by Maura Seger
For a terrifying moment, Verony thought she would not be able to comply. Shocked into abrupt awareness of her body, torn from the protection of innocence more complete than even Curran could guess, she quivered uncontrollably. But for the fear that he would come after her again, she could not have obeyed.
Clumsily she picked up the supplies. Her hands shook as she sat down beside him on the bed, watching him warily. Only the fact that his attention seemed once more focused on the ceiling allowed her to continue.
As Curran lay still beneath her hesitant touch, Verony bathed the wound before gently applying a salve. Satisfied that stitches were not needed, she folded a thin gauze bandage that would provide protection while allowing air to get through.
As she carefully tied the padding in place, their glances locked. Verony faltered and looked away hastily. She missed the slight smile that softened Curran's rugged features.
"Th-there . . . that's the best I can do."
"I suppose I'll live," he grunted, his gaze on the small, white hands now in her lap. Never could he remember a woman's touch bringing such pleasure. His huge body resonated to her gentleness, shivers of desire running along his spine. Beneath the rough stubble of his beard he paled. Determined she would not know how greatly she stirred him, he flexed his knees, concealing the hardened urgency of his manhood.
"I'm sorry. . . ." Verony breathed, unaware that her sympathy over his wound might have been better directed.
"You ought to be."
"I've never done anything like that before. ..."
"You mean you don't make it a practice of stabbing men?"
The sardonic challenge forced Verony to lift her head. Glaring, she bit out: "I was only trying to defend myself. Surely anyone has that right?"
Startled, Curran did not respond immediately. Since he never really intended to harm her, he was surprised to discover she had expected nothing else. But now that he thought about it, he had to admit that the circumstances would have led her to fear the worst.
Grudgingly, he advised: "In the future, try not to be so impulsive. Unless someone is actually coming at you with a weapon, take a few seconds to find out if he's a friend or an enemy."
Verony stared at him in blank astonishment. His words seemed to suggest there was some possibility they were not adversaries. Hesitantly she murmured, "Wh-which are you, Curran d'Arcy . . . ?"
The precarious hold he was keeping on his desires had tried his temper. He had neither the will nor the patience to play word games with her. "I am your master, and you would do well to remember it! This land and everything on it are mine."
Curran gripped her delicate chin and pulled her closer. "I could kill you for what happened in the forest. Or give you to my men, after having you myself. You are my property. I own you, body and soul." Abruptly he let her go, sending her sprawling across the bed near his feet.
Enraged, Verony forgot all caution. "You arrogant cur! I am no man's. I belong to myself. If you think for one minute that you can—"
Steel-hard arms lashed out, dragging her against his fully aroused body. Through the thin cover, Verony could not help but feel his need. At first the alien hardness against her belly meant nothing to her. She had never felt it before and knew of nothing similar in herself. When understanding dawned, she blushed fiercely.
"Shall I prove it to you, Verony? Shall I prove you belong to me?"
"N-nooo . . . !"
An instant longer Curran held her, making her acutely conscious of just how he wanted to possess her. Terrified, Verony writhed in his arms. Tears Hooded her indigo eyes, trailing down her alabaster cheeks.
Without warning he thrust her from him. "Sir Lyle!"
The old knight entered instantly, having been waiting just beyond the door. He fought down a grin as he surveyed the two on the bed. "My lord?"
"Take Lady Verony back to her room and make sure she stays there!"
Shooting his master a chiding glance, Sir Lyle lifted the shaken young girl to her feet and led her gently away.
CHAPTER 3
The next few days passed in a confused daze for Verony. Though she was not permitted to leave her quarters without escort, she was otherwise treated as an honored guest. Certainly all her creature comforts were well seen to. In the security of her room, she dined lavishly, slept surprisingly well and even savored such luxuries as long, daily baths. Hilda hovered over her constantly, seeing to it that she did not exert herself in the slightest until the old nurse was convinced she had recovered from her ordeal.
