By Royal Command

by Laura Navarre

  Claiming fatigue, she’d retired early. But Borovic prevailed upon his brother to remain. Hours had dragged past, and still Rafael hadn’t returned.

  So Katrin dozed in her niche, skimming the surface of sleep but never sinking deep. The scrape of the door jolted her awake.

  Against the glow of banked embers, Belmaine’s blade-slim form stood in silhouette. The moon had shifted, so he couldn’t discern her curled in the shadows. Cautious, he stepped inside, silent as a hunter stalking his prey.

  As he peeled out of his garments, she gathered breath to speak, but a finger of instinct pressed her lips. He’d been left to his brother’s devices for hours. Inconceivable that Borovic hadn’t seized his moment to undo her.

  Now Rafael stood naked, pale in the darkness. His nearness turned her loins molten. Perhaps he’d say nothing; in her arms, she could convince him of anything. Wary, he hesitated before the bed’s shrouded bulk, eyeing it as if he expected an ambush to erupt from its depths.

  Taking her courage in both hands, she said, “You’re late coming to bed.”

  He pivoted toward her and stilled, eyes glittering as they found the white sweep of her shift. “I could say the same of you, madame.”

  She heard nothing untoward in his tone—cool and inscrutable as always.

  “I was waiting for you.”

  “No doubt. All these many months,” he said lightly, making no attempt to draw closer. A tendril of warning slid down her spine. “Is there something you wish to tell me, wife?”

  “Nay.” She hardly knew how to address the matter, until he gave her some indication of what Borovic had said. “Save to welcome you back to your bed.”

  “Indeed? Have you been lonely in it?”

  Katrin swung her feet to the floor. “Must you ask such a question?”

  “Oh, I think I must.” His accent thickened. “Arguably, a man may voice no protest to housing a guest beneath his roof. But I won’t see him housed in my wife’s bed.”

  Cold sweat broke out against her skin. She’d never seen Rafael when he was angry, this dangerous stranger who crouched before her. She’d known men who bellowed and raged and threw things in a foaming fury. But she’d never encountered anger that coiled like a serpent, cold and remorseless as revenge.

  She pressed her back against the casement. “Did Borovic dare—?”

  “Aye, madame, he dared! Did you meet your lover beneath this very roof?”

  “I…” Her voice failed her. “Nay, it wasn’t like that. They were on their way to the fighting, and—”

  “Just passing through the shire by coincidence?” he lashed out. “Do you take me for an utter fool? I think rather he passed this way to trade his battle-fears for sweet oblivion in your arms.”

  “God’s mercy, I would never—”

  “I won’t have it!” His hand slashed through the darkness. “I’ll hear no sweet protestations of wifely virtue. You were seen when you trysted, Katrin—seen locked in the man’s arms! Do you deny it?”

  She scrambled for purchase along the slippery slope of truth. Surely she wasn’t entirely innocent—she’d lingered in the sickroom, which allowed Eomond to kiss her—but she dared confess nothing now.

  She clutched the sill until her fingers ached. “I do deny it. You’ve been misled, and all for spite and malice.”

  “Tell me where you bedded the man. Was it here? Did you betray me in my own bed?”

  “For the love of Heaven, Rafael!” Her voice broke. “Is there nothing I can say that you’ll hear?”

  “There’s nothing you can say that I’ll believe,” he said bitterly, pacing to another window. He stood under the arch with his back to her, etched against the night.

  Her heart splintered.

  “I haven’t betrayed you,” she said softly. “You said once that would be enough for you, remember?”

  With a cynical laugh, he gripped the lintel, hanging as if crucified. “Ah, but I too can lie.”

  She stood transfixed, the hand of sorrow squeezing her throat. “I said I was falling in love with you, but you told me I shouldn’t.”

  “Then you told me you’d lied.” He voiced a mirthless chuckle. “So we find ourselves mired in a hopeless conundrum. I can’t trust you. You can’t trust me. And there’s nothing either of us can say to change it.”

  An unseen hand drew her across the floor. “’Twould mean a leap of faith, would it not? The same blind trust we extend to God.”

