He thought her spine might snap if she stiffened any more. She crossed her arms and scowled. “Cinnia and I aren’t leeches, my lord, nor are we unskilled. I brew a vile ale and can burn this place down around your ears trying to cook; however, I’m an accomplished spinner and silk thrower, an adequate seamstress and an exceptional scrivener. Cinnia apprenticed under Marguerite de Pizan as a scribe, illuminator and bookbinder. Neither of us are noblewomen, nor do we fear hard work. I’ve scrubbed plenty of floors, laundered linens, cared for the sick, and helped bury the dead. What do you wish of me?”
Ballard listened to her passionate dissertation without interrupting. Louvaen Duenda had an answer for most things and an argument for everything else. She didn’t debate; she went to war. His respect for Cinnia blossomed. The girl had a stronger backbone than he credited her for if she hadn’t yet buckled under the weight of her sister’s imposing personality. Fascinated, he succumbed to the temptation to tease Mistress Duenda and maybe render her tongue-tied.
“What do I wish of you?” He paused, his gaze sweeping over her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes peeking out from her hem. Her hands, long-fingered and pale, gripped her upper arms. “You, in my bed,” he said.
He expected an indignant tirade or a hail of insults covering everything from his parentage to the horrors of his face and hands. The silence that met his softly spoken declaration swelled in the room, turning as hot as the embers glowing in the hearth and those pluming in Louvaen’s eyes. Ballard was willing to wager she’d exhale smoke from her nostrils and fire out of her mouth at any moment. He watched her gaze flick to the poker, then back to him, and he almost laughed aloud. She was calculating her chances of success in skewering him to his chair.
The first words of an apology for his poor jest hovered on his lips and died when Louvaen’s outraged demeanor cooled. The shrewd look she gave him transformed his amusement into amazement, and it was he who went tongue-tied. He rose to stand in front of her, close enough that her breath caressed his cheeks, and he could count the number of dark lashes edging her eyelids. “My gods,” he murmured. “Your love for your sister is exceptional if you’re actually considering giving yourself to me.”
Her top lip curled into a faint sneer. “If I say yes, I give only my body, not myself.” She snapped a finger against one of the buckles on his tunic and stepped away. “I won’t be the one diminished by such a bargain, and you’ll be lucky if I don’t geld you before spring.”
Ballard congratulated himself on keeping his voice even and his expression neutral. “You may keep to your own bed, Mistress Duenda. I suspect I wouldn’t survive an encounter between us unscathed. I’d like to keep my bollocks attached.”
She blinked, confused and her brow knitted into a frown. “What do you want then?”
What did he want? Hers was a fair question with no easy answer. He wanted more of this—the exhilaration of truly living instead of only counting time. The sharp-tongued sister who’d invaded his home, made her demands and challenged his authority asdominussent the blood singing through his veins. They were going to clash, no doubt about it. Ambrose hadn’t exaggerated when he said she had the disposition of a badger, but he hadn’t felt this alive since he raised the newborn Gavin in his arms and proclaimed him heir of Ketach Tor. There was still hope for Gavin. Cinnia’s affection for him might turn to love and break the curse that bound him. It was too late for Ballard. He existed on borrowed time, and his days as a man still in possession of his humanity were few. Isabeau had spoken true when she proclaimed no woman born would love him, but he’d found one who’d spar with him. It would be enough to comfort him when the last of his sanity winked out in the darkness of his cell. Louvaen Duenda could stay.
“Your companionship,” he said simply. “Ketach Tor has been without the presence of a refined woman for many years. Gavin will command your sister’s attention; I will command yours. You’ll entertain me when I wish, give me your company—pleasant company.” He smirked. “Talk to Magda if it’s spinning you want. She’ll bless you until the end of her days. We had a good flax harvest this season and enough bundles to keep a horde of spinners busy until next summer.”
“Anything else?” She’d finally lost her composure and gawked at him in open-mouthed incredulity.
“You’ll never forget you are only a guest of this house, not its mistress. Your sister can show you which rooms are yours to explore. Stay out of the rest unless invited. If you break the rules, there will be consequences. You can spin just as easily while you spend the winter imprisoned in one of the cells below. If you explore the woods, don’t go alone. And stay away from the roses growing along the keep wall. They’re warped by the flux and vicious.”
Louvaen stopped gaping long enough to answer him. “Understood.”
“We have an accord?”
“We do.”
She’d been the one to parley for the right to stay, yet he was the one who wanted to gust a sigh of relief that she’d agreed to his terms. He resumed his seat and captured his goblet just to give his hands something to do. “You’ll want to join your sister for supper then.” He inclined his head, signaling an end to their meeting. “Mistress.”
He received only a brief nod and a cool “de Sauveterre” before she retrieved her gloves and cloak from beneath his and left the room without closing the door.
Ballard grinned at the fire, downed his ale and the remainder of Louvaen’s for good measure. Winter promised to be interesting.
“Well?”
He glanced up to find Ambrose next to his chair, the lenses of his spectacles reflecting the firelight and hiding his expression. “I’ve agreed to let her stay.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” Ambrose grumbled. “Best watch your back then. If you so much as sneeze wrong in her sister’s direction, she’ll try to take your head.”
“She-wolf with a pup.”
The sorcerer nodded. “Aye. I suspect she killed her husband.”
Ballard recalled her quick glance at the fireplace poker and then at him. He smiled. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
CHAPTER SIX
Louvaen had so far spent nine days and as many hours of her winter stay within the stone walls of Ketach Tor fortress. Magda had fed her well, and the master of the house had yet to serve her the plate of crow she’d expected to eat when she crossed the drawbridge on her return trip. The chamber given to her was the same one she’d stayed in during her first visit. Small but easily warmed by its hearth, it offered a comfortable bed and privacy.
The spacious bedroom where Cinnia slept was three times the size of Louvaen’s room. Its attached bower and lead pane windows caught the southern sun and overlooked the birch and oak woodland. Louvaen had initially wanted to share the chamber with her sister, a safeguard against any midnight visits Gavin might be tempted to make. He’d sworn not to compromise Cinnia’s honor, and while Louvaen trusted him to hold to his word to the best of his ability, she was reluctant to confine her role as chaperone to daytime. She changed her mind after two hours of spinning flax in the bower with Cinnia chattering nonstop about Gavin’s numerous abilities, which bordered on godlike and miraculous. She’d abandoned her basket of bundles and fled to her room, pleading a headache.
Magda had given her a knowing smile when she caught Louvaen shoving her chest of clothing down the hall and into the smaller chamber. “What? Not interested in falling asleep to the many praises of the wondrous Gavin de Lovet?”
“Stop looking so smug and help me push this chest inside.”
She’d since slept with one eye open and her door cracked. So far no footsteps had tiptoed the hall late at night, and Cinnia’s door had remained shut.
