by Hall, Diana
“My daughter is like a flame, Galliard. Feed it gently and do not suffocate it, and the flame will serve you well. But if neglected or provoked, the same flame can burn or more sadly be extinguished. Can you cherish the flame that is my daughter?” Sir Edmund waited for a response.
Roen rose stiffly and moved toward the door. He answered as he gave the thick door a tug. “I’ll do my duty, Sir Edmund. ‘Tis all that can be expected.” The door crashed shut, the sound echoed on the cold stone walls.
Tom approached his liege. Sir Edmund’s eyes showed skepticism. “You have seen them together more than I. Are they a match? Must I unfold my plan to its fullest?”
Tom grinned. “Oh, aye, they’re a match. Put ‘em together and you got a regular bonfire of temper and willfulness.” Dragging himself to the foot of his lord’s bed, he gave the elder man a wink. “There’s something else a-burnin’ also. I sees them eyein’ the other when they think none’s a-lookin’.”
Hope colored the weak man’s face. “Then I should carry my plan to fruition?”
“Well, if’n ya ever wants the sound of your grandchild in these halls, it’s gotta be done. Lord knows, neither of those two will be able to accomplish much on their own.”
Grinning, Sir Edmund waved his servant off. “Then let us proceed. The morning of Lenora’s wedding, bring Jupiter in full tack. But I must somehow save Lenora from her tongue and Galliard from his temper. She can try a man’s soul, and if Galliard should strike her, all would be lost. May the saints bless me and have all go as I plan. And if it works, I pray my daughter does not hate me afterward.”
Lenora could not believe the morning sun just barely showed above the treetops of the forest. Between last night and the dawn she felt that a lifetime had transpired. Matilda clucked with false sympathy to the ladies-in-waiting. Beatrice hung in the shadows like a living ghost, unseen and silent. Lenora knew death frightened her cousin. ‘Twas a mark of Beatrice’s quiet strength that she was here at all.
Her eyes were transfixed on the closed door of her father’s solarium. Servants, roused from sleep to attend to the nobles, moved in hushed silence. She waited, an alloy of fear and dread melding her emotions. The massive door cracked open and she leapt to go to her father’s side. Roen’s broad chest blocked her way.
“We need to talk.” He pressed the door shut and prevented her entrance.
“My father is well near death. I have no time to waste with you. Let me pass.” Lenora did not ask, she commanded. The audacity of the man. Her father needed her now. Long hours of tutelage came to bear, and she drew on them now. She was the lady of this keep and her orders would be obeyed.
Instead of moving aside, as a gentleman would have, Lenora felt Roen’s viselike grip on her arm. “We will talk, and now. Your father desires solitude and peace of mind at the moment, which you will give him.” The grip on her arm tightened and Roen led her toward an alcove in the far wall, away from the bug eyes and donkey ears of her aunt.
Shoved onto the stone pew, Lenora turned away from her persecutor. He was a rude, illiterate, uncouth lout. Not even her father’s illness caused him to soften.
“We will marry in a fortnight.” Roen’s voice sounded hollow.
Lenora stared at him in wonder. The statement held no surprise for her. “So, you think to marry me before my father dies. Are you afraid that if he dies, as my vassals’ liege, I will order you driven from this castle? Nay, I will not marry you. My father has recovered from such spells many times. When he does, he will see the error his illness has caused.”
She paused to gather strength, then threatened, “But if he does die, then my father’s vassals will lay their swords at my feet. I will be the liege, and no longer under the will of my father’s words.”
Roen stood in granitelike silence. Her words tumbled off him like a child’s blows against a mountain.
Lenora asked in bewilderment, “How have you lived so long without a heart? How does your body move with no heart within your chest? Do you think to gain my agreement when I am sick with worry over my father? I am not so weak as that. Begone from my sight, and do not keep me from my father’s side.” Repulsed, she gave Roen a contemptuous stare and rose from her seat.
His foot stamped on the edge of the pew to bar Lenora’s escape. She halted and gave him an icy glare. His face took on a look of cruelty as he loomed in front of her. “We marry in a fortnight, or I marry your cousin. ‘Tis one or the other, but Woodshadow will be mine.”