  “Impossible,” he said bleakly. “Trust must be earned. It can’t be dispensed like alms to the needy.”

  Gingerly, fearful of rebuff, Katrin slid her arms around his taut frame. When he didn’t recoil, she laid her cheek against the hot tight skin of his back.

  Lightning-quick, he pivoted, trapping her in his perilous embrace. Dark and deadly as a demon, he stood with the moon behind him.

  “Should I believe you then, madame, on faith alone? Should I believe you refrained from bedding the man?”

  “I swear to you on my soul,” she whispered. “I swore faith to you before Christ. No matter what you think of my virtue, I would never betray you.”

  Once, he’d said she couldn’t lie when they were touching. That channel of shared awareness pulsed between them in the moonlight. With all her soul, she willed him to believe.

  As he held her prisoned, only her shift between them, she grew conscious of his heat lapping against her skin. The feel of his hands altered, fingers spreading, sliding down to cover the swell of her hips. An image seared across her brain: his hands pulling her urgently against him as their bodies found the driving rhythm of passion.

  Through her shift, he hardened against her thighs. The hot tide of desire swelled between them, dammed by his resistance.

  “Rafael—”

  Groaning, he pulled her against him and gripped her hair, pulled her head back to expose her throat.

  “You could beguile a pope from his purpose,” he muttered. When his wet tongue swept her throat, the world slid sideways. Her thoughts dissolved as she pressed on tiptoe against him.

  The moon had crossed the heavens before they spoke again, beyond the fevered pleas of passion, his growled questions and her breathless replies. Now they lay entwined in a tangle of bedclothes, her long hair wrapped around them. Beyond their bower, the castle drifted in enchanted slumber, remote as the legend of Camelot.

  Rafael stirred against her. “Before we sleep, Katrin, I think we must undertake the difficult topic of my brother.”

  Tension rippling through her, she edged away. “I fail to comprehend why we should. I don’t find him at all interesting.”

  Grimly he chuckled. “Perhaps that’s the nature of the problem. I confess I barely know him, but I’ve never seen him react to any woman in quite this fashion. He’s furious with you—any fool could see it. One may surmise he attempted to tender you certain attentions, and had his face slapped for his pains.”

  Katrin stared into the darkness, wondering how much the Anjou knights had told him. “Are you angry with me for that?”

  “I can’t claim I was distressed to hear it,” he said dryly, “though it may be unchristian to admit. My charming and much-blessed brother—Borovic the bold, the lion-hearted, the sun that blazes in the heavens—is not accustomed to being thwarted.”

  “I swear I tried to keep the peace.”

  “So you tell me,” he mused, gathering her against him—so he could sense if she lied? “I fear matters have progressed beyond that now. Borovic is a cautious man, but he doesn’t think clearly when angered.”

  “What can we do?” Surely he condemned her no more than she condemned herself. “Won’t you be called back to the fighting if the Vikings return? I’d dislike being left alone here again.”

  “Aye,” he sighed, one hand tracing her back. �
��There’s an ugly mood brewing in these walls. He writes the scene and his lackeys play it out. I wouldn’t rest easy leaving you behind, with my brother a daily menace to your virtue, and spurned suitors paying court as it pleases them.”

  “Rafael—”

  “Nay. For you to remain longer beneath Borovic’s dubious protection would be…ill-advised.”

  “Then you’ll take me with you when you go?” Scarcely daring to believe this stroke of fortune, she searched his profile in the darkness.

  “That too would be ill-advised. Still, I must believe that—given time and distance—Borovic will transfer his affections to some willing wench, and make haste to forget the one who wouldn’t have him.”

  “God grant it,” Katrin said. But somehow she couldn’t bring herself to believe it.

  “No doubt it would speed the process if you’re no longer dangling like a ripe fruit before his eyes.”

  What was there to say? That she’d never meant to let the matter progress so far? That Borovic had kissed her, that she’d been appalled and stopped it?

