Prisoner of My Desire (11 page)

Warrick could not, however, make her a true servant, for she was nobly born and raised, and that could not be taken from her, no matter how much he might wish it. But he could have her treated like a servant, had already ordered it so, and there was naught she could do about it, for she was, in truth, a prisoner at his mercy. Yet when it occurred to her that he could have had her sent back to the dungeon instead, and without the kindly John Giffard’s protection, she had to consider herself lucky, more than lucky. A servant had free movement, went about almost unnoticed. A servant could escape.

“This be where ye will spend most of yer time,” Mary said as she opened the door to the weaving room on the floor above the Great Hall.

Three women immediately dashed from the window where they had been watching the men practice arms in the exercise yard. But they did not quite resume their seats before Mary noticed. And she could not help but notice the spindle with thread attached that rolled across the floor to disappear under her skirts. One of the women had quickly tried to continue spinning with it, but had dropped it instead.

Rowena took in the small room while Mary glowered at her workers. There was a basket full of spindles with stone whorls, enough to spin a great amount of thread if there were more women to do it, but there were only these eight. Larger baskets of newly treated wool lined the
walls, ready for spinning into thread. There were six large looms, and another stack of smaller hand looms in the corner, but only three of the large ones were presently threaded, and only one had woven cloth nearing completion. The single window gave ample light, so at least there would not be the problem of candle smoke staining the newly made cloth.

Mary finally got around to blasting the women with her displeasure. “Wasting time again, are ye?” she admonished sternly. “Ye will finish what yer due for the day, or there will be no dinner for the lot of ye. And if I find ye idle one more time this week, ye will find yerselves demoted to the laundry. There be others than ye with nimble fingers., if I have to bring them up from the village.”

So saying, she slammed the door shut again, surprising Rowena into saying, “I thought I was to work here.”

“Aye, ye are, but there be enough for ye to do the rest of this day, for ye not to start weaving and spinning now, and sharing in the punishment of those lazy wenches.”

Rowena could not agree more after what she had already suffered, and in gratitude, she informed Mary, “I know how to produce a fine thread, though it takes longer with a double spinning, and I am capable of instructing the weavers to get a better-quality cloth, fine enough for the ladies of the castle.”

She had had little opportunity to direct servants in the past three years, other than those who served only her. But she had been ten and
five when her life changed so drastically, and her mother had already taught her all that she needed to know in the running of a castle. And anything that she could direct to be done, she could do herself, for how could she direct properly unless she knew exactly what needed doing? Yet there were some things she could do better than others.

Having gained Mary’s complete interest, she continued. “But my talents would be wasted in this area, for I am better skilled with a needle.”

“So my lord must have thought, for he has also ordered ye to have the care of his clothes, and the making of new ones for him, though we have better than the spun wool for that. But ye can teach others to get a finer weave, ye say?”

Rowena was still flushing over what she considered a further punishment, to be forced to handle
his
clothes, so she only nodded stiffly. But Mary did not notice her high color in the dimly lit corridor; she was merely surprised.

“Did ye have the care of the weavers at Kirkburough?” she asked.

“Nay, I was not there long.”

“Well, I would not take it amiss did ye do a little instructing of my wenches whilst ye do yer own weaving, but ’tis not what I was ordered to have ye do, and ye will have little enough spare time with all ye do have to do.” And then she turned to leave, adding only, “When ye finish for the day, ye can return here to sleep with the others.”

Rowena pictured that small room with so little
cleared floor space and asked, “
All
of them sleep in there?”

“Nay, only three. The other five are as sluttish as Celia. They all have men they sneak off to at night.” Mary stopped at the top of the stairwell to pin Rowena with narrowed eves. “Yer not of that bent, are ye?”

Rowena knew that people had seen her enter the lord’s solar three days ago, and others had seen her leave it this morn. Though Mary did not seem to know that, she was bound to hear of it eventually. If Rowena was to be under Mary’s care
and
discipline, as it seemed, she did not want to make enemies of the woman by leaving her to be surprised later by facts that Rowena could make clear to her now. And Mary did not seem to be a mean woman, just a beleaguered one. Mayhap she could even help Rowena, if she could gain her sympathy.

“I would be immensely grateful, Mistress Blouet, if you could keep
all
men away from me, but—there is a thing you should know, if your lord did not tell you. He kept me in his solar these last three days—chained to his bed.”