Words stuck in Lenora’s throat but she persevered. “You have seen Beatrice. She cannot marry you. Just the hint of such a union has her near frightened to death. She would take her own life rather than wed you.” Lenora felt her tight control slip from her grasp.
Roen shrugged his shoulders, unconcerned. “I will keep her alive long enough to beget an heir. Then what she does is of no interest to me.” His lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “When I leave here I will order the servants to prepare my wedding feast. Your vassals will be ordered to appear to pledge their oaths of loyalty to me. The wedding will take place in a fort night. Who do I say the bride is, you or Beatrice?”
Rage streaked through Lenora’s body. How dare this man blackmail her! She was not some weak-kneed coward. Her father and brother had taught her to fight. Yet how could she fight a living statue with no emotions, no feelings?
“You win, Galliard.” Defeat did not come easily to her lips.
“Your word on this. You cannot back out at the last moment and naysay me at a later date.” Roen’s words stung an already tender wound.
Lenora hesitated; to give her word was to condemn herself to this marriage. Pride in her family name and honor would prevent her from casting aside her promise.
Trapped, she faced Roen, her eyes narrowed. “My word, Galliard. I will not break the agreement.” Lenora sought deep within her emotional reserves and replenished her aloof facade. “I would go to my father now and tell him of your plans for our nuptials. At least he will draw some small comfort in the misguided belief that you will guard the treasures of Woodshadow with love and care. I would not trouble him now with the truth, that ‘tis naught but greed that drives you.” She shoved Roen’s leg aside and moved away, her jaw tightening.
She walked with stiff dignity back to her father’s room. The wish for quiet conversation vanished as Lenora entered. The eyes of her aunt and cousin studied her face. Matilda’s shrewd eyes searched for a weakness, Beatrice’s searched for strength.
“Lenora?” Sir Edmund’s voice questioned.
“Father, you need to rest.” She sat at the foot of his bed. “Everything is fine.”
“I can’t rest. I need to know if you will be protected.” Sir Edmund’s voice grew thin.
“Woodshadow will be safe.” Lenora could not include herself in the statement. She would not lie to her father.
“Along with all of those within its walls,” Roen continued when he entered the room. Lenora purposely snubbed the knight and kept her gaze fixed on her father.
Sir Edmund sighed with relief. “Then you concur, Lenora. You will marry Roen de Galliard?”
“I have agreed to marry him, Father.” She hesitated before asking, “Is this what you truly want, Father? Does this set you at ease?”
Her father’s eyes glided closed, a peaceful smile on his lips. “Aye, daughter, to know Woodshadow is safe and you are well married does much to mitigate the worries in my heart. But still I sense you are not sure. Sir Roen, come to my side.”
Lenora felt dismay at the prospect of being near the bulking knight. Her father shoved her hand into Roen’s and proclaimed, “Lenora has a fear of you, Sir Roen.”
“I have no such thing,” Lenora contradicted.
Sir Edmund smiled. “Then let us quell these reservations. Lenora feels you are a man of bad temper.”
“Father.”
“This is not true, then? I thought my information most credible.” Lenora and Roen turned peeved looks to the innocent face
of the old stablekeeper. Tom clasped his hands behind his back and gave them an innocent look.
“Sir Edmund, I assure you I have control of my temper at all times,” Roen stated through clenched teeth.
Lenora almost choked. Her father’s voice sounded livelier with a touch of amusement. “Well, I am sure that is true, but—”
“But nothing. Since I stepped foot in this castle I have been nothing but insulted.” A dangerous red color began to spread up his neck.
“Sir Galliard, rest easy.” Sir Edmund tried to smooth the knight’s ruffled temper. “I only say my daughter has these fears, not that they are warranted. So, you say you have a wellcontrolled manner.”
“Of course.”
“And you would never strike out in anger at a defenseless soul?”
“Of course not.”
“And you would swear to this, no doubt.”
“Of course,” Roen growled.
Sir Edmund patted his daughter’s hand, so small on top of the larger callused hand of the warrior. “There, my dear, does that not calm your nerves? The man has sworn not to strike you in anger. All is settled.”
