Love at First Sight (9 page)

Listening to the sounds of the unseen Roland rummaging about in the anteroom, Golde struggled to contain her merriment. Unable to resist pricking the chamberlain further, she begged sweetly, “My apologies, Sir Sperville. I meant no insult. Your figure is most dashing.”

“Your rude sobriquet does not disturb me in the least,” he sniffed.

Golde pretended concern. “Come, sir, you appear much like a hen whose egg has been pronounced rotten.”

The baron clutched his belly and doubled over while his sons giggled. Sperville cast a disdainful look in their direction, and raising his nose, disappeared into the wardrobe.

Without warning, Ronces screeched, “To arms!”

Golde near jumped from her skin. Grimacing, she watched the boys launch themselves atop the bed.

Faith! Was the baron deaf as well as blind? His demon sons made racket enough to raise the dead.

Her eyes widened. The brat and the bug were tunneling beneath the scarlet bedcover. Did none care that the boys were ruining such a beautiful piece of craftsmanship? The spread would be black by the time the little beasts were finished. Were they her children, she would . . .

She near choked. Heaven forbid! Death would be preferable to having such unruly offspring. ’Twas not hard to imagine their mother clinging to the ceiling by her fingernails and toenails from their unexpected outbursts. The unfortunate woman had doubtless gone to her premature death, gray and wrinkled.

Abruptly Golde chastised herself. ’Twas indecent to think irreverently of the dead.

Still, she wondered what had happened to the baron’s wife. She must ask Sperville what he’d meant when he’d said the woman had died prematurely.

A dark-haired youth bearing noble raiment appeared from the wardrobe. Sporting a frown, the youth approached Sir Gavarnie, and Golde was distracted by the curious manner in which his hair was slicked to his scalp with oil. Was this some new hair fashion?

The squire waited for the baron’s laughter to subside, then lowered his head. ’Twas as if he were presenting himself to the headsman for execution. “Mi’lord, I am to blame for your attire. When I served you in the hall this morn, I assumed you had reason for dressing thus.”

“Nay, Roland.” Delamaure grinned and raised his voice. “’Tis that fool
Spindleshanks’
fault. Were you not running errands at his direction, you would have been available to see me properly clothed.”

A clattering crash issued from the wardrobe, and the baron smiled broadly. “Sir Sperville! Have a care with my plate.”

“Shall I see about him?” Roland queried, a confused, wary expression on his face. Judging from his look, he knew not whether he was about to be kicked or congratulated.

The lord chuckled and shook his head. “Methinks yon chamberlain needs to stew in his own piquant sauce for a spell.”

Golde contemplated Delamaure’s relaxed stance. At the moment, he did not appear forbidding. Indeed, he exuded a warmth that would thaw the deepest winter freeze; a humor that invited mischief.

What evil elf had made her think him capable of some woman’s murder?

Again she was struck by the sensation of reassuring comfort he’d engendered in her earlier. And just now, he’d made certain of his daughter’s welfare. So he was not the ogre he’d seemed last night.

The lord sidled away from the bedpost, and the squire hastily tossed the garments he carried to one arm. Clutching the baron’s elbow, he made to steer him when, suddenly, Delamaure halted.

“I no longer need assistance to move about my own chamber.” He removed the young man’s hand from his arm. “Indeed, you may sleep outside the chamber door in future. However, I would that you make certain there are no impediments left lying about.”

Pleased astonishment replaced the squire’s discomfited look. “You may depend upon it, sir.” Still, the youth hovered near the baron’s side as the lord seated himself on the bed with slow consideration.

Roland carefully lay the black and gray garments next to him, then knelt at the lord’s feet and tapped his knee.

Oblivious to his sons, who wallowed beneath the fine bedcover like two grunting piglets, Delamaure gave a booted foot to the squire. Then his eyes scanned the room in Golde’s direction. “Now, silver-tongued angel. Let us discuss arrangements for your employ.”

Golde’s brows climbed her forehead. Silver-tongued angel! She’d been called many things, but never that. And ’twas foolish to derive such pleasure from the accolade.

Yet, unable to resist the annoying glow that settled over her, she found it impossible to inform the man she would be taking immediate leave. Instead, she queried, “At what task do you intend to engage my services? You have said naught can be done to restore your sight.”

