"My lady, Cook would like to speak with you before you give the command to begin serving. Otherwise, all else is in readiness," she said, then exited.
"Good, for I am starved," cried Gilliam, as he leapt to his feet, his gaiety forced and his smile false. He hurried across the room and out of the door before anyone could stop him.
"Gilliam," his brother called out to no avail. "What is wrong with that boy?" he growled out as he came to his feet. "And what is wrong with you? Do you know no better than to contradict me before my family? If I say we eat on golden plates, we eat on golden plates, damn the expense."
"Best you find yourself an alchemist, then, my lord, for your golden plates will have to be made from lead."
"Damn your tongue," he bellowed. "Do not say me 'nay.'"
Rowena glared at him, opened her mouth to retort, then stopped. Anger had twisted his mouth into a thin line, and the muscle in his jaw was tense once again.
"You are right," she finally said in a quiet voice, "I should not have spoken so before your brothers. I beg your pardon. Being a wife is something very foreign to me, my lord, but I am trying to learn." She sent him a small, shy smile. "I not only admit to an occasional foolishness, but my mouth tends to be a might hasty as well."
Surprise drove the rage from his eyes. His shoulders relaxed and his fists opened. "Well," he said, "that is true enough."
"You need not agree so quickly," she shot back.
Her husband gave a short laugh. "You have my apologies. I think we must needs discuss this matter of my treasury. I need to know where the truth lies."
She fought a swift wave of possessiveness. Not his treasury, hers. She wanted no interference in her plans for Graistan. Then, she caught her breath. So, now where was the difference between herself and Hugo? "I am at your convenience, my lord."
"Since this feast of yours will keep us for the rest of the day, we will have to find another time."
She nodded in agreement. "Please, my lord, remember how hard everyone has worked to make this a day of rejoicing. They are proud of all they've accomplished in the past several months, and are looking forward to hearing kind words from you for their effort."
"You do not need to lecture me on my duties," he retorted. "I have been lord here for nearly a score of years and have learned a thing or two in that time."
She jumped in surprise at his sharpness. "I meant nothing by my words. I only meant..." she paused. What she'd meant to do was to remind him he would need to introduce her at the meal. To do so was to acknowledge and confirm her place as Graistan's chatelaine. But she could forgive him forgetting it, not so if he refused her. Better to wait and see. "Pay me no mind, my lord. If you will excuse me, I will meet you at the table." At his nod, she hurried from the room.
After assuring the cook everything was just as she'd desired, she returned to her chambers and donned a dark green overgown. Although simple and plain, it was a rich samite and a goodly step above her workaday dresses, sufficient for a family celebration. With a fine wimple and a necklet of garnet, which she wore at Ilsa's insistence, she was ready.
When she entered the hall, she looked about with a critical eye. The room appeared right festive beneath brightly glowing torches. Its freshly painted walls gleamed, seeming even whiter against the bright colors in the hangings and on the rafters. The many tables, all covered in white cloths, were hung with garlands woven from flowering branches and willow withes. Her every step brought with it the scent of sweet herbs. It was with pride that she made her way to the high table where her husband sat with Sir Gilliam at his left.
The young knight seemed recovered from his earlier depression and held out a filled wine cup. "Sister," he cried, spearing a smoked eel with his knife to hold it up for all to see, "you remembered! Thank you, my dear and most beloved lady." But the fool's grin on his face told her how he struggled still to hide his uneasiness.
So, when he reached out to catch her hand as she passed, she laughed and slapped his fingers away. "Do not be so silly," she said warmly, a gentle reminder to calm himself. She seated herself to the right of her husband and leaned forward to continue speaking to Gilliam. "You would not let me forget. For weeks you have told me how much you like smoked eels."
"How fortunate you are, brother, to have such a good and caring wife." Rannulf only glanced between the two of them and said nothing as the meal service began.
