* * *
Sitting at the trestle table in the kitchen, sword placed on the scrubbed wood beside him, Gilan pushed his plate away. He had eaten well and now stretched his legs out under the table, calf muscles cramping slightly, then releasing with the movement. He massaged the heel of his hand into the puckered skin of his scar. Raising his arms above his head, he released the taut muscles in his shoulders, ligaments shifting. Draining the last drops of mead from the flagon he had discovered lurking at the back of the cupboard, he set the vessel down, noting that the ray of sunlight streaming in through the south window had moved, now picking out a row of pewter plates in the corner, grey and gleaming. A lone fly bumped lazily along the inside of the kitchen window, a glazed, narrow aperture set up high in the plastered wall. First it went one way, then the other, before its wings became snared in a spider’s web, where it buzzed furiously.
Where was she? Surely it shouldn’t take her this long to change her clothes? That is, of course, if she were planning to return to bid him farewell. Maybe she had decided to sit in her bedchamber, expecting him to leave when he had finished eating. She was probably hoping that he would do this, so horrified was the look on her face when he announced that he would stay for something to eat. He grinned to himself. It would be far simpler if he picked up his sword, strode out of the gatehouse and climbed on his horse, never to see her again, but for some peculiar reason, he had to make sure there was someone here to protect her, before he rode off again.
He climbed over the rickety bench, fashioned from one plank of wood, and sheathed his sword, adjusting the leather strap around his hips. Tipping his head on one side, he listened for the sound of her footsteps, or the faintest swish of her skirts. But all he could hear was the insistent croak of a jackdaw echoing down the cavernous chimney and, through the open front door, the constant murmur of bees, busy outside in the lavender.
Crossing the hallway, he entered the great hall, his eye running in appreciation over the sumptuous furnishings: the large tapestries covering the walls, the gold-embellished banners hanging from iron poles jutting out into the space above his head. No expense had been spared in the decoration of this room, he thought. Matilda’s family, her brother, must be fairly wealthy in order to create such a beautiful home. Yet the fireplace was empty, even of spent ash, which suggested that the fire had not been lit in some time, and the smell of the room was damp, unused. He frowned, for every moment longer he spent in Matilda’s company, the more questions he felt he needed to ask her. The woman was a complete enigma.
Bounding up the spiral staircase which he found at the far end of the great hall, he gained the first floor, convinced now that Matilda sat stubbornly in her chamber, waiting for him to leave. Nearly all the doors of the chambers upstairs sat open, revealing clean, comfortable rooms flooded with light from the glazed windows. Wooden floorboards, dimpled and worn from use, shone out, strewn with bright rugs woven from heavy wool. The bed curtains were embroidered: colourful, detailed scenes depicting all manner of birds and flowers, all executed in perfect, minute stitches. Furs and blankets were stacked high on each bed, the bleached linen sheets crisp and glowing.
Only one door in the corridor was closed.
He knocked, knuckles rapping sharply against the solid wood. ‘Matilda?’ he called. Irritation trickled through him, a thread of annoyance that the chit continued to thwart him. Why, he would be gone soon, and then she would never have to deal with him again! He knew he was a fool for kissing her, but she had seemed so….so…what? His mind dug down for viable reasons, but he could find no excuse for what he had done, for that unexpected surge of desire had welled up like a storm unleashed at the sight of her beautiful, windswept face, out there on the plateau. It had seized him by the throat, overpowered his ironclad self-restraint, swept normal boundaries away. No wonder she had scuttled away to her chamber at the earliest opportunity; especially after what had happened with her brother-in-law. He was no better than John, a lout, and a lecherous lout at that. He should feel thoroughly ashamed, guilty about what he had done.
But he didn’t. The touch of her lips had made him feel alive, nudging the numb, wooden lump that was his heart and melting the frozen beat of his blood. Something stirred, deep in his belly, the remnants of their kiss lingering like a promise.
He shoved the feeling away; he would do well to remember his true purpose in this country, which was not to fall for the first woman who caught his eye. She acted like a lodestone on his pared-down feelings, poking and prodding at his damaged heart. He must stop this ridiculous behaviour; the chit was safe now, home—he had done his duty. All he needed to do now was to take his leave of her and be gone.
‘Matilda!’ he called. A hint of steel threaded his voice.
Silence.
A rising exasperation, coupled with a growing realisation that he must leave this place, leave her before he did any more damage to her innocent nature, drove him to click up the latch and shove into her chamber.
He stopped, suddenly.
Matilda lay sprawled across the bed, her slender build pillowed by a rippling pelt, one cheek, flushed, turned into the soft fur. Her legs hung over the edge of the bed, delicate ankles and small feet encased in stockings, exposed. Her slippers had fallen off, discarded on the floor, the soles upturned, scuffed and dirty from the journey. And from the top of her head to the curve of her hips, her hair flowed like a glorious waterfall, glossy like chestnuts, smooth as polished stone.
Her hair.
