Prisoner of My Desire (20 page)

Warrick was not in one of his better moods when he entered the hall late that afternoon. And there was Emma to remind him that he had not yet seen to the matter of her transformation. He called her to him now as he headed for the empty hearth area. There were only two chairs amongst the many stools, reserved only for him and his guests, or for his daughters. That he motioned Emma into one of them as he took the other brought a wary look to her face, and made him realize that she did not consider herself a member of his family any more than he had ever thought of her as such.

That he thought of it now did not bother him unduly. Bastards were a fact of life, and very few ever rose above the stigma of their births or the serfdom of their mothers, unless they had a royal sire—or no legitimate siblings.

Emma was, as far as he knew, his only bastard, if he did not count the one growing in Rowena’s belly. Though she must be nigh six and ten, he had only known of her existence these past few years. Possibly he would have done better by her if he had given her more thought, but he had rarely been home since she had come to his attention, and rarely had he had other than war on his mind—until now.

He stared at her, noting what Sheldon had so easily seen, that she was indeed more like him than either of his other two daughters. There was strength in her face and bearing which the other two lacked. Even her eyes and hair were exactly the shades that his were, except whereas his eyes could be coldly chilling and most times were, hers held a warmth that lent a certain beauty to her face.

He noted also that she did not fidget under his direct regard. Had he stared at Melisant this long without speaking, she would have burst into tears. Beatrix would have started volunteering excuses for whatever she had recently done wrong, without waiting to hear an accusation made. Emma just quietly sat there and stared back at him, though she was nowise at ease. Courage, then, that he had not expected. Mayhap she would do well for young Richard after all.

Warrick did not think to ease lightly into the subject. His first words to her were, “Sheldon de Vere has a son who wants you.”

“Is it Richard you speak of?”

He nodded. “Had you knowledge of his intent?”

“None.”

“But I take it you have had some converse with him, else he would not have asked specifically for you.”

“He has sought me out each time he comes here with his father.”

“To steal kisses, no doubt.” Warrick snorted. “Are you still a virgin, girl?”

Her cheeks pinkened, though her gaze remained locked to his, and her lips turned down at the corners. “No man here will even look at me, for fear of you.”

Warrick grinned at her chagrin. “I am pleased to hear it. Richard will no doubt be even more pleased. But before I agree to give you to him, you will have much to learn so you will not bring shame to his family.”

She stared at him incredulously. “You intend to have me
taught
the ways of a whore?”

He frowned. “What have I said that could lead you to think so?”

“You say he wants me and you intend to give me to him. If not as his leman, then what?”

Warrick’s lips turned down in disgust, but at himself. “I suppose I cannot fault you for thinking so. But ’tis his wife you will be,
if
you can be taught the ways of a lady.”

“Wife?” She merely mouthed the word without sound, her surprise was so great. But when the implications of that word fully sank in, her face lit up with a radiant joy, her smile nigh blinding. “To Sir Richard?”

“If—” he started to reiterate, but she would have none of that.

“There is no if, my lord. Whatever needs be learned I
will
learn. Doubt it not.”

For the first time in his life, Warrick felt pride in one of his children, something he had not expected to know until he had a son. Her determination he did not doubt. Her capability, however, remained to be seen.

But for her sake, he wanted her to succeed. To that end, he was now reluctant to order Rowena to the task of teaching her. Rowena’s current behavior might not speak of held grudges, yet was there much that he had done to her that she might still resent. He had done naught that had not been deserved, yet the way a woman’s mind worked was not to be trusted. The possibility
was
there that she might teach Emma incorrectly just to get even with him.

“Lady Roberta wouldst be the likely choice,” he remarked thoughtfully, but before he could state why she would not be acceptable, Emma did.

“She would not do it,” Emma said, some of the radiant glow leaving her face. “She despises me, and—and I am not so sure she knows aught more than stitchery. ’Tis all she finds important—”

Warrick’s chuckle cut her off. “There is much to be said for a fine stitch, but I mention the lady as the likely choice only in that she is already employed in that capacity, and so ’twould be ideal—yet do I agree that she would object to teaching you. As an alternative, I believe Rowena
can help you in this area do you ask her.”

