Totally entranced, her hands still, she bent closer, until her mouth was mere inches from his. “Why not?”
“Because I am…who I am.”
A strange and unexpected answer. “Who are you?”
He swayed slightly, as if he were drunk. “Why, Sir Connor of Llanstephan, of course!”
Then he laughed, a great raucous rumble of hilarity that seemed like a slap in the face, so loud and unexpected it was.
She looked over her shoulder again, to see Brother Jonathan and his patient staring at them.
“The potion,” she reminded the holy man, who went back to his task as Sir Connor continued to chuckle like a demented fool.
That was what she got for asking questions of a man who had drunk that potion. Pleasant and exciting though they were, she should pay the mutterings of a drugged man no mind. “Enough talking, sir knight. Lie down. You should sleep.”
He slowly reclined upon the cot. “Will you join me?”
Her response was an indignant, “No!”
“Very proper answer, my lady, but I know these games.” He tried to waggle his right forefinger at her, reminding her that he was drug-addled, and she had been mistaken to take his invitation seriously.
“You want me. You wanted me last night, as much as I wanted you. I should have kissed you on your lovely lips, I should. I should have caressed your soft skin and confessed how much I admire your grace. I should have made love with you right there in the garden. I should have slowly, slowly showed you how you make me feel when I look at you, like there might indeed be a hope for happiness and contentment on this earth for me.”
More unexpected words from this unusual man. If he were in his right mind, her heart would be tenderly touched by what he was saying. As it was, his words could be dismissed as easily as Bob and Harry.
Or if not just as easily, they would be at last. They must be.
He smiled dreamily, with a hint of the charming young rogue she could easily believe he had been. “Or maybe we would not have had the patience to take our time.”
He took her hand, his closing around hers, and she let him, guiltily indulging herself for one brief moment. There never would and never could be anything more between them. Perhaps it was because of that, or because Brother Jonathan was busy, or because he made her feel like a beautiful and desirable young woman and not the price for a family’s security, that a sly, mischievous spirit stole upon her. “Why, I hardly know you, Sir Connor.”
His grin, even lopsided, was charm personified. “You would have known me better by the finish.”
He limply gestured for her to lean closer. “Would you do something for me?”
Looking around and seeing that Brother Jonathan was still occupied, she bent down. She was so close, she could feel his breath on her cheek.
“When you see the man you despise,” he whispered, “please tell him I am going to kill him.”
She reared back as violence and the baron intruded into her stolen moment of peace, for she knew exactly who he meant. Last night in the hall, Sir Connor had caught her unguarded expression and whatever else he interpreted from that, he had rightly guessed her opinion of the man she must marry.
Sir Connor continued slowly, as if he were speaking in his sleep, which in a way, he was. “He tried to kill me first. My lance…my lance should not have shattered like that.”
At the time of the collision she had been too concerned about his fall to consider exactly how it had happened. Was it possible he was right? Could he have been the victim of foul play?
That seemed impossible. Every man in the tournament was duly licensed by the king’s court, having paid for the privilege of participating in tournaments throughout England. Surely no dishonest man would be allowed…
Yet, would the king’s court, always so short of funds because of Richard’s penchant for war, be so particular, or would the ability to pay be the only requirement?
To be sure, she had never seen a lance demolished in that way—but then, she had not seen very many melees, either.
She opened her mouth to question him more, but his eyes closed, his jaw went slack, and his chest began to rise and fall with his slow, even breathing. He was asleep.
More injured men straggled in, obviously not seriously hurt as they casually waited for Brother Jonathan and discussed the melee, so she took a moment to contemplate Sir Connor’s serious accusation. Had DeFrouchette really tried to kill him? And if so, why?
DeFrouchette would certainly act out of malice; of that she was certain. He would do all he could to ensure an enemy’s defeat, and not honestly, if necessary.
Sir Connor was no threat to him…unless they had been seen together in the garden. No one else had been there, nor had she noticed anybody close to the door when she returned to the hall. There had been no guard on the wall walk nearby. Of that she was very sure, for she had looked for one when Sir Connor had first spoken to her.
But she had not kept watch on the gate leading from the garden into the courtyard where Sir Connor had entered. Someone could have been there, watching in the shadows.
Yet what would anybody have seen to report to the baron? A short conversation, a kiss on the wrist. Her body warmed and she blushed to think of that—but was it so terrible, really? Was it enough to try to cause serious injury, perhaps even death? Even for DeFrouchette?
Or maybe it had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with the fact that the baron might fear a well-trained knight upon the tournament field.
Perhaps it wasn’t the baron at all. She didn’t think there was any other man in the tournament who might be so ruthless, but there could be, she supposed.
As if summoned by her tumultuous thoughts, Rennick DeFrouchette sauntered into the tent as if he were the master of all he surveyed. When he spied her, he surveyed her with the same insolent presumption.