Occasionally, she saw Curran going about his business on the demesne. Watching him from her narrow window, Verony felt again the mysterious stirrings within her that she had first experienced in his chamber. Bewildered by her own feelings, she found herself spending more and more time hoping for a glimpse of him.
A week after being found in the forest, her peaceful interlude abruptly ended. She was working in the castle herb garden when Sir Lyle came to find her. Looking up from her careful pruning of a clump of parsley, she found him staring at her.
The old knight had thought her lovely from the first moment he saw her. But now, after proper rest and care, she was exquisitely beautiful. Even with her red-gold hair slightly mussed from the soft summer breeze and a faint smattering of freckles on her uptilted nose, she could not be faulted.
Dismissing the men-at-arms who were guarding her, he smiled gently. "Good morning, my lady. I trust you are well."
Verony wiped her hands off a bit self-consciously before answering him. The herb garden had always been one of her special places, and she found great enjoyment working there. But she wasn't absolutely certain Lord Curran would approve. Cautiously she ventured: "Thank you, Sir Lyle. I am very well. I was just picking some seasonings for tonight's supper. ..."
The knight nodded blandly. "Of course." Ever mindful of the courtesies, he said: "If you have enough, perhaps one of the servants could take your basket back to the keep." By way of explanation, he added: "Lord Curran would like to speak with you."
Some of the sun-warmed color Verony had recently acquired faded, but she nodded calmly. Only the glitter of her deep sapphire eyes revealed her puzzlement. Given the polite nature of the summons, Curran might be planning to discuss the weather or the likelihood of good crops. Perhaps he wanted advice on decorating his new home. Resisting an almost hysterical desire to laugh, she followed the knight.
They walked some little distance from the keep, across the bailey where blacksmiths, armorers, tanners and other castle workers shared space with the keepers of pigs and chickens, through the guardhouse where watchful men-at-arms saluted respectfully, and down the road toward the river. The day was fair enough for Verony to be quite comfortable. Warm clothes and good food added immeasurably to her well-being. She cast an appreciative look up at the clear blue sky mirroring the color of her eyes, unaware that Sir Lyle watched her with satisfaction. She was everything he had hoped, and more. The old knight's step was light as they rounded the last bend before the mill.
The rush of water and the clash of metal reached Verony simultaneously, followed quickly by the low, angry curses of men frustrated in their purpose. Sir Lyle sighed, meeting her puzzled look with a shrug. "The gearing must have cracked. What little grain we found in the keep was largely unground. Lord Curran ordered it milled at once, but it seems he is to be thwarted."
The irate mutterings continued from inside the low, wooden building beside the river. A channel cut decades before held the water wheel, connected by a horizontal shaft to gears turning the millstones. Each of the three stones was of a different size and could be set to grind oats or barley or rye to preference. Below the stones hung sieves, shaken by the river waters as they flowed back out of the mill. Lower still were the catch pans where the bran fell, leaving the flour behind.
When the mill worked properly, it greatly eased the labor of the peasants who depended on it. But neglect by the former earl, who saw no worth in anything but drinking, fightin
g and wenching, led to inevitable breakdowns. Verony sighed as she looked round at the unmistakable signs of neglect. Spider webs spanned the ceiling rafters. A thick powder of dust lay over the planked floor, making it difficult to breathe. The sieves had rotted through in places, though they seemed reparable enough.
About to say something of this to Sir Lyle, Verony broke off abruptly, all attention focused on the man standing beside the cracked gear. Curran d'Arcy was cursing long and fluently in a voice made none the less ominous by its inherently melodious quality. Out of armor, wearing only an unbleached tunic stained with sweat despite the cool air, he looked every bit as impressive and frightening as he had in their previous encounters.
Taller by at least half a head than any of the other men, his broad shoulders, muscular chest, tapered hips and long, corded legs radiated a barely controlled sense of raw power. He carried himself with the lithe grace of a man accustomed to hard work and fighting. The play of bunched muscle and sinew across his wide back and torso caught Verony's gaze, even as she noted that he had shaved recently.
