Lord of Vengeance

by Lara Adrian

  The fragrant summer breeze swept in and immediately masked the mustiness of the dank little chamber, which, Raina noted, was devoid of furnishings, save a ragged straw pallet and beside it a dented overturned chamber pot.

  “You will stay here,” he directed idly, “and rest assured, the lock bar on the door is fully functional. As I said before, my keep is humble when compared to your home, this chamber hardly fitting a lady of your status. However, we've had no past cause for concern. My squire told you true: We've never had a guest here.” From over his shoulder he smiled wryly at her, lifting one wicked brow. “Willing or otherwise.”

  “Am I supposed to find that amusing, my lord?” she asked, peeling away the stiff, moth-eaten blanket that covered her pallet and trying not to cringe at the thought of laying her head against the undoubtedly flea-ridden straw. She moved the chamber pot with her toe and cried out in fright when a beetle scurried out from underneath the battered vessel. With a hand to her breast to steady her fluttering heart, she caught her breath and fixed him with a steely glare. “Should I find humor in your imprisoning me in a cell unsuitable even for the lowliest castle hound?”

  “Oh, nay, my lady,” he replied. “And please, forgive my insensitivity. Mayhap you'd rather stay with me in my chamber? I would not require much of you by way of personal service and I do have a large, comfortable bed--”

  “Never,” she vowed, sorry she had given him the chance to tease her. “I shall sleep quite contentedly with the fleas and the beetles and heaven knows what else lurks in this chamber. I daresay I'd prefer even vermin to your disagreeable presence.”

  One black brow rose in mocking challenge. “Truly? Why, just last night you were begging me to stay with you. Is your memory so feeble that you've already forgotten?”

  Curse him for bringing that up! Would that she could forget pleading with the insensitive brute not to leave her alone in that terrible skeleton of a keep. She needed no reminder of his impatient reaction to her fears, or her folly in not leaving him when she had the chance. “Have you not yet tired of harassing me? Surely you have more important matters to attend to than tormenting defenseless women.”

  His wry grin belied his urge to retort, but instead he simply said, “Indeed, I do.”

  “Then I should thank you to leave and afford me some time alone. Surely 'tis not too much to ask.”

  “Time alone?” He chuckled richly and shook his head. “In my keep everyone has duties, including you, my lovely prisoner. As you seem less than enthusiastic about serving me in my chamber, I reckon I can match you with another role. Have you any skills?”

  “Of course I do,” she replied warily. “I can read and scribe, and embroider--”

  “None of which would be of much use here, my lady. However, I'm certain Agnes can find work to keep you busy and out of trouble.” He went to the door, opened it and called for the woman.

  Within moments she appeared, a squatty, rotund woman in what looked to be the latter part of her life. The creases between Agnes's graying brows seemed permanent, likely etched from a lifetime of hardships...or scowling, as she was doing now despite Raina's attempts to set her at ease with a weary smile.

  “Agnes,” he directed, “I am leaving you in charge of my prisoner's daily duties. See to it she does not venture from your sight.”

  “Aye, milord,” the old crone cooed, “it'd be me pleasure to take 'er under me wing.”

  Chapter 9

  Gunnar watched, more than a little amused, as Raina marched past him and out the chamber door. Agnes would see that Raina put in a full day's work, regardless of the fact that most of the morning was already spent. Tonight, his captive would entertain no thoughts of fleeing or fighting, to be sure. If he knew Agnes, by day's end, Raina would want nothing more than to lay her pretty head upon a pillow and collapse until sunrise.

  A twinge of conscience needled him when he considered her assigned quarters. She was right; the chamber was hardly fit for a beast, let alone a lady of gentle breeding.

  Neither was his bedchamber, for that matter, but he hadn't actually expected she would take him up on his offer to share it with him. He felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment that she had declined with such vehemence, however.

  He didn't know why he found such enjoyment in stoking her ire. Perhaps it was that haughty thrust of her chin, the proud flip of her hair, or the tiny crinkle that formed between her brows when she was pensive or angry. Everything about her affected him in one manner or another, and it seemed he found something newly intriguing whenever he looked upon her.