Lenora saw the results of her father’s verbal victory. Color washed his face, his eyes regained some of their old merriment. Perhaps there was a chance her father would recover as he had before. Somehow she needed to stall for more time.
Her mind raced while she created and discarded plans. The vow stood in the way. No matter the outcome, she had promised to marry Galliard and could see no way around it. She couldn’t break her bond.
Suddenly, a dazzling smile spread across her full lips. “Aye, Father, you are right, Sir Galliard is a strong man. It comforts me to know I have his word not to strike me in anger, but what of the other ladies?”
“I have not ever nor do I plan to hit a woman. A man who loses his temper so does not deserve any graces of God.” Roen eyed Lenora with forewarning. “Though a spanking might be in order for some.”
“So, ‘tis your word, which you lay at my ailing father’s bed, that should you strike me in anger, you deserve no reward.”
“Aye,” Roen answered with hesitation.
A plan so deliciously simple unfolded in Lenora’s head as Roen uttered his agreement. ‘Twas sure to buy her enough time for her father to improve in health and keep Galliard from her bed. A voice of self-preservation cautioned in her head, May the saints help me if my father or Galliard discovers my plans. Somehow Lenora knew Galliard’s anger would be the worse of the two.
Chapter Eleven
“Where is she?” Roen’s voice thundered down the long halls of the keep. He emerged from his room, his skin wet and bright red, wrapped in nothing but a ragged strip of linen. The soaked material molded the knight’s anatomy like a second skin. “By all the holy saints above, I will throttle the girl,” he promised as he scraped back the heavy wet hair from his eyes.
Servants squeezed themselves against the wall of the foyer to elude Roen’s frantic search. Feminine laughter tittered from behind a door on the left. He threw open the oak door with such force it banged against the wall and bounced back on the hinges. A tremendous echo added to the mayhem already in the hall.
“Saints be praised!” Matilda gasped when Roen’s nearly bare body intruded into the sewing room. “Sir Galliard, a bit of decorum if you will. There are impressionable ladies in this room. Beatrice and Charmain, avert your eyes.” Beatrice needed no warning; she already hid her face behind the shirt she was sewing. Not as shy, Charmain’s turquoise eyes roved down the slick, powerful body. Her gaze lingered on the deeply sculpted thighs that emerged from beneath Roen’s wrap. She gave him a seductive smile. By the look in her eye, Roen could tell the numerous battle scars on his body were not distasteful to her. Why hadn’t this girl assisted him with his bath instead of that half-blind old nag?
“Roen! What has come over you?” Hamlin came up behind his friend. With swords drawn, the men of Roen’s elite group stood ready to defend him. Hamlin hunted for an enemy. “By the noise you were making we thought you must be under attack.” He caught the sultry smile Charmain gave Roen, then added, “Or perchance ‘tis an attack you’re looking for. Though I think you could be a bit more discreet. Interesting skin color, Roen. Is this a new bit of camouflage?”
“Your skin would be red, too, if you had nearly been boiled alive. Where is your niece?” Roen demanded of Matilda, ignoring Hamlin. The flustered woman fanned herself with her hand vigorously.
“Please, sir, I cannot speak to you in such a state. Kindly complete your attire and then I will hear your grievance.” Matilda bent her head and brought her needlework very close to her face. Her fingers shook, and she was unable to make a stitch.
“Come, Roen, you are disturbing the ladies’ sewing,” Hamlin coaxed from the doorway.
“Damn women and their pettiness.” Roen tightened the towel around his hips and exited. He trod on Hamlin’s toes as he slammed the door shut. “Women. Were there but a way to obtain an heir without them, I would do so readily. The day that God created Eve was the last day of man’s peace of mind,” Roen declared on his way back to his chambers.
Hamlin followed his friend with his hand over his mouth. A small chuckle escaped his lips when they entered their chamber. The smack of a wet towel across his face silenced his amusement.
“Heaven’s sake, Roen. Did you intend to bathe the entire room?” Hamlin scanned the puddles of soapy water littering the floor. Two wooden pails lay tipped on their sides near the large wooden tub. Roen splashed barefoot across the puddles, sending sprays of water onto Hamlin’s leather boots.