They dined on venison seethed in wines and herbs and lamb in a richly flavored sauce. With the season still so new, there was little in the way of fruits, but spring vegetables were offered in both soup and stews. As each new dish was presented for her husband's approval, she glanced surreptitiously at him to gauge his reaction. There was nothing for her to see. When he spoke to her, it was only to offer her morsels of food in a polite, but distant, manner.
It had nearly reached the hour for Vespers when the cook brought out the sugary sculpture that indicated the meal's end. He carried it slowly around the room for all to see. It was Graistan, represented in all its splendor, from green tinted icing as grass to tall walls colored white. The newly promoted butler, now the keep's highest-ranking servant since Hugo's death, stepped forward. It was he who made a pretty speech on behalf of all the castle folk welcoming their lord home once again and returning to his castle.
When her husband stood to respond, he was careful not to forget a single soul in recounting the changes he'd seen and expressed how grateful he was for their efforts on his behalf. Save her. Not once did he mention his lady. It was as though she did not exist. If any noticed it, no one commented upon it.
With the meal finished, the entertainment began. The hours passed, but Rowena could not hear or see, so deep was her depression. Pray God that he had only forgotten. To think he would hold her in so little regard.
"My lady?"
She started from her painful thoughts. The players were retiring. Would he do it now? Had he only waited? "Aye, my lord?"
"I slept poorly last night and am tired to the bone. I will retire now and wish you to attend me."
Disappointment ate at her heart, but she hid it behind a tight expression and nodded her agreement. He stood and held out his hand. When she laid hers upon his, his fingers, long and graceful, closed gently to trap her hand into the square strength of his palm. Despite her emotions, she could not repress her shiver of reaction to his touch. She glanced up at him.
He stared back, his eyes half-closed and his mouth bent in a small smile. His fingers moved ever so softly against hers. Her pulse leapt, her heart suddenly pounding.
"Good even, all," he called out, leading her away from the tables. She did not resist him. "I thank you for your welcome and bid you to stay and enjoy the entertainment."
Together they climbed the stairs and, a moment later, he had closed and latched their bedchamber door. The silence in the room was deafening after the noise of the hall. Somehow, this privacy made her hurt all the worse. It dulled her senses, and she could not react when he drew her into his arms nor respond when he kissed her. Yet, when he released her, she keenly felt his loss and wanted his arms around her again.
"So, that's to be the way of it, eh?" His gray eyes were cold and his look, hard. "You are too naive to know that one night will not convince me."
She turned away, confused as much by her erratic emotions as by his words. Her keys clattered loudly as she twisted her hands in her belt. The raucous noise reminded her she'd vowed to make him hers. Pushing him away would surely not help her in that end.
"Take those damn things off," he snapped, "and call a servant to bring up some wine." He threw himself down in a chair and sullenly studied the leaping flames on the hearth.
She did as she was told and used the waiting time to silently scold herself for her attitude. Thus, when the wine arrived, she had slipped out of her clothing and wore only her bedrobe. She filled his cup and came to stand behind his chair. "My lord?" She handed it to him from over his shoulder; he took it without a backward
look.
There was something magnetic about standing so near him when he could not see her. The dark gold material of his gown stretched taut across his powerful back, almost binding against the curve of his upper arm. She laid her hands on his shoulders. He started slightly. Beneath his gown and shirt, his muscles were corded with tension.
Touching him made her fingers tingle. She studied the way his hair curled slightly against the collar of his gown. How odd that it should look so brown now, yet glow red in the light. Lost in her musing, she idly shaped one strand to lay around the curl of his ear, pressing it in place with a light touch.
He caught her hand in his and, with a swift tug, pulled her around the chair to sit in his lap.
"Is it yea or nay?" he asked, then raised a brow when he noticed she wore only her bedrobe.
Yea or nay? She stared at him in confusion, still trapped in the sensations of the prior moment.
"If you will not say, I will simply take it," he said, somewhat harshly, then bent his mouth to hers.
