Once Upon a Pillow

by Christina Dodd

  With a scowl, Sir Lathrop walked to the stool and sat down.

  Lady Helwin snapped her fingers. Terris produced a comb and scissors. Lady Helwin draped Sir Lathrop’s shoulders with an old piece of cloth.

  Rion found himself fascinated by the sight of his most cantankerous warrior squirming like a lad as Lady Helwin combed out the tangles. She kept up a low-toned chatter as she worked.

  Once Sir Lathrop almost smiled. Almost, but that was more than Rion had seen since they’d arrived back in England in the spring and found his father dead, the estate impoverished and their prospects devastated.

  It was a difficult thing for a man to work hard all his life and find no reward for his good faith. Rion suspected bitterness soured Sir Lathrop, for it had begun to sour Rion, also.

  Now this woman came along, the wrong woman, and in a matter of hours she had turned his castle into a place of warmth, laughter and song, with willing men who worked for the glimpse of hope Lady Helwin provided. Rion didn’t understand. They knew what he knew—that unless a miracle happened, they would all be roaming the countryside looking for positions as knights-in-arms or even returning to the Continent to fight and die on foreign soil. He could do nothing, and he was their leader.

  Ah, aye. Bitterness. The taste stayed on his tongue.

  “There you are, Sir Lathrop!” Lady Helwin removed the cloth and shook out the loose brown hair. “What a comely head you’ve been hiding. I know women who would fight for hair as beautiful as yours.”

  Sir Lathrop snorted. “Women are nothing but vain and selfish creatures.”

  Lady Helwin dusted at his shoulders. “One looks on all God’s creations and wonders what He was thinking.”

  Sir Lathrop sharply scrutinized her. “Humph.” He stalked toward the door.

  “I expect to see you running when you get back,” Lady Helwin called, “a bevy of village women after you!”

  “Humph.” He stomped out.

  Rion saw the grins that swept the great hall, and shouted, “Get back to work, men, else the women will take one look and flee.” He turned back to his bucket and broom, and found Barth and Terris blocking his way.

  “M’lord, I’ve fought wi’ ye fer ten years, through freezing weather an’ mud to our knees an’ heat so intense our stalks hung to our knees.” Barth paused and stared at Rion expectantly.

  Rion didn’t know what Barth expected, but he assured the big man, “You’ve been a worthy servant and a great warrior.”

  “I want to settle now.” Barth gestured about. “We all want to settle now.”

  Rion’s chest tightened. He knew the men were tired of wandering, tired of fighting for one pissant Teutonic lord or another. When he’d failed to win Bertilda, he’d failed to secure their future. “I know.”

  “Me point is, given a chance wi’ a woman, there wasn’t one ye couldn’t debauch to her pleasure an’ yers. So tell me th’ truth”—Barth nudged Rion so hard he stumbled sideways—”ye did toss up Lady Helwin’s skirts, didn’t ye?”

  Terris crowded close, and his face shone with trust. “We get to…we have to keep her, don’t we?”

  Rion didn’t know what to say. Did they think, if he had debauched Lady Helwin, that he could keep her as his leman?

  He glanced at Lady Helwin. Ah, that was a tempting thought. Yet his lust must be the result of a long abstinence from feminine companionship. For no other reason would he want a woman whose only attributes were a fine bust, a narrow waist, a mouth made for laughing—and for kissing.

  But he couldn’t keep her.

  She was a lady, and a lady who’d been badly used by fate. She deserved better. “We don’t get to keep her,” he said.

  Barth stomped his foot and the crockery rattled. “If ye debauched her, ye can keep her!”

  “Lady Helwin knocked me out with my own cudgel before I could do more than kiss her.”

  Both Terris and Barth grinned.

  “Nay.” Clearly, Terris didn’t believe it.

  “Aye.” Rion showed the bump that rose on the back of his head.

  Terris’s grin faded.

  Barth’s did not. “Just as I said. She’s th’ perfect woman fer ye.”

  Rion flushed. “Nay, she’s not. She’s Lady Hellion, and a shrew and a meddler.”