“I swear when I get my hands on her I’m going to shake the very life from that long-legged body.” Roen tied on his braes and reached for his leather garters.
“Who? And why are you so angry?” Hamlin tossed aside the wet towel and sought a dry place to stand.
“Who? Why?” Roen finished cross-binding his hose. Hamlin tossed him the unadorned brown woolen tunic, which lay across the back of Roen’s clothing chest. The rounded neckline muffled his reply. The still-damp head emerged with a stupefied expression. “Nora, that’s who and why. The witch tried to boil me in my bath. I’m surprised I don’t have blisters on my behind from the scalding she gave me.” Roen rolled up the sleeves of his tunic past his elbows, then tied a leather belt around his waist.
“I see no blisters, and aside from your bright color, no damage. Besides, ‘twas not she I saw enter our room with the pails. The hag made a simple mistake.”
“Bah. I’d wager my fortune that Nora had something to do with that mistake.” Roen slid a golden-handled dagger into his belt.
“Perhaps you are just feeling guilty.”
Roen turned on Hamlin. “Me, guilty? For what? I’m sacrificing my entire future to save the woman. What thanks do I get except to be cooked like some shellfish?”
“I suppose your constant snide remarks and blackmail are no excuse. Besides, I heard you swear to Sir Edmund you would never beat the girl in anger,” Hamlin pointed out.
Roen placed his hand on the iron door pull. ‘I’ll give your words some leave, Hamlin. I won’t throttle her, but a spanking is still not out of the question.”
Lenora leaned against the oak tree by the stables holding her aching sides. Peals of laughter rang from her lips while she bundled up the patched kirtle and apron. Galliard was certainly red-hot when she had left him. He never even suspected ‘twas she behind the rags and dirt.
A lively tune bubbled from her lips. She pulled the scarf from her head and nodded merrily to the stableboy at the doorway of the barn. After she stashed the old clothes in the corner of Silver’s stall, she cupped some water from the pail to splash over her face. It felt cool and refreshing and left her skin clean of the ashes she had rubbed onto her face.
A self-satisfied smirk emerged on her lips. She contrasted the wonderful cool temperature of the water in the barn with the steaming heat of the water she had prepared for Roen’s bath. Of
all her schemes, this one was the most devious. ‘Twas going to be painfully easy to drive Galliard to strike her in anger. Like stealing a sweet from an infant. Lenora collapsed backward into the soft hay, her arms and legs akimbo.
The image of Galliard’s cardinal red skin made her tingle with merriment. Her thoughts twisted from mischief to curiosity. She’d only managed a glance at the knight’s broad back and powerful chest. The mystery of what lay beneath the soapfilmed water turned the tingle of her skin to a deep ember of heat. If she had just waited before pouring the hot water she might have really seen for the first time what a naked man looked like.
“Lenora.” Beatrice flew into the stable. “You must hide. Sir Galliard is in a terrible temper and I fear ‘tis you he’s angry with.” Her cousin peeked over the stall door. “Lenora, please. You must take this seriously. He burst into the sewing room practically—” Beatrice’s eyes widened and she choked out the rest “—naked, and demanded Mother tell him where you were.”
“Naked!” Lenora sputtered from her laughter. “My, that must have been a sight.”
“Lenora, what have you done? ‘Tis not good to make a man like him angry,” Beatrice warned in a grave voice.
“Tis more important not to make a woman like me angry. That pompous knight needs to learn that lesson, also.” Lenora rolled around in the hay like a puppy. Silver and the colt observed their mistress’s strange behavior. The mare plodded over and nudged Lenora with her nose as though to tell the young lady to control herself. Lenora’s response was delighted laughter.
Tyrus ran into the stable so quickly he careered into Beatrice before he could stop. “Sorry, Lady Beatrice, but ye told me to come ‘n fetch ye if’n he was a-headin’ this a-way. An’ he’s a-headin’ this-a-way.” Tyrus spoke so fast Lenora could barely make out the words. The lad craned his head to look behind him. “He’s a-comin’ fast, Lady Lenora. Ye best be disappearin’ cause—”
