How were they to know they’d a spy in their midst? Richard’s booted feet pounded harder against the stone steps as his ire grew. And the traitor little more than the meanest churl in the place, emptying slops and scouring pots, watching and listening all the while, as it turned out, for juicy tidbits to feed the master.
The sly bastard! Evidently he’d kept closer watch than any of them had suspected; he’d known every detail of the scheme the upper servants had hatched to skim money from the household expenses. He’d even known about Richard’s private arrangements to trade some of the master’s fine clothes in exchange for little luxuries for himself.
The lot of them had been tossed out in the street with nothing but the clothes on their backs—and in Richard’s case, the master had examined him from head to toe first, to be certain he’d stolen nothing more.
He’d been lucky to escape with his life—cold comfort when he’d had nowhere to go.
It had been a stroke of good fortune that brought him to Talbot’s notice, or so he’d believed at the time. Of course, by then he’d been desperate for a roof over his head and a crust to eat. How was he to know that in a matter of months they’d fetch up here, in a crude wilderness filled with coarse, ill-clothed louts who believed they were noble?
And the mistress of this place... She bore little resemblance to any noblewoman he’d ever seen! Ladies did not carry swords, or dirty their hands by laboring alongside their servants. And any true lady would have recognized Richard for the superior servant he was, he thought bitterly, instead of ordering him about as though he were nothing more than a lowly scullion.
Still seething, Richard rounded the corner at the foot of the stairs and slammed headlong into the woman coming the other way. They collided with enough force to slam them both to the floor, their burdens scattering around them like leaves in the wind.
“You should watch where you’re going, you great lout!” she gasped. Dark eyes flashing, she squirmed beneath him, her ample body cushioning him in all the right places and sending a lightning bolt of fire rushing straight to his loins.
“Have a care who you call a lout, wench.” He tightened his arms about her and pressed himself against her belly.
Her eyes and body softened, and her hands slid down his back to press him more firmly against her. “I always did have a soft spot for a man who’s ready for battle,” she murmured, her voice a throaty purr. “Could be you’re not so bad after all.”
Lost to any thought but that of the woman beneath him, Richard ground his mouth against hers and thrust his tongue between her lips to duel with hers, his groan of pleasure rising to echo her breathy moans.
Mayhap this place wasn’t so bad after all.
Gillian descended the stairs slowly, her mind still focused upon her conversation—or should she call it a confrontation?—with Catrin. Though she hadn’t kept her cousin from learning something of her former relationship with Rannulf, at least she’d managed to escape without revealing everything. How could she share with her Welsh kin the words Rannulf had penned on the betrothal agreement—that he believed her Welsh blood tainted and unfit to join with his? Evidently she’d been good enough to dally with, but not to wed. If Catrin didn’t strike him down for the insult, Ian surely would once he heard of it.
He’d not learn of it from her.
She nearly trod upon the couple writhing on the landing before their passionate moans broke through her preoccupation. Halting beside them, she grabbed the man by the hair and gave a sharp tug. “Get off her at once!” she demanded.
Richard, Talbot’s manservant, rolled aside, revealing Marged, one of the new maids she’d brought in to help in the keep since Talbot’s arrival. The woman lay sprawled on the stone floor, shirts and apples scattered everywhere, her headrail askew about her rosy face and her skirts rucked up above her knees.
Clearly neither of them had any sense of decency, or of propriety, at any rate. “I will not tolerate such goings-on in my hall!”
Marged rose slowly to her feet without any offer of assistance from her erstwhile lover. Richard, his face twisted once again into his usual expression of distaste, merely lounged back against the plastered wall. “Beg pardon, milady,” Marged said quietly, dropping a respectful curtsy. “It’ll not happen again, I swear it.”
It would happen again where she’d not catch them at it, more like, Gillian thought wryly. Still, as long as they indulged their passions elsewhere, beyond the common view and in their free time, there was little she could do to prevent them.