“But she has so many duties now—”

She did not finish because he was frowning again, and he was frowning because he had not realized he had overburdened the wench. Rowena had said nay, that she was not being overtaxed in her labors—yet. But had she lied to him? What did he know of servants and what was considered a normal work load? He had never had the directing of anyone other than his men. But now that he thought of it, even Mistress Blouet had looked at him strangely when he had mentioned everything that he wanted Rowena to do. All he had considered at the time was to give her tasks that he felt she would object to, because they were as near to wifely duties as he could think of. Putting her in the weaving room had merely been an afterthought so it would not appear that she served only him.

“Her other duties will be lightened to give her ample time to devote to you—if she agrees to the task.”

“I will be most grateful for her help, but should you not be the one to approach her on this matter, rather than I?”

Warrick grunted. “She would not do me any favors, Emma, and for me to insist—suffice it to say, you are like to get more from her in asking than I would get for you in ordering her to teach you.” It occurred to him, finally, that his daughter had not once questioned his choice of tutor, and he asked, “You knew she was a lady?”

’Twas Emma’s turn to frown with her correction. “But she still is. ’Tis not something you can
take from her merely because you—” She blushed, amending, “I am sorry, my lord. Was no one to guess? We have wondered why you treat her so, but ’tis your affair.”

The censure in her tone had him nearly growling. “Exactly—my affair and not to be questioned, so wonder about it no more.”

But he knew before he finished speaking that ’twas guilt that had struck a sour note in him. God’s blood, now Rowena even made him feel guilt, when he had, in truth, been more lenient with her than she deserved. When he thought of what he
could
have demanded of her—her very life! Nay, he would not feel guilty over his treatment of her.

To speak of the devil, Rowena came up from the kitchen just then, drawing his attention instantly with that damn red chemise, which he promised himself he was going to burn one of these days. She noticed him almost immediately as well, only she then turned swiftly about to return whence she came. Running from him now, was she? Aye, mayhap she felt she ought to after the foolishness she had instigated that morn with Isabella.

But now that he had seen her, he knew he could no longer concentrate on Emma, so he dismissed her with the admonishment to wait until after he was gone on the morrow to make her request of Rowena. Thusly he would not have to order Rowena’s duties lessened; they would be so with his absence. And hopefully when he returned from killing d’Ambray, she would have
developed a routine of working with Emma that he could then allow to continue.

No sooner had Emma left than Rowena reappeared and headed toward him with a pitcher of ale in one hand and a tankard to receive it in the other. She was managing to surprise him again with her willingness to serve him without being summoned to. Or did she feel she needed to do some amends-making? Aye, ’twas likely that, and rightly so. God’s blood, the wench had bitten him without a thought to how he would react. And it had been no small nibble either. The muscle that she had sunk her teeth into was still sore. Her daring—he admired, damned if he did not. But she was not to know that. She…

…came to a sudden halt halfway to the hearth, her attention gone elsewhere. Warrick turned to see what had distracted her, but ’twas no more than Beatrix entering the hall with a servant in tow. Yet when he looked at Rowena again, she appeared stricken for a moment, then resigned; then even that she shook off. He glanced at Beatrix again, frowning, unable to see what had caused Rowena to react that way. And then he noticed the cerulean-blue bliaut his daughter was wearing, a gown much too fancy for one of such tender years, nor what he was accustomed to seeing her wear. ’Twas deeply cut in front, designed mayhap to display a special chemise underneath, though the chemise Beatrix wore with it was unremarkable, obviously not a match to the outer gown.

He made the connection, but wished he had not. The bliaut was Rowena’s, cut down to fit
the smaller frame of his daughter. But where was the pleasure he had thought he would feel when he had first decided to give Rowena’s clothes away to trample her pride and self-worth? He was uncomfortable with what he did feel instead. The gesture had worked. She was actually hurt to see her clothes on another. And now he had the urge to rip the gown off Beatrix and hand it back to Rowena—which, of course, he could not do.