His chiseled mouth was set in a hard line, and his firm jaw was clenched angrily. An ebony lock of hair fell across his forehead, brushed irritably aside as he caught sight of Verony.
Across the width of the mill, their eyes locked. Dazedly she puzzled over how a gaze as gray-green as a forest pond could blaze so hotly that her very skin felt burned. She shivered, but not with fear. Some other sensation, just as basic but far more pleasant, made her heart beat fiercely. Verony flushed, her eyes dropping with all the instinctive modesty and artless coquetry of a young girl who has never been troubled by anything more than the desire for a man's glance and touch.
For just an instant, Curran caught a glimpse of how she would have been if life had not so burdened her with a witless father and a brutal fate. The breath caught in his chest as he contemplated loveliness greater than any he had ever seen, made all the more poignant by the air of vulnerability so at odds with her inherent strength.
Then the memory of what that strength had led her to do intervened enough for him to manage a frown. "You picked a bad moment to join us, my lady," he snapped. "I have no time to talk with you now."
"I picked?" Verony repeated, surprise making her less than circumspect. "You summoned me, my lord, or have you forgotten I did not come here of my own choice?"
Despite himself, Curran felt a spurt of pleasure at her spirit. He could think of no woman, save his mother or sister-in-law, who could endure what this girl had and still emerge strong and defiant. Unwilling admiration warred with the irresistible male need to take her down a peg or two.
"I have forgotten nothing," he growled. "Nor am I likely to, at least while my shoulder still aches."
Verony bit her Up. How could she have been so stupid as to remind him of that? Hastily she said: "I am glad to see you are all right."
"That pleases you?" Curran demanded skeptically. "Somehow I got the impression you did not have my welfare at heart when you stabbed me."
"I . . . I . . ." Verony began, only to give up before the overwhelming futility of trying to explain herself. Surely he would not care in the least about her fears, or her desire to die without first being dishonored. Should she reveal such feelings to him, he might only take delight in assuring her that her worst dread would become reality all too soon. Already he seemed gratified by her discomfort, her fumbling attempt to answer earning a mirthless grin. Determined to banish his satisfaction, Verony asked firmly: "Why am I here?"
"Anxious to learn your fate?" Curran drawled, even as he knew a moment of shame for taunting her. The girl was clearly still frightened of him, though she hid it well. Comparing her to the pretty but empty-headed young ladies his father, normally the best of men, occasionally threatened him with, he decided she deserved better than his ill humor. More gently Curran said: "I do want to talk with you. We have much to discuss. But I can't spare the time right now, not with this new problem holding up the grinding. Perhaps this evening, if matters are settled here ..."
He was serious, Verony realized with a start. The repair of the mill was—like everything else, it seemed—more important to Lord Curran than the punishment of the woman who had stabbed him. Even as she tried to puzzle out what manner of man would set such priorities, Verony heard herself murmur: "The grinding need not be greatly delayed. There is another gear."
In the act of turning back to the broken wheel, Curran froze. "What?"
"There is another gear," Verony explained patiently. "It was made last summer, when this one showed signs of cracking soon."
"And where is this new gear?"
"Under the mill," Verony admitted hesitantly. "Wrapped in straw. You will find it near the back entrance."
"You hid it?" Curran demanded. "Why?"
It was clear from his tone that he presumed she had secreted the new gear after learning of her father's death, although what she could have hoped to achieve by such a petty act of theft from the new lord he could not imagine. Nor did she impress him as the sort to engage in such subterfuge without ample reason. Seeing the fear that had leaped instantly to life within her eyes at the first sound of his suspicion, Curran softened. Taking a step toward her, he rephrased his question more gently. "Why did you hide the gear, Verony?"
"Because my father had not given permission for it to be made," she explained all in a rush. Her eyes meeting his in an unconscious plea, Verony went on: "When the miller told me about the gear, I asked for approval to replace it. But my father cared nothing for such things, and would not spend the coin for it."