  Which was often, he realized with no small amount of chagrin.

  Whenever she was near, he found it next to impossible to keep his eyes off her. But more maddening was the fact that he could not keep his mind off her even when she was away from him. Whereas his eyes could not drink in her every move and expression, it seemed his mind eagerly conjured her image, unbidden and unrelenting.

  God's wounds, but she was driving him to distraction!

  He had to burn off some of his frustration. Needed a means to work out the kinks in his back--to say nothing of the tension mounting elsewhere. He'd been battling verbally with his tempting captive for days now; perhaps a spar of another form was in order, with someone more deserving of his wrath. He heard Burc's voice in the bailey and, with renewed purpose, he headed down the stairwell to organize a war game with his men.

  As he passed the entryway to the great hall, he spied one of the three women housed at his keep, this one a young maid by the name of Dorcas, a sweet girl who had been turned out of her home after being defiled and slandered by a nobleman the winter past. The petite blonde looked up from where she stood, sweeping old rushes into the brazier and hastened to Gunnar's side when he beckoned her forth.

  “Have a fresh pallet brought up to the chamber next to mine,” he instructed, “and have the hearth swept out and readied with kindling enough for the night. Candles too, if you can find some.” He thanked her and turned, starting for the bailey. “And Dorcas,” he added over his shoulder, “if she should ask, tell her 'twas all your idea.”

  With an acquiescent nod and a harnessed smile, the maid hurried off to carry out his request.

  * * *

  A heap of tunics, hose, and braies filled the corner beside the large bed in Rutledge's chamber. Agnes stomped into the room and headed for the pile of clothes while Raina lingered at the threshold.

  “Well, what are ye waitin' for?” Agnes shot over her shoulder. “These clothes won't get up an' wash themselves!”

  Raina stepped inside, nervously peering about the room. So this is where he sleeps, she thought, running her hand over the unmade bed as she walked past it. And this is where he must entertain his women.

  Everything about the Spartan decor had an imposing presence: from the bed, uncurtained and big enough to sleep an entire family, to the gaping black orifice of the fireplace that had been hollowed out of the thickness of the facing wall. An armor chest stood at the foot of the bed, and next to it, a stand for a tunic of chain mail. Everything bespoke war and violence. Much like the man himself, Raina thought with a frown.

  A coarse tunic hit her in the face.

  “Stop yer bloody dreamin' and 'elp me gather these up.” Agnes seemed as short on patience as she was on breeding.

  Raina went to the old woman's side. “I was not dreaming,” she said as Agnes shoved a smelly pile of clothes at her. “Phew!” she gasped. “Perhaps these would be better disposed of than washed.”

  Agnes only scowled and added a pair of worn braies to the top of Raina's stack, now nestled under her chin. “Well, now, that's the last of it,” she announced, brushing past Raina with a small wad of clothes tucked under her beefy arm. “Follow me.”

  Agnes gave her no chance to argue, disappearing out the chamber door and down the corridor. Raina started off after her, catching the various articles of clothing that toppled off her enormous stack with each step she took. She trudged dow
n the stairwell after the stout woman, determined not to lose a single scrap or to trip in the process. She'd show her--and Rutledge too. She was not some spoiled princess, incapable of doing a good day's work. She could manage this and whatever else they meted out to her.

  Agnes led her past the hall and out of the keep, into the courtyard where the sounds of swords and men grew loud. Raina grimaced.

  Good Lord, the old bat would have to parade straight through their practice, wouldn't she? Never mind, she would not even pretend to notice. Holding her breath, Raina tucked her head down and feigned the utmost concentration in the effort of walking.

  “Agnes, me beauty,” someone yelled from the direction of the practice yard. “Tell yer little helper I got somethin' fer her to wash!”

  Agnes cackled. “Ah, Cedric, ye scarcely find use fer the wee thing. It can't be needin' a wash already.” Her retort met with appreciative laughter, but Cedric's raspy voice rang out above the rest.