  Barth paced toward Rion, pushing him into a corner. “Aye, an’ a handsome miss who would warm yer bed!”

  “An’ she can cook.” Terris followed.

  Trapped by two insistent men and his own thoughts, Rion glanced in desperation toward the door. Where was Lady Helwin’s uncle, anyway? Why hadn’t he sent a cart to take her away?

  Chapter Seven

  As the afternoon progressed, Rion asked for what was surely the millionth time, “Where is your uncle? Why hasn’t he come for you?”

  “I suppose he doesn’t care if he gets me back.” Lady Helwin rolled up her sleeves, and scrubbed the table with sand and a brush. “He has forbidden me to look at him. I make him uncomfortable.”

  Rion could imagine. Those clear blue eyes easily conveyed her scorn. “Then why doesn’t he marry you off?”

  In fact, those blue eyes conveyed scorn right now. “Because nobody wants an impoverished twenty-two year old spinster, my lord. You don’t.”

  She was wrong about that. He did want her, wanted her badly. The taste of her lingered on his lips.

  Damn, he shouldn’t have thought about last night’s kiss. He should put it directly from his mind. Her fresh breath. Her startled response. The way her breast fit in his hand for the one moment before she knocked him out cold…what a woman.

  Rion was desperate to get rid of her. “Lord Symthwick should marry you off to some lustful, deaf old fool who would never hear you nagging. If I ever again speak to him, I’ll suggest that very solution.” And Rion would laugh, laugh! at Lady Helwin’s vexation.

  Her eyes flashed. “You do that, my lord. I’m sure he’ll give your advice the consideration it merits.” She lifted her head. “Listen!”

  From outside, Rion heard the chatter of women’s voices intermixed with the occasional low-pitched comment from Sir Lathrop.

  “The maids are here!” All around the great hall, rags, brooms and mops dropped as the men ran to the narrow windows. Pushing open the shutters, they leaned out and stared down at the courtyard…and marveled.

  “She’s a pretty one.”

  “Look at the one with the red hair!”

  And, “Look at Sir Lathrop with that beautiful woman! He’s following her like he’s bewitched.”

  Rion glanced at Lady Helwin. She was cleaning the sand from the table now, but that enigmatic smile played about her mouth again. “Winetta?” he asked.

  “Aye.”

  “I thought you said your wet-nurse was a dear old woman.”

  “Winetta is a dear woman, and old means different things to different people.” She grinned at him, inviting him in on the jest. “I didn’t want to make Sir Lathrop nervous. After all, she’s a recent widow.”

  Merriment rose in his belly. “You crafty little vixen. You set him up!”

  “I think you’ll find his disposition much improved.”

  Rion laughed. He couldn’t help it. But at the same time, he was aware of a wary dismay. Was Lady Helwin going to mend all that was wrong with his household in one short afternoon?

  After a last twinkle in his direction, she called to his knights, “Gentlemen, the maids will be here soon.”

  To Rion’s amazement, they hurried over to line up in front of her as if she were a general.

  “We’ll eat as soon as they arrive. You should wash your hands.”

  “But we just bathed,” Terris objected.

  The men, some still damp and all newly shorn, nodded in agreement.

  “You’ve been cleaning, and your hands are dirty.”

  “You might as well do as she says,” Rion said. “We’ve been gone from England for so long, most of you don’t remember, but take my word for it—women are finick
y about things like this.”

  As the men fought to line up at the washbasin, Rion found himself exchanging a smile with Lady Helwin. Together, they could handle any challenges that arose in this household…if they married. But they couldn’t. It was impossible. Turning, he plunged toward the outer door.

  “Where are you going, my lord?” she cried.

  “I haven’t bathed.” And he wanted to watch for her uncle.

  “But there’s no one to heat water for you!”

  “For my purposes, cold water will do very well.”

  * * *

  By the time Rion stepped back into the great hall, toweling his hair, the village women had spread throughout the great hall. Their lighter voices blended with the rumbling voices of the men, and Rion marveled at the difference in his knights’ behavior.