This time her body burst into lively response to his kiss. She laid her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. Cradled in the strength of his embrace, it was easy to forget hurt and let the moment be all that was important.
Rannulf let his suspicions be washed away as desire surged through him. Once again, her reaction stunned him. When she'd refused him earlier, he assumed she'd left the bedchamber for refuge in the women's quarters where he could not go. In that moment, he'd been sure what waited for him. There would be weeks of coldness after which she would announce she was with child. Everyone would comment on how swiftly his seed had taken root. Some might even believe it.
Yet, she had stayed, even served him. When she touched him, chills of longing shot down his spine at her play. Whatever her reasons, her body offered him much pleasure, much pleasure indeed. He forgot to be cautious. Instead, he indulged himself in the incredible sensations she woke within him.
Chapter 11
When Rannulf arose early the next morning, his wife yet lay in a sound slumber. And so she should after their exertions of the past night. She curled beneath the bedclothes, her hair, black as a raven's wing, carelessly strewn over the bolsters. God's blood, but he wanted her again. He hastily dressed and slipped from their room.
It was still an hour before sunrise when he exited the keep with his foresters. In the gray light they rode through the silent woods, their passage waking rich scents from the moist, cool earth. Unwilling to break the deep stillness that lay all around them, he only nodded as they quietly pointed out the changes, be they restorations or removals, they'd made both in clearing and copse.
Then the sky lightened to golden pinks and pure blues. Dawn's wind rustled through brush and tree and the birds began to stir, first one, then another and another until the branches were alive with their songs. Rabbit and squirrel darted away from their passage through the feathery new growth. In the distance he heard the trumpet of a stag and a bull's challenging bellow.
A deep breath filled his lungs with the spicy air. It would be a good day to hunt. Aye, his kennel master had a new litter ready for blooding. He could spend the day sorting his tangled thoughts. That was just what he needed. His chore finished, he turned his steed back for Graistan. Aye and he'd take Gilliam with him.
Dogs belled at his return as the sentry called out a greeting. The ring of hammer on anvil in the smithy competed with the ring of steel to steel in the tilting yard where Temric drilled his men. The bailey was alive with the bleating of sheep and cackle and call of poultry. Maids and men chatted as they fed their charges, whether they be bovine, ovine, or fowl. A cock crowed from the inner wall and stable lads whistled and sang as they tended the horses and swept the stalls clean.
He dismounted and handed his reins to a groomsman, then commanded his huntsmen to prepare for the day. All that waited now was his companion.
The hall was awaft in the scent of the day's baking. As with yestermorn, all the tables were up and at the first hearth stood a huge iron pot in which a thick vegetable and grain potage bubbled. Set out on trays were fresh breads, cheeses, and hard-boiled eggs. He grimaced, sick to death of eggs, having eaten so many since the Easter tribute.
"Gilliam?" he called out, expecting to find his brother at the table.
"He's at mass, my lord," a servant informed him.
Rannulf nodded his thanks, somewhat surprised. Before the Crusade, once a week on Sunday had served his brother well enough. He seated himself at the high table and carefully studied the massive room as he waited. It was truly a pleasure to see it restored to what it had been under his stepmother's rule.
A serving woman handed him a cup of watered wine, and he took bread and cheese to break his fast. He glanced toward the end of the room, then looked again with a frown. There was no mistaking where Gilliam's interest lay.
His wife and brother stood conversing just beyond the chapel's entrance into the hall. Even in her plain gown and simple headdress, his wife caught and held his interest. She glowed with vibrant life. Ah, but what pleasure he found at the touch of her lips and in the gentle curve of her body. While she seemed intent on whatever she was saying, his brother only laughed. This obviously irritated her, for when he offered her his arm, she shoved it away and started up into the hall. When she caught his gaze, her expression dimmed even further.