  “Ye best hie now, Aggie, lest I show ye a use fer it!”

  Raina picked up her pace, resisting the urge to run. It wasn't until she plowed blindly into the side of an outbuilding that she realized Agnes had made a turn along the way and she no longer followed her. The surprise and impact of the collision knocked Raina flat on her rump, the stack of dirty clothes raining down on top of her. Anger infused her cheeks even before she heard the men's mocking laughter.

  A strong hand circled her arm and hoisted her to her feet. “Are you all right?”

  Raina yanked her arm from Rutledge's grasp. “I'm fine,” she snapped, shoving a hank of hair away from her face.

  “Here,” he said, bending down to retrieve a bunch of clothes. “Allow me.” He held them out for her, looking a bit sheepish.

  Raina snatched them from his outstretched hand. “I don't need your help. Leave me alone and let me finish my work.” She crouched down and began gathering up the rest of the clothes as quickly as she could, eager to be out of his shadowy presence.

  “I cannot recall the last time my clothes saw a good scrubbing.”

  Raina shot a glare in his direction. “To say naught of your swarthy hide.”

  He frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, puffing himself up like a rooster. “Have a care you don't use overmuch soap. I find it makes the cloth stiff and uncomfortable to wear.”

  “I will bear it in mind.” She made to brush past him, but he caught her by the arm.

  “You forgot one.” He held a pair of braies out on the tip of his finger and grinned. “Ah, I see your hands are full. Shall I place it on the top of the stack for you?” Raina merely fixed on him her most lethal glower. “Very well then,” he said, unfazed as he tucked the undergarment beneath her chin. “Enough dallying. Off you go now.”

  A large hand landed on her backside with a thwack.

  “How dare you!” she gasped, whirling to face him.

  He was smiling wickedly, clearly pleased with himself as he leaned in and whispered, “Tarry a moment longer and you might find I dare even more.”

  She didn't hesitate for even a heartbeat, practically flying from the courtyard and his rich laughter. She found the pond where Agnes was already washing her small bunch of clothes. Raina threw hers to the bank with a huff. Learning from Agnes's example, she gathered up the hem of her skirt and tied it in a knot on both sides. Then, grabbing up a tunic from the top of the heap, she stomped down into the water beside the old crone.

  “Ye ever done this before in yer life, girl?” Agnes asked without looking up from her work.

  “Nay,” Raina admitted.

  Agnes let out an impatient-sounding sigh. “Well, 'ere.” She shoved a chunk of soap in Raina's direction. “Swipe this over the dirtier parts then rub the cloth between yer fists, like this.” She demonstrated with vigor and waited for Raina to do the same.

  Raina took the soap and ground it into the fabric as if it were Rutledge's arrogant face.

  “Ach,” Agnes cried, tearing the wedge from her fingers. “Don't ye use too much soap--”

  “I know,” Raina said, hearing Rutledge's instructions at the same time.

  “After we finish 'ere, we'll 'ang everything out to dry,” Agnes said as she wrung out her piece and left to get another.

  Raina sighed heavily, then did the same, passing Agnes on her way back down the bank. The old woman flashed her a nearly toothless grin and began to whistle, clearly enjoying her superior role. The clanking of weapons in the bailey provided a strange accompaniment to Agnes's cheery tune, the sound amplifying and echoing off the crumbling curtain wall that hid the soldiers from view. Raina dropped the clean tunic on a patch of grass and bent to retrieve another to wash. It was then that the realization dawned on her.

  If the curtain wall hid the bailey from her view, it also shielded her from Rutledge's watchful eye.

  Clutching the tunic to her breast, she peered cautiously at the wall-walk. Only one guard stood sentry near the gate and he looked to be preoccupied with the goings-on in the bailey. Raina's heart began to beat a hopeful tattoo in her breast.

  She could escape.

  Mother Mary, could it be this easy? Dare she hope simply to walk away in broad daylight?

  Rutledge was indeed a fool to think the idea would not cross her mind.