  No one spit on the floor.

  No one scratched at his codpiece.

  No one fought or shouted.

  For the first time since they’d returned to England, they were smiling. His mercenaries had been transformed into gentlemen. Of course, their clothes were still dirty and most of them could use a shave, but Rion had no doubt that, too, would come.

  There weren’t enough women—perhaps one for every two men—but the competition urged his men on to heights of courtesy and good behavior.

  The female who stood next to Sir Lathrop spotted Rion first. The top of her head scarcely reached Sir Lathrop’s shoulder and her hair showed a dusting of gray, but as the men had said, Winetta was a handsome widow indeed. “Here is our dear lord,” she called.

  The chatter stopped and at once, the women turned to him and in unison, they curtsied.

  Ah, how Rion had missed the presence of women in his castle! The rustle of their skirts, the sound of their laughter. And he recollected this woman, Winetta, in a vague sort of way, as a memory from his past. His gaze traveled the great hall. He remembered quite of few of the maids. They’d changed, but so had he. New memories intruded, experiences had changed them, but the common link of land and heritage united them. They remembered. So must he.

  His gaze shifted to Lady Helwin, standing beside the bubbling pot. He remembered her, too, every detail: the way she looked, her smiling eyes and her generous mouth, the scent of her body, rich and warm.

  Bowing to the women, he said, “Welcome to Castle Masterson.”

  Winetta stepped forward. “My lord, we pray you look favorably upon our efforts in your service.”

  Now he felt awkward, unsure of how to answer. If only his father had been less of a turd and more of a teacher, Rion would know how to greet the village women who had come on faith to work for him. “I vow I will.”

  Lady Helwin clapped her hands and brought everyone to attention. With a gesture toward the head of the table, she said, “My lord, if you would take your place, we can eat.”

  He smiled at her. Who wouldn’t? She had labored long this day, yet her blue eyes sparkled as if she were enjoying herself.

  He made his way to the head of the table and seated himself.

  Winetta organized the women into a battalion of servers, shooed Lady Helwin toward him, and within moments a steaming bowl of stew was placed before each man. There weren’t enough bowls; they would have to share with the women. Rion saw how the men’s fingers twitched as they held their spoons; they’d not eaten decent food for far too long. But they waited until the women had seated themselves before securing a seat, fighting to sit next to a wench.

  Rion’s stomach growled as he inhaled the wonderful aroma. He picked up his own spoon.

  Lady Helwin laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Shouldn’t we say grace?”

  The chatter stopped. The men looked astonished, then apprehensive.

  Rion and the Lord had been at odds for too many years for him to think of thanking God, but he didn’t dare say so. Somehow he thought Lady Helwin would turn that sharp, reprimanding tongue on him. She’d frown all the way through dinner, and ruin a fabulous feast. And, after all, hadn’t the Lord blessed him with a few hours of Lady Helwin? That was surely something to be thankful for.

  Bowing his head, he said, “You do it.”

  Her grace was mercifully brief and appreciative of the food and the company, and the women—and most of the men—echoed her “amen” with fervent endorsement.

  Aye, the men were thanking God for more than the food. They were grateful for the plump, feminine bodies seated next to them, and for the possibility to tumble those plump, feminine bodies at some not too distant date. They had had their fill of wandering about Europe, and they wanted to settle, to breed, to be citizens and not fearsome invaders. They wanted wives. They wanted love.

  Rion wanted…he scowled. He had to wed an heiress, regardless of how hunch-backed or evil-eyed she might be. His men had followed him through battle and famine. Now he was responsible for making their dreams come true. He had no right to dream as they did—and he would not, for Lady Helwin sat beside him, and Lady Helwin could never be his.

  “Is the stew not to your liking, my lord?” Lady Helwin asked.

  “What?”

  “You’re not eating.”

  “Oh.” He dipped in his spoon. The stew was hot and rich, made with venison he’d shot but yesterday, and the shriveled vegetables from his cellar. “You can cook.”

