT
too slow,” Alory huffed at Ronces, his cherubic features acquiring a mulish cast.

“Papa is no baby to crawl up the stairs like you,” Ronces returned hotly.

If the baron heard aught of his sons’ squabbling, he gave no indication. Golde glared at the boys’ backs. She would not be surprised to see horns growing from their heads.

Upon gaining the head of the stairs, Delamaure paused. “Is Hesper caring for Nicolette?” he asked, his head swiveling in the direction of the girl’s chamber.

Before Golde could respond, the redhaired serving maid appeared in the doorway. “’Tis Edna, yer lordship.”

“Aye . . . Edna?” The baron appeared nonplussed.

“I be Hesper’s niece,” the girl supplied.

Delamaure’s face cleared. “Well, then, Edna. Keep a close watch, and should you need aught, the ha—er, the witch . . .

Golde folded her arms over her chest as the baron stammered.

“That is, mistress here,” he nodded over his shoulder, “will be in my chambers.”

With that, he nudged the boys forward, and Golde followed the threesome down the corridor.

She halted just inside the baron’s chamber door, distracted by the tapestries that hung on the walls. In one, men in flowing white robes galloped dun-colored horses across a background of swirling, cream-colored—was it sand? Faded red, blue, and gold streamers trailed from ornate headgear, which resembled nothing that English men wore. Another scene depicted whimsical buildings with round roofs perched atop columns.

She moved closer, inspecting the images. Though fresh, salty air drifted through the unshuttered chamber windows, she caught a whiff of some night-sweet, smoky scent she could not define. ’Twas obvious the wall coverings had absorbed the odor, but from what?

Suddenly the hair crawled along her nape. The tapestries appeared exactly as they had in her . . .

She’d had a vision! She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Praise the Goddess Danu. And God, too. She crossed herself. She was not mad. Mimskin would be thrilled.

Abruptly her good cheer fled and her eyes snapped open. If her swevyn was accurate, a beautiful woman had been brutally slaughtered in this very room. Who was she?

A tingle of apprehension climbed her spine. Her gaze swept past the dark lord and his children to fix on the great four-posted bed. A gold-embroidered scarlet coverlet covered the bed. The material looked to have been spun from rubies—or blood.

Her gaze leapt to the lord’s broad shoulders as the boys led him across the room. She studied his thick black hair, unfashionably long where it fell to his shoulders. With a few braids, he would resemble exactly a barbarian chieftan of yore.

Could he have committed such savagery against a female? He appeared most capable. Or was the woman from some other time, an image from the distant past, or mayhap, the future?

Again she recalled the feel of the man as he’d lain atop her, his hearbeat pulsing through her body. She’d felt so protected.

Nay. She blinked. It could not have been a vision. She had seen the tapestries last night and been too busy ogling the naked Delamaure to note them. After that, her attention had been so focused on Nicolette, she’d noticed little more than the tub.

The dead woman was no more than a figment of her imagination, brought on by exhaustion and hunger. She would think on her no more.

“Sperville!” Delamaure roared as his sons drew up at the foot of the bed.

A dull thud issued from the wardrobe, followed by the chamberlain’s appearance. “Your lordship?” He hurried forward.

Delamaure released his hold on his sons. Balling his hands into fists, he planted them on his hips. “I would hear your description of my attire.”

Spindleshanks frowned and squinted, then his red-rimmed, sleep-deprived eyes rounded. His jaw worked, but no sound was forthcoming.

“I see you, too, are
speechless,”
the baron gritted.

“Milord, I—”

“The great Baron of Skyenvic,” Delamaure mocked, sounding exactly like the chamberlain. “Poor blind bastard wanders about dressed like a court jester, yet the king continues to honor him with a fief. How charitable. What think you, Sperville? Will my appearance frighten away Vikings? Mayhap they will drown in gales of laughter.”

Spindleshanks winced. “Forgive me, sir. There is no excuse for my lack of attention.”

Guilt gnawed at Golde’s inwit. Delamaure had done his best to dress himself. ’Twas no fault of his he could not see. “Mayhap Sir Sperville could arrange your garments in a manner that would not require sight,” she suggested.

The baron turned in her direction, his nose wrinkled with distaste. “I need not direction from a woman who smells worse than dead fish. Mayhap Sir Sperville could arrange a bath for you.”

Golde sucked in her breath. The baseborn mucker. And here she’d felt guilty for bringing his poor choice of garments to everyone’s attention. Once again, she’d forgotten her vow to avoid emotional entanglements with her culls.

“My delicious aroma,” she responded evenly, “is a result of confining myself to a steam-drenched bedchamber on your daughter’s behalf. Doubtless, Satan has made similar heated arrangements on
your
behalf in anticipation of your demise.”

Dropping his fists to his sides, Delamaure’s jaw knotted. “Sperville, I will not tolerate this. You will get that magpie gone this instant.”

Golde leveled an icy stare at the baron. She’d be strung up and gutted before she’d spend another moment in his company. And a pox on the senseless disappointment that crept over her promiscuous body at the thought of leaving. “I need not Spindleshanks’ assistance to take leave. Indeed, I am capable—”

Abruptly the lord hooted. “Spindleshanks!”

Golde crossed her arms over her chest. “I fail to find amusement—”

“Spindleshanks!” he gasped, clutching a bedpost. “A more appropriate name I have never heard. Mayhap you were right, Sperville. I begin to see some merit in the woman.”

At the indignant expression on the chamberlain’s face, Golde was unable to keep a smile from her lips. Sir Sperville glared at her as if she’d just forced him to eat a toad.

Sniffing, the chamberlain spun about. Heels clomping on the wooden floor, he strode to the wardrobe, where he snapped his fingers over his head. “Roland. Fetch his lordship some suitable attire.”