  Or did he rather think she'd not have the nerve? Perhaps he felt Agnes's presence was assurance enough. Raina cast a wary glance over her shoulder and grinned.

  Agnes, so engrossed in her washing and her song, would likely not miss her until she was deep into the woods. And with Agnes's stubby legs and burdensome girth, she would never be able to catch her even if she did set off in pursuit. Thank the Saints, but it appeared she might yet be free!

  Raina tossed the tunic to the ground and made to dash for the cover of the woods.

  “Milady, I would not.”

  The adolescent male voice halted her in her tracks. Shoulders slumping in defeat, she turned to face Rutledge's squire. He looked at her almost apologetically from atop his grazing palfrey. Agnes's whistling had since stopped and she now stood in the water up to her thighs, her hands on her hips and a murderous scowl on her face.

  Raina's mind worked quickly to form a reasonable explanation for her behavior. “I--I was only seeking a moment of privacy, my lord.” She smiled warmly on the blushing squire.

  “Let 'er tell it to Lord Gunnar, lad,” Agnes called from the pond. “'E'll give 'er a moment of privacy, I warrant.”

  The squire frowned pensively, pursing his lips. “Mayhap she's right,” he said at last. “Milord sent me here to guard you. He should be made aware of your attempt to escape--”

  “Escape?” Raina feigned surprise at his accusation. She stepped closer to him, lowering her voice to a suitably embarrassed whisper. “I assure you, my lord squire, I meant only to relieve myself. I beg you spare me--and indeed, yourself--any further humiliation and do not make mention of this misunderstanding to your lord.”

  By this time, Agnes had lumbered up the bank to where they stood, her skirt soaked and dripping water in a steady stream where it splashed on her wide, ham-like feet. “Ye'll get a terrific floggin' fer this, wench,” she said with a malicious, eager little grin.

  Raina looked pleadingly at the squire, whose own expression told her that Agnes was likely correct in her assumption.

  “She says she sought only to relieve herself, Agnes,” the squire said. “I see no need to alert milord of that.” He had clearly attempted to sound manly and authoritative, which made it all the more endearing to Raina when his voice cracked.

  “Is that so?” Agnes challenged. “Why then, don't keep 'er waitin', Alaric! Go, and see to it she does 'er business so she can get back to 'er work.”

  The squire looked from Agnes to Raina, then back to Agnes again. His mouth opened and closed, but it was Agnes who broke the silence.

  “Oh, never ye mind,” she huffed, “I'll take 'er meself. A glimpse of 'er bare backside'd likely render ye witless anyway.” She sei
zed Raina by the elbow as if to haul her bodily into the thicket.

  “Nay, wait,” Raina cried. “I no longer feel the need to go.”

  Agnes snickered. “Can ye credit that, Alaric? Comin' up on 'er like ye did, ye must 'ave scared the urge right out of the poor thing.”

  Raina looked to the squire. “Please, I'd rather finish my work and be done with it.” He bit his lip thoughtfully, then nodded his agreement.

  “I still says she needs a taste of the lash,” Agnes muttered, then stormed back down into the water, leaving Raina standing beside the squire's mount.

  “Not a word to him?” Raina pleaded. The squire broke her gaze and looked down at his hands, seemingly unable to confirm what might amount to a betrayal of his lord's trust. Raina reached up and touched his hand lightly. “I won't forget your kindness, Alaric.”

  That said, she bent to retrieve another tunic from the pile and joined Agnes in the pond. Several times she ventured a curious look over her shoulder and found the squire watching her intently from his position at the crest of the bank. She smiled at him on one occasion and his cheeks flamed nearly the color of his hair before he looked away.

  For the remainder of the morning, Raina made a point of smiling at him often and attempting to engage him in conversation each time she made the trek back up from the water. Not only did his pleasant nature make the time pass more quickly, but it also took her mind away from her hands, which had begun to show their abuse after she had washed the first couple of tunics. She still had a mound of things to wash, and had deliberately put off touching Rutledge's braies to the last. She longed to take a rest, but Agnes told her their time for rest would come when their work was done.