  A dimple quivered in Lady Helwin’s cheek. “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

  Gruffly, he said, “Most ladies can’t.”

  “They can if they have no one to cook for them.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “When Uncle Carroll goes to London, he takes the French chef.”

  Winetta reached under the table and brought forth a cloth bag. “My lord, I bring gifts from the village baker.” She pulled out a dozen round loaves of bread. “He begs you to forgive yesterday’s loaves, but he had no other baked.”

  Rion heard his men’s intake of breath. They’d baked flat loaves on hot stones before the fire, and hadn’t had real yeast bread in far too long. “I am most grateful to the baker.”

  “I’ll tell him.” Winetta smiled. “He’s my father.”

  For most of his life, Rion had been responsible for himself and his men, and no one had given him anything except a blow with a sword. Now these women, who hadn’t seen him in years, acted as if they were honored to serve him. As Winetta sliced the bread and the conversations around the table resumed, Rion leaned his head close to Lady Helwin’s. “Why are they so kind?”

  “They know my uncle covets your land and your prestige, and if he should win your land, things will go ill for the villagers. Uncle Carroll has a well-earned reputation for ruthlessness and parsimony.”

  “How do they know I won’t be worse?”

  “You’re their ancestral liege.”

  “So was my father, and he was a drunken, gambling lout.”

  “You and your men have been watched, my lord, and gossiped about in the village.” She took a bite of stew and chewed with thoughtful deliberation. “Anyway, better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.”

  Stung, he replied, “For that exact reason, I wonder if I should wed you.” Pish! He shouldn’t have said that. That was ungrateful, after all of her labor, and surly, for she hadn’t sought the dilemma in which she found herself.

  Her eyes flashed, and she drew away from him. “I will not be wed because I’m the lesser of two evils, and live with a man so addle-witted he believes me the inferior of my cousin Bertilda.” She looked him over as if he were an ox on the auction block. “Although if by chance our plan goes somehow awry and I do get stuck with you, I could comfort myself that you’re not repulsive. You have good teeth and you’re not pock-marked.”

  “I thank you, my lady shrew. With praise like that, I will indeed suffer a mighty conceit.”

  She tossed her head, and when straggling tendrils of blonde hair fell around her face, she poked them back under her coif. “Now from that you do suffer considerably already.”

  He couldn’
t stand it. He couldn’t sit next to her, eat the food she prepared, listen to her verbally thrash him, and still want to drag her upstairs to bed and see which of them would win the next wrestling match. He had to get rid of her. Standing, he grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “That’s it! If your uncle will not send for you, Lady Hellion, I’ll take you back. Now. At once!”

  Chapter Eight

  Lady Helwin tried to cling to her dignity, but dignity was in short supply as Rion dragged her out of the great hall. He’d lost his patience, and she didn’t know why.

  All right, she did. She’d spoken without a care for his tender male pride, but of all the men she’d ever met, she had thought Rion the least conceited.

  Or at least…he was only conceited about his looks, his fighting skills, and his ability to seduce women. In every other way, he was a most modest man. Mostly.

  So she would apologize. “My lord, I’m sorry I said you weren’t repulsive.”

  He cast a blistering glance over his shoulder and started down the stairs.

  She bit her lip. That hadn’t come out right, but in the last few years, she’d lost the art of compromise. Nay, more than that. She had learned to deal with her lot by the liberal use of sarcasm, and now she tried desperately to remember the simple skill of civility. “My lord, any woman would be pleased to rest her gaze on your noble countenance.”

  “Except you?” He slammed through the door and strode across the courtyard toward the stables.

  She skipped along at his side. “No, I tolerate your face exceedingly well.”

  He stopped. “Tolerate?”

  “Enjoy.” He looked down at her, unmoving, and thus encouraged she continued, “Relish, even. You look not like a silly popinjay, but like a man, seasoned in warfare and ready to defend what is his.” And she hoped he didn’t realize how attractive that was to a woman, especially a woman who had been without affection or security for far too many years. “You are tall, you are well-formed, you have all your teeth and they’re straight and white.”