If she was so unhappy each time her eye met his, why did she so freely offer herself to him? To what purpose did she use him? He looked away, trapped between doubt and desire. But, to recognize her manipulation was to be armed against its outcome. She seated herself next to him. "Good morrow, my lord," she said flatly.
"So it seems," he said mirroring her blandness. Then he turned toward the young knight. "Gilliam, I am for hunting this morn. Will you come?"
"Hunting? Me? Just point the way, but not until after we break our fast." His brother seated himself and began to eat.
Rannulf watched in amazement as the boy finished several bowls of potage and a full loaf of bread before starting on the cheese. "No wonder we are impoverished," he chided. "You, alone, will eat me into penury."
"At least he now uses manners." His wife laughed. "I will never forget my first morning at Graistan."
He watched as Gilliam blushed. "I had forgot that," he said in shame. "What you must have thought."
She only shook her head and laughed. "I forgive you."
"What is this?" Rannulf asked, a wave of jealousy sweeping over him at their private memories.
It was his wife who answered. "He sought to drive Lady Maeve from the table by eating like a peasant. He drank from the pitcher and spoke with his mouth so full that he spewed crumbs at me." She leaned forward to look past him at the young man, her blue eyes dancing in amusement. "There, I have paid you back for every one of those silly jests of yours."
"Augh!" the young knight clutched his chest, "I am mortally wounded."
Rannulf forced himself to smile at their banter. "What reason had you for driving Maeve from my table?"
His brother's grin slipped just a little. "I said all I will say about her yesterday."
"How can you be so sure? After all, you knew her only a little."
"I am sure." There was no amusement left in his face now.
"Are you certain there is no other reason?" He needed to say no more. Gilliam knew. He saw his own heart reflected in his brother's eyes.
"Nay," the boy breathed, vehemently shaking his head.
"Sweet Mary, but I am sorry I said anything," his wife sighed. "This is a subject best left to die."
He threw his hands up in submission. "I still cannot believe her capable of all you describe. Nevertheless, it is resolved and I will hear no more talk of you leaving Graistan, brother."
The young man stared at his hands, then raised his head. Pain, deep and intense, filled his eyes. "Why would you wish to keep me here? At best I am a poor steward. It seems I am the cause of only your trouble, never your good."
He threw himself to his feet, but Rannulf caught him by the arm.
"That is not true. There have been times when you were my only good. Do not leave." Why had he spoken of the past? How could he have believed the wound would so easily heal in Gilliam when it had festered for so long within himself?
His brother only shook his head and averted his eyes. When he was finally released, he fairly ran from the room. Rannulf stared after him, not knowing how to mend the gap between them. He started with surprise when his wife lightly touched his arm.
"I doubt he will leave you," she said. "He dearly loves Graistan, but I believe he loves you more."
He turned toward her. "You are fond of my brother." There was no need to question what he knew to be true.
"I suppose I am," she said, her brow creased in consideration. "He has been a great help to me in these past months, although I at first despaired of understanding why you had made a steward of a man who could neither read nor write. Now I see it is his loyalty and his love you value. But, he's no clerk and would be far better suited to holding a keep of his own, even if only as your castellan."
"No doubt you would think so. A castellan travels less frequently than a steward." His voice was harsh.
She shot him a curious look, as if she could not understand why he'd said what he had. "Do you think me so close with a coin that I would begrudge the cost of a steward's travel?"
How easily she danced around the truth, never denying she was attracted to his brother, only evading the issue. He could tolerate no more of this topic. He turned his attention back to his bread and cheese.
"I missed you at mass this morn, my lord. You left without telling me your intent. I asked the chaplain to delay the service, but you did not come. Will you attend on the morrow?"
"It is my business if I do or not," he said harshly. He could hardly bear to scrutinize his own soul much less let a churchman have a try at it. Her suddenly horrified expression almost made him laugh.
"You never attend mass?" she breathed in question.
Winter's Heat Page 14