But she could make them pay for today’s transgression. “If you wish to behave as animals, you shall be punished accordingly.” She resisted the temptation to fist her hands upon her hips like the village alewife and instead straightened her spine and, recalling Lady Alys’s training, assumed the pose of a proud dame pronouncing judgment. “Marged, you may feed and care for the swine and geese for the next few days.”
“Yes, milady.” Her voice resigned, her face sullen, the maid bobbed another curtsy and bent to gather the apples into her apron.
“And you, Richard, shall lend your assistance in the stables mucking out the stalls once your duties for your master are through each day.”
“For how long, milady?” he asked. “My master’s needs must come first, of course.” She caught a glimpse of his hatred-filled glare before he hid it behind a mask of servility.
Did he think to bend her to his will? She’d show him his error, wipe that smug expression from his eyes. “Until I tell you otherwise.”
“As you wish, milady,” he said evenly, his bow so deep as to be an insult.
“You may be sure Lord Nicholas shall hear of your misdeeds,” she told him, her voice cold. She cast a haughty glance about her. “Clear away this clutter,” she told them. “Then go about your business.”
She stayed to make certain they did her bidding. “Remember what I said,” she warned them once they’d finished, “I’ll be watching you both.”
Eager to escape them—eager to escape all the troubles she’d had to face of late—Gillian swept out of the stairwell and into the hall without another word.
“Arrogant bitch,” Richard muttered after Lady Gillian left, then thought better of his comment. Insulting the mistress was no way to endear himself to the maid, and he did want the maid. He braced his shoulders against the wall and enjoyed the view as Marged stooped and bent to gather the apples that had rolled about the landing.
He smiled, remembering the feel of her welcoming body cushioning his, pressed beneath him. Aye, she was a tempting armful, and he’d no intention of allowing the Lady Gillian’s dictates to interfere with his pleasure.
Marged straightened and sidled closer to him, her eyes alight with resentment. “Aye, she’s a haughty dame now, but she won’t be so high-and-mighty once—” She slapped a hand over her mouth, nearly dropping the apples gathered in her apron. Face pale, she looked away from him.
He grabbed her by the chin and made her face him. “Here now, none of that!” He bent and took her mouth fast and hard to get her attention. The feel of her got his attention, too, but he thrust aside the desire to push her up against the wall and finish what they’d started and growled, “What were you saying?”
A hunted look crossed her face, filled her eyes. “Nay, I must not,” she whispered. “I did not mean to—”
He kissed her again and drew away gasping. She’d a talent for the sport, a skill he’d never before encountered. “Meet me in the stables after supper tonight.” He glanced over his shoulder to make certain no one was about. “If the bitch wants me out there, I’ll obey her in that.” He snaked his arm around Marged’s waist and pulled her close. “But the only work I plan to do is this.” He ground his body hard against her belly, until her eyes drifted closed.
“Tonight,” she murmured. Her eyes opened. “I’ve plenty to share with you tonight.”
He let her slip away. Aye, tonight she’d give him everything he wanted of her, he thoug
ht, smiling. And once he’d had his fill of her, she’d be his to use as he wished.
His smile widening, he bent and snatched Lord Nicholas’s shirts off the floor. This might require some planning, but Marged looked to be a resourceful wench. Mayhap together they might send Lady Gillian toppling from her lofty perch.
He’d taken enough orders over the years from those who thought themselves his betters.
He’d follow their dictates no more.
Chapter Thirteen
Gillian stared out over the sun-bright bailey, at the-puddles shimmering amidst the churned-up sea of mud, and sighed. Two days of rain, an unremitting deluge, seemed to have transformed all within and without the keep into snarling, short-tempered idiots.
Herself included.
And now her cousins were preparing to leave. Though she hated to see them go, she could not deny she felt relieved.