Devil be damned, he liked not these things she made him feel. More guilt now, and ’twas becoming annoying that such an unfamiliar feeling was getting in the way of what had been a perfectly plotted revenge. Which was why he snapped at Rowena when she finally reached him.

“I am sorely displeased with you, wench.”

Her eyes flared slightly before she replied briskly, “So I can see, my lord. You wear your emotions most eloquently as usual.”

His scowl got a little darker as he pointed out, “Yet you do not tremble before me.”

She shrugged, setting the ale down on the table next to him instead of offering it, as she’d intended. “You point out frequently how stupid I am.”

“Or very clever,” he said sourly.

She laughed at that. “As you wish, my lord. I am adaptable.”

“We shall see how adaptable you are after we discuss your most recent transgressions of the morn. Mayhap you thought I wouldst forget
your behavior before the Lady Isabella. You
bit
me, wench.”

Rowena made a valiant effort to conceal her grin, but failed. “Did I?”

“You know very well you did. You also disobeyed me.”

That had a more serious sound to it, so she quipped, “And a good thing, too.
You
might have wanted the lady to find me in your bed, but I would have been quite embarrassed by it.”

“That matters not—”

“I see,” she cut in stiffly, her amusement gone completely. “Then I am to assume that humiliation is no longer to be used as a means to punish me, merely will it be mine now to experience at any time.”

“Do not put words—”

She stopped him yet again. “Nay. I understand perfectly.”

She whipped around to leave him, but he caught her long single braid as it swung past his face. He pulled it slowly until she was forced to bend over, their heads nearly touching.

“Indignation is misplaced in a serf,” he said in soft warning. “Did you forget you are my serf?”

She waited a half-breath before she whispered back, “Never would I forget that I am yours, my lord.”

Her sapphire eyes held such sensual promise as they met his that, coupled with her words, Warrick’s manhood warmed and swelled in full appreciation. He wondered if she did it apurpose—or if she even knew what effect she had
on him. Were they alone, she would find out quickly enough.

He released her braid, needing distance between them before he made a fool of himself by carrying her straightaway to his bed. But she did not move back as he expected, and her fingers lightly touched the back of his hand in what was clearly a caress.

“May I ask a boon, my lord?”

He stiffened, recalling how Celia had always waited until he was so hot to have her that he could deny her naught. Even so, he said, “Ask.”

She leaned even closer to whisper by his ear, “You have made it my duty, but what I want is to explore your body at my leisure—as I did before. Will you lie down for me without chains to bind you and let me touch you as I would like?”

Words failed him. Of all the things she could have asked for, including her release, never would he have thought her request would be to pleasure him. He was going to make a fool of himself after all, because he wanted her so badly now, he was about to explode with it.

He started to stand, but her hand came to his shoulder and she added, “Forsooth, I did not mean now, but later, when you decide you want me again.”

“Wench, think you you can say such to me and I can then wait to—”

“I was not trying to lure you to your bed,” she quickly assured him.

“Were you not?”

A soft blush rose to her cheeks. “I had
thought—this eventide, when ’tis dark and—” She did not finish.

Warrick, so ready to bury himself inside her that he could barely stand it, understood her dilemma, though he wished he did not. “I forget at times that you were a virgin. Just now I would have it otherwise, but—Go, wench, and do not let me see you again ere the sun sets—but then you had best be waiting in my chamber for me. Only do not expect your boon until I have had you at least once, more like twice. Verily, I may not give you rest until the morn.”

Her slight blush had turned bright scarlet before he finished. She gave a short nod in answer and hurried away. Her absence, however, did not cool his ardor, and his discomfort began to infuriate him.

Damn the wench, what was it about her that caused him to react with such extremes of emotion? From his first consuming fury that demanded revenge to this raging lust he was in the grips of now. And then there was this sudden mellowing of his need for absolute retribution, with young Fergant, even with the Lord of Ambray, who had earned his vengeance for nigh two years now. Had it been gradually occurring, or was it, too, a result of the profound effect Rowena was having on him?