“Nay, he would never!” Mary said indignantly. “Why do ye lie?”

The last thing Rowena expected was to hear someone staunchly defend that cruel, vengeful man. Was it possible Mary had no idea what kind of man he really was?

“Enid knows ’tis so, and I doubt your lord would deny it, for he had reasons to punish me so. I tell you only so you do not wonder if he singles me out for further punishment, for ’tis
not likely he is through having his vengeance on me.”

Mary still looked skeptical, though she allowed, “Aye, likely not, for yer other duties, now I think on it, can be seen as a punishment if they be not to yer liking. Ye are also to serve Lord Warrick at table for all meals, see to the cleaning of his chamber with only Enid’s help, and attend him at his bath, which Celia is likely to take umbrage at, for ’twas previously her duty, and one she relished.”

Rowena felt sick to her stomach. And she had thought at least the worst was over, that being demoted to servant class would be the end of it?

“There is one other thing you should know. I am with child, and Lord Warrick knows ’tis his.”

“And he gives ye more work than any other serf here? Nay, I cannot believe that either.”

“Why would I lie when the proof will begin to show in a few months’ time?”

“Then he does not know of it,” Mary insisted.

“No other has ever touched me, Mistress Blouet. The child is his and he even means to—to take it from me.”

Mary gasped. “Now ye go too far in yer accusations, girl. If it be true yer breeding, likely my lord will find ye a husband, so say no more about it to me. Now come along. Ye have the cleaning of the solar to do the rest of this day, for it has been neglected these…last…three—”

Mary did not finish what, in truth, supported one of Rowena’s claims. She pursed her lips tightly and headed down the stairwell.

Rowena did not follow immediately, feeling overcome with a new dread that Mary had unwittingly given her. Warrick
could
marry her off, and to a serf, to the meanest villein.
Please, God, do not let that occur to him
.

Rowena hated entering that solar again, but found it was not nearly so oppressive when she was not lying bound in the bed. Getting anywhere near that bed was out of the question, though. She would rather scrub the floor on her hands and knees, and did, while Enid saw to changing the bedding, dusting, and general tidying. Rowena would have taken the rugs out for a beating, too, but Enid shook her head. They had laundry to see to today instead, Enid the linens, Rowena
his
clothing. She was told this by having the clothes dumped in her arms and Enid, with her own arms full, beckoning her to follow.

Rowena had washed clothes only once before in her life, though she knew well enough how it was done. ’Twas not a pleasant chore. The sheets could merely be soaked in a wooden trough with a solution of wood ashes and caustic soap, then pounded, rinsed, and hung out to dry. The servants’ coarse woolen clothing could be done the same, but not so the lord’s fine clothes. These had to be boiled and washed by hand with a milder soap, then boiled again and rinsed not once but three times before they could be hung.

With the great cauldrons of water in the washhouse constantly boiling, the wilting steam, the milder though still abrasive soap reddening her
delicate skin, Rowena decided this still was not the worst of her chores, especially since the other laundresses were all friendly, and some even came to help her once Enid left. Nay, she had not gotten to the worst chore yet, but hopefully the Lord of Fulkhurst was not a fastidious man to demand a bath more than once a week, and mayhap she would have a few days’ grace before she had to deal with
that
duty.

When she returned to the hall, it was to find the trestle tables for the evening meal already set up. Warrick was not present yet, but the lord’s table was beginning to fill with those privileged to eat there: his daughters, several of his knights, the steward, who was also a knight, and a lady past the middle years who was tutor to the daughters in the household arts.

One of the knights there was Sir Robert, and Rowena made haste to the kitchen to see what needed carrying to the lord’s table, hoping she would have a chance to speak privately with him before Warrick arrived. She had not forgotten the knight’s help in assigning her John Giffard, or her promise to thank him for it. And it would not hurt to cultivate his friendship, for help given once might be gained again, and she would need all she could get to escape this place.

But when she returned with her first tray of meats, Warrick was in his seat, and his eyes lit on her the moment she entered the hall, nor did they leave her until she was gone from sight. She did not see this, she felt it, for she refused to look at him again after that first glance. But
there was something so unnerving about his regard, she did not mistake it.

She was amazed to find Warrick waiting for her at the top of the stairs when she came up with her second tray. And his expression definitely boded ill for her.

