“Nay, some lord’s by-blow, mayhap, but no more than that,” he said confidently. “If a lord had come to Kirkburough, he would have presented himself at the keep to pass the night at no cost to himself, not stayed in the town. Even a lowly, landless knight would have sought the companionship of his kind and come to the hall. A freeman he might be, however, but still no one of import, mayhap no more than a pilgrim.”
“But you mean to kill him?”
The question caught her stepbrother off guard, and he snapped impatiently, “Do not be stupid. He cannot be left alive to lay claim to the child when we are done with him. No one would believe him, yet it might cause rumors, rumors that Godwine’s brother would leap upon.”
So even if she did exactly as Gilbert wanted, someone was still to die. That knowledge released the anger at the injustice of it all that her fear had been holding in abeyance.
“God rot you, Gilbert, and your cursed greed,” she swore softly as she jerked her arm away from him. His surprised expression, as if he could not imagine what he had done wrong, was the breaking point for her, and her voice and fury rose to a shout. “Get out! I need no help to rape this man. But send Mildred to me, for I may need help to revive him. Little purpose he serves as he is.”
It was her anger and bitterness that made her speak so, but those shouted words were what Warrick heard as he regained his senses. He did not open his eyes. He had been a man of war too long to give away such an advantage. But this time it availed him naught, for no more was said, and a moment later, a door was slammed shut.
Silence. He was alone for the moment, but that screeching female would likely be back soon if her words—nay, he could not credit those words. Females did not rape. How could they when they had not the proper parts? And she could not have meant him, in any case. A jest, then, from a crude wench. No more than that. But as long as he was alone…
He opened his eyes on a view of the ceiling. The room was well lit, the glow of candles on either side of him just discerned without his moving. He turned his head to find the door, and pain sliced through it. He stilled for a moment, closing his eyes—and became aware of things without seeing. He was lying in a soft bed. A gag pulled at his lips. He was as he had been when he was taken, without his clothes. That did not alarm him. There was no reason to dress him when he could do it himself once he was awake. The bed? Better than a dungeon, he supposed.
And then he felt the manacles on his wrists. He tried to move one and heard the chain rattle—and felt the tug and scrape on his ankle. God’s blood, bound to himself, and with chain, not rope!
If it was ransom they wanted, then they knew who he was and were risking his vengeance, which was always swift. Thieves and outlaws, however, took anyone for whatever they could get. They did not care if they captured knight or merchant, lady or fishwife, and torture of one kind or another was swift to come if they did not get what they wanted. He had taken the keep of a robber baron once, and even he had been sickened by what he had found in the man’s dungeon—bodies that had been slowly crushed under heavy stone, naked bodies hung by their thumbs with smoke-blackened skin, some with feet nearly burned off, all dead because they had simply been forgotten by their tormentors once he had laid siege to the keep. And this was no mean hut or forest floor, nor even the inn where he had been taken. Stone walls meant a keep. A petty lord, then, and just as bad as a petty thief.
Warrick opened his eyes again, ready to ignore the pain in his head to see what he could of his soft prison. He lifted his head and saw her there at the foot of his bed—and decided he had died, for that could only be one of God’s angels, made perfect in the afterlife.
Chapter 7
Rowena was still glaring at the door that had closed on Gilbert when she heard the chains creak and looked back at the man on the bed. His eyes were shut, he lay perfectly still, but she sensed instinctively that he was now awake. She had not looked at him closely before, had not seen him as much more than a male body, a large male body. He lay flat on his back without a pillow, while she stood several feet beyond a mattress that was as high as her waist. She still could not tell much about him from this position. Then his head lifted, his eyes riveted her to the spot, and she stood perfectly still, forgetting even to breathe.
The gray of his eyes was more silver, soft and luminous in his surprise. Even with the gag dividing his face, she could tell it was a handsome face, the features well defined and—arrogant. What made her think that? The broadness of his cheekbones? That hawklike nose? Mayhap that sharply squared jaw, thrust out more because of the gag. She had to be mistaken. Arrogance was a trait of noblemen. Arrogance in a serf would get his back whipped raw.
But this serf did not lower his eyes or look away in the presence of a lady. Bold he was, or still too surprised to recall his place. But what was she thinking? He could not tell she was a lady, when she wore her bedclothes. But then she realized he certainly could, for her white shift was of the finest linen, soft and nearly transparent, it was so thin. Her bedrobe was that rare velvet of the East, given her on her fourteenth birthday by her mother, sewn by her own hand.
