Prisoner of My Desire (16 page)

“Aye, his damn war with Gilbert and heaven knows who else. Has aught been said of when he will leave again?”

“Do not sound so hopeful, my lamb. He needs be present for you to work your wiles on him to better your own lot. Does he leave soon, your load will not be lightened the while he is gone.”

“Nay, ’twould be cut in half. I could easily live with that.”

“And what if he thinks to stick you back in the dungeon instead, to assure you will still be his prisoner when he returns?”

That was a distinct possibility, and without the guarantee that she would have John Giffard again as a guard. But the alternative, to actually try and entice that man…she did not care to think on it yet,
could
not.

She stood up in agitation, saying, “Best I leave
ere we are found out and both punished.”

Mildred protested. “This is the women’s floor. He is not likely to come up—”

“He did last eventide,” Rowena cut in as she headed for the door. But there she stopped, and it was a moment before she turned to ask with a thoughtful frown, “What did you mean, ’tis his nature now to have revenge?”

“Have you heard naught about what occurred here sixteen years ago?”

“Warrick made mention of another holding Fulkhurst long ago. Is that what you speak of?”

“Aye. Lord Warrick was not here at the time, was fostered with another lord, or he would no doubt be as dead as his family.”

“Was it a siege?”

“Nay, treachery. As I was told, a baron, Sir Edward Bainart by name, coveted Fulkhurst, as well as the Lady Elisabeth, Warrick’s mother. Bainart called himself friend to the family, his desires unknown to them, and during one of his visits, he acted to have what he wanted. He waited until all slept, then sent his own small band of men to dispatch the Fulkhurst men-at-arms and any servants who thought to interfere. He then sneaked into the solar and murdered Warrick’s father in his own bed, with the Lady Elisabeth as witness. The stupid man thought she would be too afeared to give him trouble after that, but he had not counted on how much she had loved her husband. She reviled him most foully before his men, enraging him so that he gave her to them, all of them; and, ignorant churls that they were, they killed her through
their rough handling. Warrick’s two sisters, one younger than he, one older, thought the same fate would be theirs and jumped off the parapet together, the one dying instantly, the other broken of body, but lingering nigh a week in horrible pain ere she died, too.”

Rowena knew now wherein Mildred found sympathy for Warrick. “I wish you had not told me this.”

“’Tis wisest to know your enemy, and a simple question can bring a wealth of information when you are in a room full of gossiping women. Lord Warrick was only six and ten when the news reached him that Fulkhurst was in the hands of another, his family all dead. ’Twas another six months ere he learned the full details, and twice during that time attempts were made on his own life. He was, after all, still heir to Fulkhurst, though without the aid of king or an army of his own to win it back. Bainart knew this and so dismissed Warrick as a threat. He did not know of Warrick’s one remaining resource, a betrothal made in his youth and still in effect. He was too young to do aught about it then, but the very day he was knighted, he rode straightaway to claim his bride, and with her dower lands to supply men, and additional aid from her father—”

“He won back Fulkhurst?”

“Aye.”

“And killed Bainart?”

“With his own hands. But that was not enough. His inability to act immediately to avenge his family had allowed his hate to fester for
those two years. Fulkhurst had declined in prosperity because many of the servants had been maimed or killed under Bainart’s rule. What Warrick had won back was a sorry estate.”

“And so Bainart’s other properties became targets,” Rowena guessed.

“Exactly. It took three years, but in the end, all of Bainart’s holdings were added to Fulkhurst, doubling it in size. Lord Warrick lost his first wife and took another during that time, with an eye to increasing his resources in the second marriage, but with a more comely maid than his first wife had been.”

“Had he new enemies by then, that he needed an even larger army?”

“Nay, but he had made a vow that no one would ever do him an ill again without paying for it tenfold. ’Tis a vow he has kept ever since, and it has earned him a reputation of swift retribution for all trespasses. ’Tis a vow that has involved him in one war after another, year after year, for he will not let the slightest offense pass.”

“’Tis what finally turned him into the cruel monster he is today,” Rowena remarked bitterly.