Delamaure nodded. “I am indeed convinced that such is the case.”

Though he did his best to appear nonchalant, Golde detected a bitter undercurrent in his tone. He gave his other foot to Roland just as Alory extricated himself from the covers. Shrieking like a crazed hawk, the bug jumped up and down on the bed.

“I find, however,” the lord fair shouted, “that my children are in great need of guidance. To my thinking, you are just the person for such a task.”

He groped behind him until he caught the bug’s leg and jerked it out from under him. Alory screamed his delight at the rough treatment, drawing forth Ronces from the tangled mass of quilting. Together the boys threw themselves at their father’s back, grimy hands clutching at his neck in a bid to topple him.

Golde shook her head. ’Twas several moments before she trusted herself to reply in a tone that would not convey her horror. “I am ill prepared to care for children. My expertise lies in the healing arts.”

Having removed both the lord’s boots, Roland hustled to rescue the fine clothing from the bed. Gavarnie encircled both boys, one in each arm, and squeezed. Groaning and gasping mightily, they thrashed about until fear squirted through Golde. Could the man not tell he was hurting his children?

Then she saw their gleeful, wide-mouthed smiles, and her lip curled. Faith, she would be rich indeed had she the talent for fakery that the little mummers possessed.

“’Tis only until I can locate a nursemaid here on the isle,” the baron continued over their moans. “What with the king’s tourney at Atherbrook, I have not the time to look for anyone at present. If you would agree to stay ’til the tournament is past, I would reward you handsomely.”

The boys pounded the lord with their small fists and Golde fidgeted, as if the breath were in fact being crushed from her. Was not coin the reason she’d journeyed to Skyenvic? But ... a nursemaid?

“If you like,” Sir Gavarnie offered, “you may try your hand at curing my blindness.”

So captured was she with the little demons’ display of agony, ’twas a moment before the import of his words struck her. Even then, she had to rethread both his statement and tone through her memory before she was certain.

Nay, she could not refute her first impression. The offhand manner in which he’d made the suggestion might have fooled her were it not for the quiet edge of desperation in his voice. The baron yearned to see again.

’Twas not difficult to imagine her dismay were she blind and dependent upon the whims of others for . . .

Nay, and nay. She would
not
feel empathy for the baron. Still, her feet would not obey her command to walk away.

She studied the squirming children. The little brutes should be locked away until they matured. They were worse than two evil sprites on the prowl for human marrow. And their sister, Nicolette, was no better. A cat would have been more amenable to the fever-cooling bathwater last night.

Golde’s gaze shifted to Gavarnie’s dark, distant-looking eyes. What had caused him to lose his sight?

Though the world was full of people blinded by ill humors, the lord could not be included among them. Vision slipped slowly from victims of such maladies, and their eyes dripped thickly and grew callused with a milk- colored film. Delamaure’s eyes were clear as the star- glistened heavens on a moonless night.

Her brow furrowed. A blow to the head, then?

Mayhap he had foolishly gazed upon a glomung sun. Though ’twas well known that doing so caused blindness, there were e’re vain glorious coxcombs who challenged the sun’s power during its ecliptic daytime darkening.

But her bones told her Sir Gavarnie was not such a man.

“Well?” the baron prodded. “What say you?”

The boys were eyeing her with speculation. Doubtless, both were fomenting nefarious plots with which to entertain themselves at her expense. She shook her head until she realized the baron could not see her. “I have agreed to stay until Nicolette—”

“Pardon, your grace,” a voice sounded from the doorway. Golde turned to find the fair-complexioned steward standing there. “De Warrenne has arrived.”

A pox on Sir Nigel for interrupting before she could decline Delamaure’s offer. Golde returned her attention to the baron, but at the look on his face, words deserted her. Where before his jovial spirits had rendered him most approachable, his features now appeared etched in pitted flint. One would have to be bold indeed to gainsay him at present.

She glanced at the children. Alory yet squirmed in his father’s arm, though Ronces’ visage had grown stony. Slipping from the baron’s grasp, the brat moved to capture his brother. He whispered something in Alory’s ear, and a troubled expression claimed the younger bug’s sweet features. Both climbed from the great bed and moved to stand beside Roland, Alory clutching Ronces’ hand.