  Rafael lapsed into silence. Gradually sleep crept closer. After weeks of unbearable tension, the prospect of drifting peacefully to sleep in his arms was seductive. She sighed and snuggled close, turning her face into his neck.

  She was nearly asleep when Rafael laughed softly, edged with malice. “Of course, there’s the dower house.”

  “Hmm?”

  “My mother holds the deed to a walled house in the village, but she disdains to retire there. With my Anjou knights to keep it, that house can be held forever. Yet it’s close enough to the castle that we can shelter here if the Vikings come.”

  Hesitant, she weighed the danger. No stronghold in all this uncertain land was more secure, but Caerwyne was no longer a place of safety for her.

  “I’ll not deny I’d be pleased to be mistress of my own hall again.”

  “The benefice would remain in my mother’s hands, but that counts for little. We’re not exactly wanting for income, are we?”

  “Is there no keep deeded to Belmaine?” Curious, she rose on one elbow.

  “Once there was a minor stronghold in the old style.” He shrugged. “With cattle stabled in the hall, and the lord’s rude chamber above. I doubt it would have suited us, wife.”

  “Mmm.” She bowed her neck into his warm touch. “What happened to it?”

  “It was razed to the ground when Olaf Tryggevessen raided, and my sainted brother Bannan never troubled to restore it. Still, there’s naught to prevent us from occupying the dower house. Indeed, it will suit me well to do it.”

  He sounded spiteful, but she couldn’t understand him—opaque as ever. “Won’t your mother object?”

  “Oh, if we ask her, I doubt she’ll offer much resistance. She’s well aware that Borovic is fractious, and why.”

  Mortified by what the dowager must think, Katrin cleared her throat. “There’s another matter that has waited too long—the keep on my Courtenay lands.”

  Aye, that gaping hole in their defense bowed her down like a millstone. Sometimes she thought she’d never persuade any of them to close it, though it was written into her marriage contract.

  Surprised, Rafael glanced toward her. “By the seventh angel, has Borovic not remedied that?”

  “He offered to appoint me a castellan,” she said bitterly. “A fresh-faced lad of some fourteen summers, a vassal’s son eager for renown. I told him it wouldn’t suffice. He withdrew the offer in a huff and hasn’t made another. Indeed, he seems to think it no more than a quaint whim on my part.”

  Rafael groaned and stretched. “Aye, then, we must attend to that also. I have now some…appreciation for the Viking threat. I’ll dispatch some of the Anjou knights.” Yawning, he curled onto his side.

  Relief flooding through her, she nestled against him. “Our modest household can be transferred to the dower house in a few days’ time. As we’re in agreement, I pray you’ll arrange it without delay.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Katrin was astonished and beguiled by the dower house. Behind the frowning walls, a paradise opened before her.

  The house faced inward around a rectangular garden, bursting with roses in a glorious tangle of crimson, apple and cherry trees heavy with fruit. Paths wandered the grounds, dappled with sun and shade. Jewel-colored songbirds sang sweetly among the boughs. A turquoise pond unrolled down the center, carpeted with lilies, flashing with schools of golden fish.

  The house that guarded this extravagance was exotic, foreign, its tall windows framed in green and aqua tiles, with rounded arches that curved to a point. Dazzling mosaics on the porticos blazed with mythical beasts and heroes.

  Inside, doors opened to chambers furnished in Byzantine splendor, though the intimate quarters meant the haughty Anjou knights—those few who hadn’t gone to Courtenay—must sleep in the stable loft, while Katrin’s ladies would sleep piled like puppies in a bed the size of a sailing sloop.

  She stood in the bedchamber before a blue-tiled fountain, water purling from a stone nymph’s lifted vase. Behind lay the round bed, piled with pillows, crowned by a tentlike swirl of silver-threaded silk. Standing in this luxurious bower as servants clumped around them, she looked at Rafael with dazzled eyes.

  “St. Cuthbert’s chalice! What is this place?”

  He arched a wry brow. “You behold a historic site—the first le Senay fortress built on English soil. This house was commissioned by my sainted father, who was a well-traveled man, after a model he saw in Byzantium.”

  “Indeed? I can’t comprehend how it’s stood untenanted these many years.”