“Nay, how he is today is how he was from the day he learned of the destruction of his whole family. ’Twas his grief and despair that changed him from the boy he was to the man he is. They say there is no comparison between the two, that the boy was kind, loving, full of mischief and the joyous exuberance of youth.”

“And the man is cold, heartless—”

“But now you know why, and I doubt not that
if he changed once, he can change again.”

“Or not.”

“Where is the optimism of your own youth?”

“Destroyed at the hands of the d’Ambrays.”

“Then nurture it back to life, my lamb, for you have an opportunity here to secure your own future—and heal a man who has lived too long with demons from his past. A worthy endeavor do you ask me.”

“I did not ask you,” Rowena said with growing annoyance. “You can feel sorry for him, but you are not the recipient of his current enmity. Do you ask
me
, he and his demons deserve each other.”

“Will you let your own tragedies turn you as hard and unforgiving as he?”

“Now you contradict yourself to badger me, by admitting he
is
hard and unforgiving. Leave go, Mildred. I said I would think about it.”

“Very well.” Mildred sighed, but added tenaciously, “You do not feel just a little sorry for him now?”

“Not even a little,” Rowena said stubbornly—and wished it were not a lie.

“Welcome, Sheldon!” Warrick exclaimed and clasped his old friend in a bear hug. “It has been too long since you came for a visit.”

“Likely because you crack my ribs each time I do,” Sheldon grunted.

“Liar,” Warrick shot back, but with a laugh, for Sheldon was not as wide as he was, but was as tall—and in full armor.

Sheldon de Vere had been the eldest son of the household where Warrick had been fostered, and Warrick had been his squire for four years. That there was only some five years difference in their ages had made them friends as well. Sheldon was merely thirty-seven now, but his beard and straggly, long brown hair were prematurely salted with gray, a trait common to the men of his family. It did not detract from his handsomeness, but it did cause strange stares
from folk seeing him for the first time.

“Come, seat yourself and let your squire remove some of that heavy mail,” Warrick continued as he led the way to the hearth. Then he called to a passing servant. “Emma, order refreshment for my guest.” The girl turned to do as told, but after a moment Warrick called again. “And fetch the new wench to serve it.”

Sheldon watched the lithesome girl delegate the first order to another, then move toward the stairs to the women’s quarters. “You still treat her like a servant?” he remarked after she had gone from sight.

“She is a servant.”

“She is also your daughter.”

Warrick frowned at that bald statement. “That cannot be proven. God’s blood, I bedded her mother but once in my fifteenth year, when you had given me leave to come home for a short visit. ’Tis unlikely—”

“Why do you make excuses for it not to be so,” Sheldon interrupted, “when you have only to look at her to know she is your get? She is the only one of your girls who actually does look like you.”

Warrick slumped down in his chair by the hearth, his frown darkening. “I had no knowledge of the girl until she was nigh full-grown. Her mother was so afeared of me, she kept her hidden in the village during my infrequent stays here, and my servants are so circumspect, none would mention her existence to me. Even you have never mentioned her to me ere now.”

Sheldon flushed, for that was true enough.
“Did you acknowledge her as yours when you did finally notice her?”

Warrick snorted. “When I first noticed her, my friend, all I saw was a comely wench I might like to sample in a few years and I told her so, whereby she promptly explained, with a good deal of affronted heat, that I could not because she was my daughter. Verily, I have never felt like such a fool, because I did not see it, because I did not know it.”

Sheldon laughed. “Embarrassment like that is not easy to forget.”

“Indeed, nor have I. I would as soon she continued to hide herself when I am home, but now she does not.”

“But did you acknowledge her?”

“Nay. I told you it cannot be proven she is mine, or do you forget that my father yet lived when she was conceived? She could as easily be his get.”

“You believe that no more than I. Your father was much too devoted to your mother to find any interest at all in the castle wenches.”

Warrick could not deny that, and his frown turned into a scowl. “Mayhap I welcomed you too hastily, old friend. Why do you badger me about the girl?”

Sheldon sighed. “I should have said so to begin with. My second son, Richard, would like to have her to wife.”