A by-blow, then, as Gilbert had said, and apparently proud of it. And what did she even care what he was? She could not care—he was to die. But first she was to give him her maidenhead—oh, God!Howcould she? Fool, how could she not when her mother…?
She wanted to sink down on the floor and cry. She had been raised gently, with love and care, the cruelty and harshness of life kept at bay. It was difficult for her to see her life now as real, because it was so alien to her. She was supposed to take this man, in truth, to rape him. How? In anger she had told Gilbert she needed no help, but she did, for she knew not the first thing about begetting children.
There was no longer surprise in his eyes. They were now—admiring. Was that good? Aye, ’twould be better for him did he not find her repulsive. She was glad of that at least. And he was nothing like her husband. He was young, clean, even handsome, his skin smooth, his body firm—nay, nothing at all like her husband. Even the gray of his eyes and the blond of his hair were different shades than Lyons’ had been, the one lighter, the other darker.
She had the strangest feeling she could read his thoughts through his eyes, for she imagined a question there now. Had he been told why he was here? Nay, likely not, since he had been senseless until moments ago. And why would Gilbert bother, when the man had only to lie there and accept what was done to him? She was the one Gilbert had instructed, for she was the one who would be doing what must be done. But that question was there in his eyes…
It was left to her to tell him, and she could not even reassure him that he would be released when it was over. Her anger surfaced again, this time wholly for his sake. He had done naught to deserve this. He was an innocent, snared in a monster’s plans. She would take his seed, but then Gilbert would take his life. Nay, she could not allow that. She would do the one, she had to for her mother’s sake, but somehow she must prevent the other. Somehow, she would help him escape when the time came, before she told Gilbert that his seed had taken, thereby ending the man’s usefulness.
But she could not tell the man that. She would not give him false hope, in case she was unsuccessful in helping him. All she could do was try. And he did not need to know he was to die. There was no reason to tell him that. Let him think what he would, and why should he think that he would not be released when she was done with him?
Again he was communicating with her with his eyes, and again she understood him. He was dropping his eyes down toward his gag, then looking at her again. He wanted her to remove it so he could speak to her. That she would not do, for she did not think she could bear it if he begged her for his release, adding more heavily to her guilt. Sheknewwhat she must do was wrong, but what choice did she have? But to hear him beseech her—nay, she could not.
She shook her head slowly, and his own dropped back to the mattress so he no longer looked at her. If she did not know better, she would think she had been arrogantly dismissed, having denied him what he wanted. Like as not his neck was strained from being lifted so long. She came around to the side of the bed so he could see her without straining, but his eyes were closed now. He did not care that she stood there. Or mayhap he had not heard her approach in her bare feet.
She paused now that she could see him more clearly. His big body truly filled the bed. She thought he might even be taller than Gilbert, though she could not be certain, but he was surely much broader of chest. His arms were thick and long, and well corded with muscle from shoulder to wrist. His shoulders, neck, and chest were likewise thickly muscled, the sun-gilded skin taut, with no softness to speak of. Whatever he did to earn his keep, ’twas obvious he worked hard at it. A woodcutter, mayhap. One on her father’s fief had been brawnier than any knight.
She realized she was staring, but she could not help herself. Strong he was, very strong, and she found herself being thankful to Gilbert, after all, that the man was tied down, then was ashamed of the thought. Yet this man could easily snap her in two with his bare hands, and ’twas better for her that those hands could not reach her.
“I am sorry,” she began, wondering why she whispered when they were alone. “’Tis better I do not hear what you have to say, but I can tell you why you are here.”
His eyes opened again, his head turning slightly so he could stare at her. There was no question there now, no curiosity of any kind. Patience, she realized, was what he was displaying. He fully expected to have all his questions answered, but she was not as brave as that. She would tell him only what she had to and nothing more.
But now that it was time to do so, she could feel heat stealing up her neck into her cheeks. “I—I—you and I—we—we must—we must—”
The question was back in his eyes, and if he were not gagged, he would be shouting it. She could not blame him for losing his patience, but she could not say the word. She was too ashamed. She tried to remind herself that he was only a serf, and she had always been kind but firm with her servants, as her mother had taught her. But he was like no manservant she had ever ordered. And that arrogance—she could not get it out of her mind that he was more than a serf, and although that should make this no worse, it did.
And then she heard the scratch on the door and almost melted with relief that Mildred had finally come. She gave not another thought to the man on the bed, who had strained nearly every muscle in his body waiting for her to get to the point in her explanation. An explanation that was no longer forthcoming as he watched her rush from the room.