"Yet the gear was made nonetheless," Curran prompted, growing more interested by the moment. There were depths to this girl he had not yet begun to explore.
"There was no choice. Without it the mill would not work, the grain could not be ground, and the people would go hungry. Just as is happening now. I thought to prevent that by having the gear fashioned and hiding it until such time as it was needed."
Hands on his hips, towering over her, Curran scowled with what he hoped was appropriate disapproval for her rashness. He could not quite carry it off. The old baron's utter disregard for the management of his estate, coupled with wanton brutality far beyond even the accepted limits of a savage age, were too well known not to applaud the courageous efforts of his daughter. He could only wonder in amazement how de Langford had managed to produce such a remarkable offspring. "Is there anything else hidden away, my lady? Barrels of beef, perhaps? Reams of cloth? Livestock?"
Eyes lowered before the force of his disapproval, Verony shook her head. "No, nothing like that. Only . . ."
"Only what?" Curran demanded incredulously. He could not believe his teasing sally was about to be returned by yet more revelations.
"Only new blades for the plows. They are in the stable rafters." Not daring to look at him, Verony took a deep breath. She decided it was wiser to make a clean breast of it all at once. "And replacement parts for the looms, behind the wine vats in the cellar. Most of a tanning press is down there, too. It was never finished, but could be quickly if you decided you wanted it." Her voice trailed off, smothered by the astonished exclamations of Curran, Sir Lyle and the other men who had been listening avidly to the whole exchange.
"Thank the Lord for those blades," the old knight muttered. "I thought for sure we would have to send to the Earl for aid before the plowing could begin."
"The blacksmith will be glad to know of that press," another said. "He was complaining just yesterday that there wasn't enough toughened leather."
Taking hold of her shoulder with one large hand, and her chin with the other, Curran forced her to meet his gaze. "You did all this without your father's approval?"
Verony nodded miserably. She had no doubt what he or any other man would think of her presumption. Women were expected to be docile, obedient and utterly submissive. They were passed from the control of a father to that of a husband without ever being permitted to make even the slightest decision
ordering their own lives. All their time, thought and effort was supposedly devoted to family and church. Regarded as somewhat more valuable than dogs or horses, but certainly far less so than male children, they were looked upon with either indulgence or callousness, depending on the whim of their master. Never, under any circumstances, were they expected to tap matters into their own hands to improve their lives and that of the miserable peasants surrounding them.
"He had no idea what you were doing?" Curran persisted, astonishment giving his voice a hard edge.
Verony's self-control, so sorely tried over the last few hours, snapped. '"No," she exclaimed angrily, "he did not! He and his men were far too busy fighting, drinking and making life miserable for any woman unlucky enough to come within their grasp. They could hardly be bothered to hunt meat for our table, so busy were they planning grand campaigns, let alone give a thought to the well-being of the serfs. Yet just once let a meal be served late or poorly, let fine clothes not be ready to wear to court, let iron be used for farm implements rather than yet more weapons, and their heavy hands fell on everyone." Lowering her head to hide the sheen of tears in her wide, deep eyes, Verony murmured: "So I traded off goods I thought he would not notice missing, lied about the production of metal from our mines, falsified even the crop tallies to keep him from starving our people." She shrugged hopelessly, no longer even feeling Curran's grip on her. "Add that to my list of crimes if you must, my lord. But surely it is already long enough to justify what you intend."
"What I intend?" Curran questioned, so softly that Verony glanced up in surprise. Her dark-indigo gaze was caught and irresistibly held by his own. Fascinated, she watched the play of emotions across his rugged face. Whatever else he might be, Curran d'Arcy was no stranger to tenderness. A smile curving his hard mouth, he brushed a gentle hand across her cheek. It came away wet. Contritely Curran tipped her head back farther, eyes riveted on the tears trailing silently down her alabaster skin. He cursed softly under his breath, a far different sound from what he had hurled at the recalcitrant mill gear.