Warrick stared at him for a long moment before he burst out laughing. “His wife? What jest is this?”

“No jest. I doubt you care to note it, but you
have made yourself a power to reckon with. An alliance with your house is coveted by more powerful lords than I, or are you not barraged frequently with requests for your girls?”

“Aye, too many for me to have the time to consider. But I have two legitimate daughters, either of whom I would gladly give to Richard.”

Sheldon grimaced. “No offense, Warrick, but Richard has threatened to move to France do I come back with a betrothal to either of those two. He wants no other than Emma, and I would be glad of the match myself.”

“But she is no more than a serf!” Warrick burst out.

“Not if you acknowledge her as yours.”

Warrick was back to scowling. “’Twould be a disservice to your family. She has not the deportment or manners of a lady. She would shame—”

“She can be taught all that needs knowing.”

“By who?” Warrick snorted. “Did I ask Lady Roberta to include my bastard in her teachings, she would laugh in my face, or more like leave affronted. ’Tis not done, Sheldon.”

His friend sighed again. “She should have been taught long ago, but as you say, you knew not of her existence. And I have no lady wife to take her in hand either. What, then, do I tell my Richard, who has his heart set on her? Is she really so lacking in all graces?”

Warrick did not hear the question. Emma had returned to the hall, and right behind her was Rowena. And the sight of the flaxen-haired wench sent all thoughts of Sheldon’s problem
out of his mind. She did not look his way, but his eyes followed her until she disappeared down the kitchen stairwell.

Memories of last eventide returned and caused him to stir uncomfortably in his chair; then he realized that Sheldon was staring at him. “What?”

Sheldon raised a brow at the surly tone. “I asked if you would object if I found a lady willing to instruct Emma. Doubtless ’twill not be easy to find such a lady, yet would I need your permission ere I make the effort.”

But Warrick was not looking at him, and all he said was, “What?” again, though with less heat.

“Warrick, what the devil ails you, that you are so distracted?”

Rowena had reentered the hall with a tray laden with refreshment.
She
ailed him, that cursed wench. He could not look at her without being reminded of all she had done to him, and he could not recall that without feeling the heat stir in his loins. Fury and desire clashed and warred in him once again, and it was getting harder for fury to win the battle.

“Do you require aught else, my lord?”

She had set the tray on a table between the two chairs and now stood there with her hands folded and her eyes demurely lowered—to Warrick’s feet. He had dressed her in servants’ clothes, yet in no way had she ever appeared the serf. Even standing there waiting to serve him, she held herself with all the regal grace of a queen. ’Twas more than annoying, those la
dylike airs, but the thought suddenly made him smile, for it occurred to him that he had someone right here who could instruct Emma in all she would need to know, and he did not have to ask her to do it, he need only order it done.

Just then, he ordered, “Go you and inform Mistress Blouet to prepare a chamber for my guest.”

“I see I no longer need my last question answered,” Sheldon said as soon as she left. “Is she the lady you had locked in your dungeon?”

Warrick was surprised. “How did you come to know about that?”

“I came to Fulkhurst a fortnight ago, expecting to meet your bride. Did no one tell you?”

“Nay, ’twas not mentioned. But how did you hear of Rowena?”

“Considering the large escort that brought her and installed her in your dungeon, ’twas all your people were talking about. Speculation was rife, as I recall, as to whether she was indeed a lady or not. Is she?”

“The question wouldst be better put, ‘Was she?’ She was. She is not now.”

“How so?”

“Because she is my prisoner, without rights and without concessions. As I do not care to hang her, or flay the skin from her back, or otherwise maim her, I have instead punished her with the loss of her previous status. I have made her my serf.”

“What did she do?”

“I do not care to speak of her crime. Suffice it to say, she is lucky I did not kill her.”

Sheldon said naught for several moments, possibly because Warrick’s tone had turned too defensive. “It must have been grievous indeed.” But then he shrugged, not all that interested, since his own problem had yet to be solved. “About Emma?”

“Do you leave the matter to me. As it happens, my new serf is capable of teaching the girl, if she
can
be taught. Let us see if the iron can be wrought into silver ere we speak more of it.”