She wanted to march right up to him and accuse him of cheating, but caution, so long her guide in all things, held her back. Sir Connor had spoken in a drug-induced haze, and even if he truly believed what he had said, he must have evidence to prove it. Otherwise, his accusation would only earn the enmity of a merciless, powerful man.
As for the baron’s possible motive, if he had done such a dishonest and dishonorable act, she had best ensure that he understood there was nothing between herself and Sir Connor except a brief conversation and a simple kiss on her wrist. And she would do well to see that it was so.
She put a smile on her face as she approached the baron. “Is the melee over?”
“Yes. Sir Auberan owes me fifty marks,” he bragged before he glanced over at Sir Connor. “I see you’ve been looking after the Welshman. I trust I didn’t injure him fatally.”
“You did that?” she asked, feigning ignorance to try to gauge his feelings.
“Yes. Breeding shows itself in many ways, you know. He was doomed from the start.”
“It is a serious wound. He cannot travel for some days.”
Rennick frowned. “You would have him stay at Montclair?”
“Any who are hurt and unable to travel must stay. We can do no less.”
“The expense—”
“My father is the host, so until he informs me otherwise, they will all stay until they are well enough to travel.”
Rennick’s eyes narrowed, and again she reminded herself of the dangerous path she trod. Any misstep—like last night—could have serious consequences. “It has always been so.”
“Come, my lady,” he commanded.
“My place is here, until all the injured have been seen to.”
“You do not look overly busy.”
Unfortunately, he was right. “Very well.” She moved away before he could take her arm. “I will come outside a few moments.”
They went around the tent away from the tournament field, closer to the river and the willows that lined the bank.
“I see no reason for all the injured to remain in Montclair, eating your father’s food
and drinking his wine,” he said as they stopped in the shadow of the trees.
You do, she wanted to point out. “We would not want it said that the earl of Montclair lacks hospitality.”
“As long as the earl and his daughter take care to whom they are hospitable. That Welshman, for instance. It would be better for him to be on his way.”
Her heartbeat quickened, both with tension as she wondered if he was going to speak of last night and the hope that if he did not, she would get some answers to the multitude of questions she had about Sir Connor. “Why?”
“He is dishonored, cast out of Richard’s retinue by the king himself.”
“Why was he cast out?”
“They quarreled. He is fortunate he was only sent home, and not arrested for treason.”
From what she had heard of Richard, she thought so, too, even as she wondered what the quarrel had been about. “You read all the licenses of the attendant knights, and apparently saw nothing amiss. Therefore, I assume there was no objection raised when he paid his fee to the court to participate in tournaments, and so is entitled to enter any he wishes. Perhaps he left the king of his own accord. Or have you made an error?”
Rennick’s heavy, dark brown brows pulled together as he frowned. “You question me close, my lady. Is this the gratitude I get for helping your father?”
“Naturally I am grateful, Baron,” she lied, quickly forcing another bogus smile onto her face. “It is just that I am trying to understand how this man came to be here if he is unworthy.”
“I didn’t know about his past until recently.”
“Who told you?”
“Do you doubt what I say?”
“No. I am simply trying to grasp why he was worthy yesterday, but is not today and why, although he has every right to participate in the tournament, you believe it would be better for my father to risk being considered an ungracious and miserly host than to allow the man to stay a few days until his wound is mended.”
“There are more things to consider than that, my lady.” His knuckles grazed her cheek, but she felt no tingle of pleasure. She saw only his fist. “I suppose I cannot expect a woman to understand, beautiful and clever though she may be.”
She gazed up into the baron’s face, felt his breath hot upon her and saw the lust shining in his blue eyes. How she wanted to spit into his face! To tell him exactly what she thought of him. But she couldn’t—he had too much power over them.
So she must be a hypocrite. “Forgive me if I have inadvertently insulted you, Rennick. I thought my future husband would want to maintain the good opinion of the nobles of the realm. I didn’t mean for you to be angry with me.”
With an eager, hungry expression, he roughly tugged her to him, and his voice seethed with lechery. “When you beg my forgiveness, how can I be angry?”
He could have spouted poetry like a minstrel of the king’s court, and she would still be disgusted by his desire. As for being in his arms, a snake’s embrace would be more appealing. She splayed her hands on Rennick’s chest and subtly tried to back out of his hold. “We might be seen.”
“So what of that?” he muttered as he bent down to kiss her. She turned her face so that his mouth met her cheek. He pulled back and glared at her.
She feared he was going to strike her, but whatever burst of heat his anger unleashed seemed to cool. “Stop this coyness, Allis. Everyone knows you will be mine one day. Our estates join, and so should we. I will protect you, and your family.” He smiled as his grip tightened. “I’ve waited long enough for you. I can’t wait much longer.” His gaze intensified, and she saw the rage surging within him, strong enough perhaps to overcome his patience, and his lust. “You make me mad with jealousy.”
Despair, like a dark cloud of fog coming down the river valley, began to blight the small blossom of happiness she had dared to feel when she was with Sir Connor. Worse, this could be the confirmation that they had been seen in the garden. If so, more than she and her family were in danger of suffering Rennick’s wrath; now she must protect Sir Connor, too, the man who had wanted to make her smile.