“Did I not warn you to watch me when in my presence?” he demanded.

“I—I forgot,” she lied.

That only half appeased him. “Will you forget again?”

“Nay.”

“Nay, what?”

“My lord,” she gritted out.

That
appeased him. “Mayhap you need something to remind you of who you belong to now,” he said in a thoughtful tone, just before his hand reached for her breast.

Rowena jumped back so quickly, her action took her into the stairwell, where she lost her footing. Warrick grabbed for her, but it happened too fast and he could not catch her in time. She did not scream. She felt an instant of relief to have her misery ended in this way, before regret filled her mind. But this feeling, too, was too brief to provoke a scream, for she fell no more than two steps, right onto the manservant coming up behind her with another tray of food.

Both trays hit the stone steps with a clatter as the man reached out to keep himself from falling. It was fortunate he did not grab her, however, or she might have experienced a painful wrenching, for Warrick hauled her off the man about as quickly as she had crashed into him. Nor did he
release her at the top of the stairs until he had shaken her hard at least twice.

“
Never
try to avoid my touch again, wench, or worse will happen to you than a tumble down the stairs. Now clean up the mess you caused, and you will do so quickly, because I will not eat until you fill my trencher yourself—and I am hungry.”

In other words, she could expect his anger to mount with each passing minute that he had to wait while she cleaned the stairs? ’Twas no wonder her hands were trembling before she finished.

Rowena was furious over the anxiety Warrick had caused her, for when she finally got back to the hall with a new tray of food, it was to find him picking on what was already available on the table, and so deep in discussion with his steward that he likely had not given her another thought. But he did still insist she fill his trencher, merely pointing to what foods he wanted. And he also insisted she remain there to refill his tankard with ale, though a young page stood behind his chair with a pitcher of the brew to do just that. And all the while she had to keep her eyes on him.

Rowena was furious about that, too. She did not
like
to look at him and see his every nuance of expression, to know exactly when his thoughts turned to her. But she knew this was just another form of revenge, his forcing her to
watch his cruel visage, just as serving him at table was. Both were calculated to drive home the fact that she was still at his utter mercy, and he still had none.

When he was almost finished with his meal, he beckoned her forward with a wave of his hand without even looking to see if she noticed. She would have been in trouble if she had not, and knew then that he was also testing her to see how well she obeyed him, though he obviously expected full compliance. That, too, made her furious, that he was so arrogantly
sure
she would do everything she was told to do. Did no one ever defy him? Did no one ever deliberately provoke his anger? A stupid thought, since even when he was not frowning, he was frightening. And no matter how angry he made her, she did not have the nerve to tempt a beating or other added punishment—not yet.

“I require a bath this eve,” he told her when he sensed her presence at his side. He still did not look up at her. “Go and see to it.”

Rowena closed her eyes briefly in regret that she would not be granted a reprieve from that after all. She heard one of the daughters giggle, then a stern admonishment from the lady tutor, and felt herself blushing. Everyone there would have had to be blind not to notice how Warrick’s attention returned to her throughout the meal. And anytime a lord singled out one of his female servants for his notice, she was almost guaranteed to end up in his bed—or so they would all think. That was not the rule in her case, for she had already suffered that unpleasant experience.
But they did not know that she was being punished, rather than favored.

She left the hall quickly, just to get away from those cold silver eyes. She found Mary in the kitchen having dinner with her husband, and was reminded that she had not eaten yet herself. But when was she supposed to have time to eat, with all the duties that had been given to her? Obviously not today—but then, today was an exception, with three days’ cleaning to do, and she had started late—and he could not want a bath
every
night.

Mary merely explained how Rowena was to see to her present chore herself, while she continued to stuff succulent pieces of roasted partridge in her mouth, and Rowena’s belly rumbled in complaint at being allowed only the scent of food. She learned she was not expected to carry in the large tub that was stored in the small antechamber outside the solar, where Warrick’s squires slept, for in the summer he bathed in there. Nor did she have to lug in the many buckets of water, and was shown which menservants had that duty so she would be able to command them herself next time. She was told where to find the bath cloths and soap that were only for the lord’s use. She was warned the lord liked his bath very warm, but not very hot, and that the temperature would be her responsibility, and was worth a slap if she got it wrong. Another worry she could have done without but should have expected, for most knights reacted violently to the smallest discomfort, and woe betide whoever was closest to them when they did.