She glanced at Catrin, who stood beside her at the head of the outside stairway leading from the keep to the bailey, and bit back another sigh. Catrin had been one of the worst instigators, though ‘twas doubtful the rain had anything to do with her behavior. Her cousin had seemed determined to stir up everyone’s tempers with her taunts and teasing. Rannulf had avoided Catrin—avoided them all at every opportunity, from what she could see—and Catrin had driven Ian into a silence even more profound than his usual closemouthed manner. Only she and Talbot were on speaking terms with Catrin, she because she’d little choice, and Lord Nicholas... She glanced down to where he stood at the foot of the stairs, deep in conversation with Rannulf. ’Twas anyone’s guess why her guardian continued to treat Catrin with a courtesy she’d done little to deserve.
She hadn’t any idea what had prompted Catrin to such madness. Though Catrin’s quick temper—and sharp tongue—were well-known, ’twas unusual for her to ignore Gillian’s requests to cease.
Especially under the circumstances. Catrin knew how difficult it was for Gillian to manage with Rannulf here, while also trying to keep their secrets from Lord Nicholas. Yet her cousin had maintained a steady verbal assault upon them all, leaving Gillian feeling more drained and overwrought than before her cousins’ arrival.
She glanced at Catrin from the corner of her eye, and saw how attentively Catrin followed Lord Nicholas’s every move:
Why hadn’t she noticed before now the spark in Catrin’s eyes whenever she looked at him? Although Gillian had never seen Catrin thus, she would have sworn ’twas passion or desire that lent that smoky glow to her cousin’s eyes.
Could Catrin be interested in Lord Nicholas?
Gillian struggled to suppress a grin at the recognition of an all-too-human trait in her iron-willed cousin. Catrin claimed to have no use for men. How, then, did Catrin dare to trust Rannulf, Gillian wondered, when she—who loved him still, God help her—could not bring herself to do so?
Because Catrin didn’t know everything she did about Rannulf. She didn’t know him the way Gillian did.
Or did Catrin know Rannulf better than she? Catrin viewed him through eyes untainted by the past, and free of the glow—or was it the tarnish?—lost love lent to the eyes of the lover.
’Twas enough to drive her mad! She thrust those thoughts into the back of her mind and returned her attention to the scene playing out before her.
If Catrin found Talbot attractive, it might explain why she’d sniped and gibed at him constantly since she’d arrived, many of her comments to him scarcely civil.
Her discourtesy caught his attention, however. Mayhap that had been Catrin’s goal all along, whether she realized it or not.
Gillian turned her thoughts to her guardian’s behavior, observing him and her cousin all the while. Lord Nicholas had maintained a surprisingly good humor though Catrin beset him at every turn.
Her cousin was beautiful, and mayhap Talbot found Catrin’s fiery manner more appealing than appalling. She saw that he glanced at Catrin near as often as she did at him, though they were both quite skilled at disguising their interest.
Rannulf and Lord Nicholas headed across the bailey toward the gatehouse, picking their way through the muck, talking all the while. Catrin started down the stairs and whistled for Idris, her massive wolfhound, to join her.
The dog raced toward them from the stables, running fast and surefooted through the mud and splashing anyone unfortunate enough to be in his path. Before he reached them, a startled maidservant gave a terrified shriek and slipped, falling flat on her back in a filthy puddle.
“Catrin, make him stop!” Gillian shouted as Idris began to dash about the bailey again. Mud flew everywhere as he barked and gamboled from person to person. “Idris, enough!” The beast ignored her.
Catrin gave a delighted laugh as the dog crashed into Talbot’s servant, Richard, as he walked out of the stables. A spray of dirty water flew up in his face; he tripped and fell, upsetting the basket he’d been carrying—filled with filth from the stables—and spilling its foul contents over him from head to toe.
Gillian hurried down the stairs after Catrin and grabbed her by the arm. “Stop him now, Catrin—please.” Not waiting to see if her cousin obeyed her, Gillian hoisted her skirts up above the muck and gingerly began to make her way across the bailey toward the dog.
Idris ignored Richard and romped over to the gatehouse, where a number of Talbot’s and Rannulf’s men had gathered with lan’s troops. Intent upon preventing another mishap, Gillian shifted direction midway across the sea of mud, nearly losing a boot in the process, and tried to place herself in the dog’s path to distract him.