She knew how, and although her very soul rebelled against the method, there was no alternative. “A lady likes to be pursued, and not have her affections taken for granted, Rennick,” she purred as she wound her arms about his neck, “otherwise she might do something to ensure that she is appreciated.”
His eyes widened with surprise, then flared again with carnal craving. “It was a game, Allis? If so, you play a dangerous one.”
“You amaze me, Rennick.” She toyed with the hair around his ugly ears and banished from her mind any comparison of his brown, straight hair cut in the Norman style with Sir Connor’s long, thick and waving locks. “I would think a man in your position would have nothing to fear from anyone.”
“Only losing you.”
Only losing his grasp on Montclair, she mentally amended as he again swooped down to kiss her. She quickly cupped his face in her hands, preventing that. As she did, his frigid blue eyes locked onto hers. His arms tightened around her as if he would squeeze the very breath from her body.
The time had come. She had put it off as long as possible, yet she could not make Rennick wait any longer. The tournament had not rallied her father and, despite all her efforts, he continued to weaken day by day. Edmond was too young to rule Montclair, and one day soon, Rennick would surely go to the king, if he was in England, or to Richard’s justiciar, and tell them that someone—some man—must be put in charge of Montclair until Edmond came of age. She didn’t doubt Rennick would paint himself the most suitable and logical candidate, and probably offer money to ensure that they agreed.
If Rennick had to pay, his anger and bitterness would never end. But if she became his wife—if she gave him the body he so obviously craved—that might satisfy him for a time, and as his wife, she would be able to keep close watch on him.
Yet even though she accepted the necessity, the words did not come easily. But come they did. “I have kept you waiting long enough, Rennick. If you still wish to marry me, I agree.”
Chapter 6
“At last,” Rennick said, as his whole face shone with triumph and satisfaction.
Allis wanted to scream with despair, but she submitted to his embrace and endured his mouth plundering hers, seeking only the gratification of his own lust.
She choked back a sob, and he did not hear it.
She must be strong. She must endure. She must—“Rennick!” she cried, shoving him away when he roughly grabbed her breast.
Righteous, furious anger at his impertinent action energized her. She might have to be his wife and eventually have to submit to his pawing, but not yet. By the saints, not yet!
But she must not give Rennick cause to doubt her sincerity. She breathed deeply and put her hands on his arms that did not have the hard curves of Sir Connor’s. “You have been patient so far, Rennick, and that has impressed me. Do not spoil it now.”
He grabbed her around the waist. “I have been patient and am eager for my reward.”
“Which you will have soon enough. Name the day you would have me for your wife.”
Her words had the effect she hoped. Again he smiled, while she felt anything but happy. “I would marry you today, but there are important people who should be invited to our wedding.”
Any delay would be welcome, but she tried not to show that, either. “I will leave the actual day up to your best judgment, my lord, as long as we have at least a fortnight to prepare. These important, influential people must be entertained as befits their station, and yours.”
It would be at least a fortnight before Sir Connor would be healed enough to leave, but she must put that from her mind.
Rennick inclined his head in agreement.
She should be pleased to see such evidence that she could influence her husband-to-be, but that discovery did nothing to lift her spirit from the deep well of bleak despair.
But, as always, she could
not wallow in that gloomy pit. She had her father to take care of, and Isabelle and Edmond. She must not burden them with her sorrow. Their mother’s death and father’s illness were enough for her brother and sister to bear, and her father must not be upset. So they must all believe her happy in her choice, just as Rennick must. “I also think it would be wise to suggest a date to those you consider most important, and only when you are certain they can attend, announce it formally. That way, you will not offend anyone.”
“You are indeed as intelligent as you are beautiful.”
He pulled her to him and kissed her again, hard and forceful, with nothing of love or affection, or even lascivious desire. It was all power and domination.
He let go and his gaze raked her face and figure. “I trust you will be worth the wait, my lady.”
She would never show him fear, or let him believe he could intimidate her. She would give him her hand and her body, but not her pride. “As I hope you will be, my lord.”
She stepped away before he could embrace her again. “Now I must return to my duties. I have left Brother Jonathan long enough. I would not have it said that the lady of Montclair is remiss, either.”
“Very well, my lady. After all, soon enough you will be my dutiful wife.”
Allis didn’t trust herself to speak as she hurried back into the tent where Sir Connor slept on, oblivious.
Outside the earl’s solar that night, clouds scudded across the moon and a low wind moaned, threatening rain. In this chamber, however, where three men sat in chairs of dark, aged oak, richly carved with vines and grapes, and the seats softened by bright, silk-covered cushions, all was warm, bright and comfortable. Thick tapestries depicting the nobility at leisure hung upon the walls, illuminated by several expensive candles whose scent filled the room. A gleaming silver carafe of excellent French wine stood ready and matched the equally shiny goblets the men held.
The Maiden and Her Knight Page 6