It was maddening to have to cross the length of that hall again just to reach the solar. But Warrick seemed not to notice her this time. And although she glanced at him every few steps she took, to comply with his unreasonable order to watch him always, she could not be expected to stare at him as she walked and not run into something. Could she?

She assumed not, for she was not called to account for watching her own step, and once in the antechamber outside the solar—she came face-to-face with Celia.

She knew exactly who the young woman was by her vivid beauty, and by the pure hatred blazing from her green eyes. She wore both her bliaut and her chemise cut low to show off her ample breasts, and her wild mane of copper curls gave her an untamed sensuality that any man would find challenging. The yellowing teeth were barely noticeable, but the overwhelming scent of roses was almost gagging. The woman was obviously under the mistaken impression, as were a great many nobles, that sweet perfumes could mask uncleanliness.

Celia did not mince words, but went right to the attack. “I know ye—you were in the dungeon. What did you do to get out of that punishment and be so favored? Did you spread your legs for him? Did you get on your knees and—”

“Take your filthy mouth and get out, Celia!”

Green eyes flared incredulously. “Ye—you dare speak so to me? Me?!”

Just what Rowena needed, a fight over a man
she despised. It was almost laughable. And to be thought favored? To be envied her hateful duties? God’s mercy, what next? But the arrogant attitude of the woman was annoying, reminding Rowena of what Mary Blouet had said of her. Celia had obviously let her position as the lord’s favorite go to her head, giving her a haughty condescension that was inappropriate in a servant. And she
was
just a servant, no matter that she was trying to better her speech so as not to sound like one.
But so are you—for now
, Rowena reminded herself.
So what right do you have to take exception at another servant’s audacity?

That realization, unfortunately, did not keep the sarcasm from her tone when she answered. “I believe I can speak to you as I please, Celia. Am I not the one presently
favored?
”

That got her a slap that was wholly unanticipated, and a vicious rejoinder. “Not for long, bitch. Remember that when he gets tired of yer pale, skinny body, for I will be making ye sorry then that ye thought to take my place.”

Rowena was too stunned to say a word as Celia flounced out the door. She had never been slapped before, never in her life, and ’twas definitely not pleasant. But she supposed that was one other thing she would have to get used to here, for what recourse did she have, particularly if the abuse came from Mistress Blouet, who had the care and discipline of her, or Warrick himself? But from another servant? Nay, she did not have to take that—only from that particular servant, she still had no recourse. She could just imagine Warrick’s reaction if she tried to slap his “favor
ite” back. And Celia
knew
that. ’Twas why she got away with her appalling behavior.

The menservants began arriving with the water. Rowena went to fetch the bath cloths and soap from the appropriate chest in the solar. But she brought an extra washing cloth to dip in the cold water and place on her cheek. It relieved some of the heat, and the red mark was partially faded by the time Warrick sauntered in.

He looked first at the tub with steam slowly rising from it. It had taken every bucket of hot water to warm all the cold that had been dumped in when she was not watching, leaving her only cold water to rinse him with. She had been about to order more hot when he arrived, but his presence put the thought right out of her mind, especially when his eyes glanced at her and narrowed on her cheek.

He came right to her then and lifted her chin. “Who hit you?” he demanded.

“No one.”

“You lie, wench. What did you do to cause Mistress Blouet displeasure with you already?”

Why did he immediately assume
she
had to be at fault? She ought to tell him the truth, except the slap was no more than she deserved for slipping down to Celia’s level. But she knew full well he would do naught if he knew ’twas his precious Celia, and for some reason that hurt more than the slap had.

So she lied, and found it quite satisfying to do so in this particular instance. “I merely tripped, because I could not watch my step in the hall for
being ordered to watch you.” And he had not been observing her to know better.

His scowl, for once, did not frighten her. “Stupid, wench. Must you be taught common sense along with your duties?”

“If I am allowed to watch where I walk when you are present, you must tell me so. I do not wish to disobey you.”

“Do you not?” he growled at her meek answer and let go of her. “Then we will see just how well you wish to obey. Undress me.”

She had expected that, but color still flooded into her face, so both cheeks were now equally red. And he just stood there towering over her with his hands relaxed at his sides. He was not going to help at all. She hated this, hated getting anywhere near him, but he knew that. This
was
just another part of his revenge, after all, treating her no better than a serf—nay, more like his personal slave.