“I swear, Catrin, if he knocks me over, I’ll have his hide for a carpet,” she threatened, provoking a wave of laughter from the crowd. Undaunted, Idris continued to play. “I’ll place him right before the fire in the hall, where I can tread upon him often.” She tugged her foot free of the sucking mud yet again. “Starting today, I believe.”
“If you insist,” Catrin said, exasperation tingeing her voice. She gave a sharp whistle and the dog ran to join her, sides heaving and tongue hanging out.
Gillian turned her back on Catrin and her hound of Satan and concentrated on keeping her footing as she made her way to the stone-flagged area in front of the gate.
Lord Nicholas started toward her. “Wait, milady—let me come and get you.”
“Nay, I’m nearly there,” she said, lengthening her stride with care. “There’s no need for you to play the gallant, milord, lest we both end up in the muck.” She’d rather take her chances on her own, than be at fault should she cause them to fall. Lord Nicholas’s costly clothes would never survive such a dunking.
She thought for a moment that he’d come after her anyway, but he gave a shrug and awaited her at the edge of the paving stones, hands outstretched to assist her.
“Thank you, milord.” She took his hand gratefully, for without his support, she knew she’d have landed face first at his feet. She’d scarce set her mudencrusted boots on the cobbles and stepped away from him when a great cry rose from the men gathered nearby.
Glancing over her shoulder, she jumped aside just as Idris shot past her and leapt onto Talbot, sending man and dog to the ground.
Dirty clothes were the least of Lord Nicholas’s worries at the moment, for Idris, usually a gentle beast, stood atop Talbot’s chest and held him pinned to the ground, his massive jaws spread wide at her guardian’s throat.
Bending, Gillian clutched the dog’s studded collar in both hands and tugged, but to no avail. Idris likely weighed more than she, and she was no match for him in strength. “Rannulf, come help me,” she gasped.
But Idris would have none of it, growling deep in his throat as soon as Rannulf reached for his collar. Hands held out at his sides, Rannulf backed away and shook his head.
Gillian ceased tugging and looked behind her for her cousin. Catrin remained standing at the foot of the stairs, arms folded at her waist, one corner of her mouth quirked up in amusement.
A wave of anger washed through Gillian,
heating her blood and her temper. She’d had more than enough trouble from Catrin, and she’d not stand for any more. “Catrin!” she shrieked, letting go of the dog and stepping carefully around her guardian’s motionless form. She started toward her. “Haven’t you caused enough problems already?”
Both her feet slid out from under her, she let out a screech as a pair of strong arms wrapped about her waist from behind.
Rannulf jumped forward in time to catch Gillian, swinging her up and into his arms, heedless of her filthy boots flailing against his legs. Grinning at the temper in her eyes—and at the sight of his overlord still lying prone beneath the wolfhound, if truth be told—he pivoted and set her on her feet on the cobbles.
As soon as he released her, she tried to slip past him to go after her cousin again, but he caught her about the waist and slung her over his shoulder. “Stay put,” he warned her. He pressed one hand flat upon her backside, the fact of so many watchful eyes all around them reason enough to resist the temptation to stroke those delectable curves.
If he should be foolish enough to try.
“Put me down,” she muttered in his ear. “And take your hand from my...”
He chuckled, low enough so the others wouldn’t hear. “You never used to be so proper.”
“That was before I met you.” She reached up and behind her, trying to grab his hair, but he raised an eyebrow and caught her hand. She tried to tug free. “I’ve learned any number of things since then, not all of them good.”
At least she hadn’t claimed all of it was bad.
He noticed movement on the landing; Ian started down the stairs from the keep and strode toward his sister. He caught Catrin from behind, pinned her arms to her sides and let out a shrill whistle.
Idris ignored the summons.
Talbot gave a muffled cough and the dog growled. “Could someone get him off me?” he wheezed. Rannulf stepped closer; the dog’s teeth pressed harder against Talbot’s throat.
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