His heart seized and he clasped his hands together in front of him, almost as if to prevent them springing forwards and plunging them deep into that luscious mass. The tresses followed the curving line of her body, the outline of her breast pushing against the rough material of her gown, the indent of her small waist, the jutting, sensuous curve of her hip. His heart skittered erratically, zigzagging out of control, his fingers itching to remove his sword, to tear off his tunic and leggings, to press his bare skin against hers, to make sweet, delicious love to her.
He groaned, tearing his eyes away from her pale cheeks, her skirts rucked up around her knees. Christ, what was the matter with him? He was behaving like some callow youth, heart rising and plummeting all over the place, his senses scattered, whipped by an unseen, unpredictable wind, unable to douse the climbing flames of his desire.
Rearing back from the bed, ignoring the clamouring in his body, he flung himself into a seat at the side of the room, the spindly chair rocking back violently under the force of the movement. He thrust his head down into his hands, forearms resting on his knees. He should let her sleep. She was exhausted: deep violet shadows marked the space below her closed eyes, like bruising thumbprints. She would have been awake all night during her sister’s labour, and that, coupled with the shock of her brother-in-law’s assault, would have taken its toll.
But he couldn’t stay here all day, watching her sleep. That would be torture.
Leaping out of the chair, Gilan strode over to the bed, willing himself to remain immune to her, shoring up the fragile remains of his self-restraint. He had spent the better part of two years fighting in the Baltic, surviving through the bitter winters, up to his knees in freezing mud, had watched his own brother die in his arms. It would take more, much more than the exquisite beauty of one small, feisty woman to break through the stony crust of his heart.
Chapter Ten
It was a perfect summer’s day. Not a single wisp of white cloud marred the sky. The strong sunlight warmed her cheeks and the curve of her neck as Matilda raised her arms to gather in the linen sheet, spread out across a low laurel bush to dry. Drawing the hemmed edges together, she folded the fragrant, clean-smelling material against her chest, inhaling the wonderful fresh, dry fragrance of the sun-baked sheet. From somewhere, far away, she could hear a masculine voice calling her, shouting her name over and over. It was her brother. Thomas! she
thought, her mind befuddled and hazy, but then, no, how could that be? Thomas was not here…
‘Matilda!’
Layers of blissful unconsciousness peeled back, the straggling threads of a wonderful dream fleeing back to the deeper recesses of her mind. She chased after them, trying to snare their flying trails; she had no wish to wake up…
‘Matilda!’ The rude, strident voice bellowed in her ear once more. ‘For God’s sake, will you wake up?’ Hands cupped her shoulders, bounced her gently against the mattress, shaking her mind to a vague sense of clarity.
Her eyes popped open. A blue tunic stretched over broad shoulders loomed before her unfocused vision, muscles bulking out the cloth, pulling it taut. Too close!
‘You! What are you doing here? What are you doing in my bedchamber?’ Her voice cut across the narrow, intimate space between them. Heart thumping erratically, she struggled against the bedclothes to sit up, up and away from him, pushing errant wisps of hair back from her heated face. Gilan thrust himself upright, standing at the side of the bed. His height, the shock of his blond hair, all seemed incongruous, out of place in the diminutive dimensions of her bedchamber, the muted colours. He seemed too dazzling, too fierce, his brawny build dominating the space, overwhelming, as if vanquishing the very air.
‘You shouldn’t be here!’ she hissed at him. ‘Why didn’t you wait for me downstairs?’
Gilan’s laugh was harsh, truncated. ‘Because I would have waited all day.’
Her hair clung to her neck, a curving curtain of shining dark chestnut caressing creamy alabaster skin. A tiny pulse beat frantically in the slender column of her neck. He swallowed, mouth dry, snapping his gaze away from her exposed calves encased in flimsy stockings, away from the luscious bloom of her face, refreshed from sleep. He cleared his throat and held out his hands, as if to apologise for his curt statement. ‘I’m sorry, Matilda, you fell asleep.’ His voice was softer now. ‘I had to wake you. Henry will be expecting me.’
‘Yes, of course,’ she replied, trying to exert some sort of control over her erratic breathing. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t left already.’
He tilted his head, frowning, a small deep line creasing the space between his dark blond eyebrows. ‘It crossed my mind.’ His eye travelled over her rough outfit; the expensive gown of fine silk with its low neckline had been replaced by what were essentially peasants’ garments: a fitted gown of linen, topped by an apronlike gown fashioned from old, worn-out material.
‘You’ve changed your clothes,’ he remarked, bluntly.
Matilda tugged industriously at her hemline, which seemed to have rucked up around her knees, acutely conscious of his shrewd perusal. ‘At least I managed to do something before I fell asleep. I’m going out into the fields, to help,’ she added.
‘You?’ A look of faint amusement crossed his carved features.
‘Everyone needs to pull their weight at harvest time. It could rain at any moment and rain would rot the grain where it stands. We have to take advantage of this good weather. I don’t want my whole crop ruined.’
He couldn’t resist a slow smile at her knowledgeable tone. ‘You make it sound like you own the place, as if the crop belongs to you.’