’Twas as if the devil himself had just been announced, Golde thought. Who was this de Warrenne, that he could breed such ill will?

“Welcome de Warrenne on my behalf,” the baron grumbled. “Serve him my finest wine and see he is fed. I shall attend him shortly.”

Sir Nigel bowed and disappeared from the doorway. For a moment Sir Gavarnie sat motionless, and Golde was certain ’twas despair that tinged his hate-darkened features. Then a muscle twitched in his jaw and he rose from the bed. Immediately Roland began fumbling with the laces of his tunic.

“Sir Sperville!” the baron thundered.

The chamberlain’s tone was yet disgruntled when he appeared from the wardrobe. “Mi’lord?”

Gavarnie sneered. “That whoreson, de Warrenne, has arrived.”

Spindleshanks’ petulant demeanor vanished and an icy mien settled over his thin features. “I can scarce credit the man’s effrontery. That he would dare impose himself on your hospitality so long before the tourney begins.”

The lord held up a hand. “He is shire reeve here and needs time to collect taxes before the king arrives. However, I would that you . . .”

No wonder this de Warrenne aroused such hostility, Golde thought as Delamaure issued orders. King William was indeed clever, having empowered the old English office of shire reeve to care for all royal affairs in the shires. ’Twas a most effective check in controlling his e’re rebellious barons, for one lord oft held the position of reeve in a shire that contained the estates of several other barons. In that way, they were kept busy fighting one another, instead of the king.

So caught up was she with her thinking, ’twas a moment before she realized Gavarnie’s gaze was scanning the room in her direction. Roland still struggled with the knotted tunic laces, the tip of his tongue pressed to his upper lip.

“Mistress, uh . . .” the baron began.

“Golde,” Spindleshanks supplied.

“Mistress Golde. If you would be good enough to see to the boys for a time.”

’Twas not a question. ’Twas a dismissal.

Golde shook her head. “Mi’lord, I cannot—”

Gavarnie spoke before she could finish. “Admittedly, I have presented you with naught but my black temper. I am e’re bedeviled with matters of state. However, I am much impressed with your treatment of my children. ’Tis a comfort to know they will never gut a person’s buttocks, nor will they ever oppose their opponents.”

Though his face held no trace of a smile, Golde’s lips twitched at his humor.

“And ’tis a miracle that Nicolette—” He paused and raised an imperious black brow when Roland gave a vicious yank at the cords of his tunic.

“Your forgiveness, mi’lord,” the squire begged, his face reddening.

Gavarnie nodded, and his gaze returned to Golde. “I would speak with you at length on your healing abilities at the first opportunity. Meanwhile, I would be in your debt if you would agree to take charge of Ronces and— Roland, do you seek to strangle me?”

“I cannot get the knots undone, sir.” The squire’s frustration was evident in his tone.

“Fetch a knife and have done with it, boy. De Warrenne is apt to steal the entire castle from under my feet before I am dressed.”

Golde glanced at Spindleshanks. He bobbed nods at her and made ushering motions with his hands. Closing her eyes, she conjured an image of the baron’s dark features, his alluring lips. Her thoughts skittered from the memory of his naked body as she’d seen him last night.

She took a deep breath, then gave her attention to the boys. Ronces eyed her with a graveness beyond his years. Alory lowered his head and avoided her gaze.

“Come along.” Golde held her hands out, inviting the children to take hold.

Pulling Alory along, Ronces strode forward and walked past her, ignoring her kind gesture. The brat.

Golde swept from the room and caught him at the head of the stairs as he prepared to descend. “Where do you go?”

“Wherever I choose,” Ronces sneered.

“Yea!” Alory seconded, grinning.

Golde raised a brow. “Then I suggest you choose the direction that will carry you to your sister’s chamber.”

“I am no babe to take orders from a nursemaid.”

“And if you will recall, I am no nursemaid with whom you wish to cross swords.”

Ronces stared at her with fullsome loathing. “Very well, hag. I will humor you this once because it suits me. But in future—”

His teeth snapped shut and he lost his hold on Alory as Golde grasped his shoulder and pushed him against the wall. “Call me hag again, boy,” she affected her most evil voice, “and you will have no future.”