She made quick work of disrobing him, not even trying to conceal her resentment. That humorless smile she hated came to his lips, so she avoided looking at his face. But that left only his body to look at—which she had never found fault with and still did not.

He did not even bend down so she could remove his tunic, forcing her to get closer to him to shove it up his chest and shoulders, then pull upward instead of down. She gasped as her breasts accidentally brushed against his chest, then gasped again as her nipples immediately tingled into hardness. She yanked so hard then
that she fell back several steps when the tunic finally came off in her hands.

He laughed at her glowering expression—at least she hoped that was all he laughed at. He could not know the reaction her body had just had to his, could he? And how could that happen at all when she despised him? It made no sense to her.

She did not want to approach him again. There were his chausses and boots yet to be got rid of, but she could not do it, not that. Her breasts were tingling again with just the thought. God’s mercy, what was wrong with her?

He waited patiently, but when she made no move toward him, he said, “Finish.” She slowly shook her head, watching as one of his brows rose in question. “You would prefer to be chained to my bed again?”

She leaped forward, nearly colliding with him in her rush. She heard his laugh and gritted her teeth. So he would hold that over her head now, too, would he? He was utterly despicable, beyond—

“On your knees, I think.”

She dropped to her knees without even thinking about this new order, and was faced with the thick bulge beneath his chausses. Color came hot into her cheeks again, and her fingers trembled now as she reached up to untie his laces to free that vengeful weapon of his.

“’Tis quite satisfying, seeing you in that humbled position—like a pet at my feet,” he continued in a casual tone. “Mayhap I will have you serve me at table just so.”

In front of everyone? “Please.” The word was torn from her with a groan.

His hand came to the top of her head—just as if she were no more than a pet dog panting for attention at his feet—and pushed back until she was looking up at him. “Will you hesitate again in your duty?”

“Nay, I will not.”

He said no more, leaving her in an agony of doubt that her answer had satisfied him. She was on her knees now because she had dared refuse to finish, a punishment swift and humiliating. Was that not enough?

She pulled the braies and chausses down his legs, but avoided looking at what sprang forth by bending over to see to his boots. When she finished, he still just stood there, so she stared at his bare feet, a defiance, but not an exact disobedience, for were his feet not part of him?

“Verily do you test my patience,” he said when she continued to just stare at his feet.

But he did not press the issue this time, and she watched his feet move away and then disappear into the tub. She sighed in relief. But she was forgetting what else “attending him at his bath” signified. He reminded her.

“What do you wait for now, wench? Come and wash my back and hair.”

’Twas part of “attending” him. She knew that. And at least he was not insisting she wash all of him. But she did not want to get close to his naked body again, when just the thought of it was making her feel warm and mushy inside, which in turn sparked her temper.

She fetched the washing cloth, soaked and soaped it, but before she touched him with it, she demanded, “Why does your wife not tend to this?”

“I have no wife.”

“But you have two daughters.”

“And I had two wives, both long dead. Yet I would have had another—” He suddenly grabbed her bliaut to pull her close and growled, “I was to meet her, but I was otherwise detained, so she rode on and is now missing. Know you where I was, wench, that I could not meet my bride as intended?” She was afraid to answer. He did not wait for her to. “I was chained to a bed for
your
pleasure.”

God’s mercy, he had this, too, to blame her for? “Not my pleasure,” she whispered.

He let go of her with a slight shove. “Best you pray Lady Isabella
is
found and not dead.”

Another dire warning with unknown consequences. She wondered if the lady was not lost, but had taken the opportunity to flee a marriage to this man. Rowena certainly would have if given half a chance.

The subject had angered him. She could feel it in the tautness of his back as she quickly scrubbed it now. So she was not truly surprised, when she handed him the cloth to finish, that he did not take it. She had earned another punishment for getting him riled.

“I find I have overtaxed myself this day, so you may wash me, wench—everywhere. And best you remove your clothes to do it so they do not get wet.”

Damn him to perdition.
Why
did he have to take revenge for the tiniest little things? He was the devil’s spawn, to be this cruel.

But Rowena did as instructed, whipping off her chemise and bliaut together, ripping several laces in her haste. Then she immediately slipped the sleeveless bliaut back on before he noticed that she was, in fact, defying him again in solving the problem of getting wet in her own way.