It does, she thought. At least, it does now, with Thomas away. ‘To my family,’ she said hastily, ‘the crop belongs to my family.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he murmured, ‘your family. Your sister, I have met. And as your mother is in a nunnery, I’m assuming your father…’
‘Is dead,’ she supplied, shortly. ‘He died of the plague two winters ago.’ Hopping off the bed, Matilda dragged her fingers through the length of her hair, plaiting it quickly, efficiently. Gilan watched her deft fingers, in, out, over, under, until she reached the curling end, tying the glossy strands with a leather lace. He pulled his eyes away, feeling a tremendous sense of loss as her beautiful hair was tucked away neatly, and scrutinised the polished floorboards beneath his feet for a moment before turning back to her.
‘So that leaves your brother,’ he said, ‘whom I am anxious to meet before I depart.’
‘Anxious to…why?’ she blurted out, hands stalling in the process of wrapping the linen wimple around her head.
‘Because I want to make certain you are safe before I take my leave,’ he said.
‘He’s in the fields, I told you that!’
‘Forgive me, Matilda, but I don’t believe you.’
She glared at him, eyes sparking blue fire. ‘It’s the truth!’
‘Then, take me to him.’
Tying the ends of her wimple into a loose knot below her chin, Matilda thought rapidly. How long could she keep up the lie that Thomas was actually here on the estate, whereas in truth, he was miles away, campaigning at the king’s side? Maybe she could convince one of the servants to pretend…
She shrugged her shoulders, attempting to appear unconcerned, unmoved by his insistence, plumping back down on the mattress to pull on a pair of calf-length boots, the leather scuffed and pitted from use. They would serve her better in the fields than her flimsy slippers with their thin, soft soles. ‘I don’t know why you’re so concerned about me,’ she grumbled, standing up and flicking the bunching gathers out of her skirts with brisk efficiency. The linen cloth wrapped around her hair in soft folds, the pale fawn colour emphasising the hectic colour in her cheeks, the challenging glint in her eyes. She stuck her pert nose in the air, haughtily, awaiting his answer. ‘You scarce know me, you only met me yesterday. I’m nothing, a nobody to you.’
No, Gilan thought, you’re wrong. You are most definitely a somebody. A sweet, vivacious somebody who, by a tremendous fluke of fortune, has burst into my life and kicked up the ash-cold embers of my hard, embittered heart, stirring them to life.
‘Take me to your brother and then I will be gone,’ he said firmly, his features set in stony lines. She scowled at him briefly, as if judging how much to argue, how much to protest, before whisking away to lift the latch and open the door.
He followed her down the spiral staircase, watching the slipping hemline of her serviceable gown trail after her, the seductive sway of her hips. Despite the ample proportions of her surcoat, the open-cut armholes displayed the fitted underdress, the lacings drawn in tight to her neat waist. What would it be like, he thought, to span that waist with his hands, to splay his palm across the bare flesh of her belly? Desire shivered through him, a ripple of expectation.
Going through into the kitchens, she dragged open a narrow door beside the fireplace that led to the rear of the castle. She stopped suddenly, so rapidly that he almost ran into the back of her, the span of his chest almost colliding with her neat, graceful shoulders. ‘Did you find enough to eat?’ she asked, blue eyes shimmering up at him, huge violet pools of light. Her tone sounded so unconcerned, so indifferent about his well-being that his lips twitched. Her mind was most definitely on other things; it was almost as if he could see her brain working at top speed behind her smooth, pale forehead, trying to think of a way to outwit him. He knew she was lying. He doubted there was anyone living in the castle with her at all, bar one or two elderly servants.
He nodded. ‘I did. Thank you.’ How long would she try to string him along with this ridiculous charade?
Matilda led the way outside, into the glare, the breezy air nipping at her skirts, blowing them sideways. The air was alive with birds, swallows screaming long threads of sound, knifing this way and that through the hot air, black blades against vibrant blue. Higher up, where the white cloud had been reduced to a few lacy wisps by the sun, a buzzard wheeled and soared, chased by thuggish black crows. Crickets chirruped continually in the long grass by the side of the path, the bending seed-heads brushing against their clothes as they passed.
Opening a gate in a high wall, shoving at the wooden planks, Matilda marched into a substantial, well-kept vegetable garden,
with clipped laurel bushes at one end used for drying the washing. At the far end, the garden opened on to a rutted track that ran between the scrubby hedgerows of the fields. Up ahead, where the blue of the sky lightened to a colourless vibration on the horizon, she could see the figures of her own servants working. But how could she reach them, warn them about Gilan and ask someone to pretend to be her brother, without him being by her side to hear it?
Matilda paused, pursing her lips together in grim resignation, acutely conscious of the tall man at her side. This was idiotic. She would continue no longer with this stupid pretence. She stopped, pulling her wimple forwards to shade her eyes from the harsh sunlight, and turned towards him.
‘Gilan…’ She cleared her throat.
He paused midstride, squinting down at her. Sweat prickled his scalp; he stuck one hand through his hair, sifting the blond strands, enabling a breath of air to cool the skin. Even wearing only a shirt and tunic, with trousers of thin wool, the intense heat of the afternoon pressed down on him, thick and sultry. His feet boiled in his calf-length leather boots.
‘Gilan, I need to tell you something.’
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