  Subtly his face darkened. “My father built this house for his first lady—Borovic’s mother. When she died bearing Bannan and my father remarried, my own mother conceived a dislike for the place. Caerwyne was finished by that time, and the dower house has stood vacant ever since.”

  “It’s remarkably well kept.”

  “Oh, my brother saw to that.” Indifferent, Rafael padded to the open doors. “I believe he kept it as a shrine to his dead mother, who loved it.”

  Dismayed, she stared after him. Although the dowager had readily offered it, Katrin now realized they could hardly have chosen a refuge more likely to mortally offend the earl. Borovic was afield on an extended hunting trip, but she shivered to imagine the fury that would blacken his face when he returned to discover where they now resided. She fervently hoped they’d see little of him henceforth.

  Shaking free of dark misgivings, she addressed Rafael’s knife-slim back. “This place will suit us nicely. Nothing has been left behind, except my illuminated manuscripts. Gwyneth and I shall go to crate them, as I’ll entrust them to no other.”

  He stood framed in the open doors, sunlight streaming around him, a brooding quality to his silence.

  “Very well then,” she said briskly. No doubt his odd mood would pass if he wasn’t pressed. “I shall return before Vespers.”

  * * *

  The whitewashed chamber in the cavalier tower was sadly bereft, emptied of all their treasures. Only the skeletal bedframe remained, naked of draperies, the straw-stuffed mattress stripped of the coverlet with its crossed silver spears.

  Honeyed sunlight poured across the floor as Gwyneth thumped the chest closed.

  “There now, it’s done,” she puffed. “Why, what’s amiss? Ye look like ye’ve lost yer only friend.”

  “This was my bridal chamber,” Katrin murmured, unable to dismiss the melancholy that lingered over this abandoned place. “Do you remember how frightened I was that night? We began anew in this chamber, my lord and I.”

  “Good riddance, if ye ask me,” Gwyneth said stoutly. “I’ll be thankful to draw a free breath. This keep is no good for us now, milady.”

  Despite her regrets,
Katrin couldn’t help agreeing. After Gwyneth had gone she delayed, searching the chamber for forgotten items, nerves edgy with a disquiet she couldn’t explain. Drowsy stillness shrouded the chamber, muffling all sound save the distant yapping of hounds in their kennel. At last, drawing a forearm across her damp brow, she descended toward the bailey.

  No cause for alarm. We’re safe now. Free of Borovic at last—

  Eyes lowered to the stair, she hurried around the bend and bumped hard against a broad chest encased in a dusty hunting jerkin. The odor of hunting hounds filled her head, making her senses scream in warning, even as big hands closed around her shoulders. With a cry of alarm, she twisted away—too late.

  “M-my lord Borovic,” she stammered, her throat dry. He was supposed to be away on a hunting trip, damn it, expected to be gone for days. Yet here he loomed before her, his burly frame squarely blocking her escape.

  The earl bared his teeth in a smile that iced her blood. “What’s this, good-sister? If I had a suspicious nature, I’d think you were trying to leave me.”

  She swallowed down her unease and sank low in her curtsey. Whatever their unfortunate history, the earl was her good-brother, and she was an aetheling. Even if he despised her, surely he would do nothing to harm her.

  He grasped her arms to lift her. After months of avoiding even the most casual contact, the touch made her nerves tighten.

  Dimly, the muted sounds of a scuffle drifted up the stairs. Sudden fear poured through her.

  “Gwyneth?” she called sharply, and heard no reply.

  Panic threatened to swamp her, but she struggled to keep it from her face. “Marry, good-brother, will you let me pass? I wish to rejoin my waiting-woman.”

  “My retainers will ensure her comfort.” He eyed her narrowly. “Are you afraid to be alone with me? Do you trust me so little?”

  She swallowed a scathing retort. Aye, she trusted him not at all—but she dared not show it, and further rouse his enmity. Through her mind flashed a hundred memories of those difficult months when he’d wooed her with such determined ardor. Once he would have given her anything she asked, even a king’s ransom.