by Speer, Flora
“You must have guessed,” Garit insisted. “When Jenia and Chantal disappeared, you must have suspected Walderon of knowing something about it.”
“I did suspect him,” Sanal said. “I asked questions; in Walderon’s opinion, too many questions. He struck me several times for my impertinence. Then he tossed me into bed. Violence excites him, you see. A necessary marital duty put an end to my questions.” Sanal stopped, her mouth twisting at what was undoubtedly a most unpleasant memory. Garit drew back a little and Sanal took a long, unsteady breath before she continued.
“Walderon always has someone locked in the dungeon. Seldom do I know who his prisoners are.” She spoke more calmly now. “I avoid the lowest levels of the castle. It’s a dreadful place down there.”
“Yes,” Jenia said, “I know it is. Chantal and I survived there for six months. Tell me, Aunt Sanal; where did you think we had gone for all that time?”
“After Walderon told me how the two of you had fled from Calean City and could not be found, I dared to hope you and Chantal had taken refuge in a beguinage somewhere, so you were safely beyond Walderon’s reach. While he made a great show of searching for you, I prayed he would never find you.”
“Did I hear aright?” Lord Giles entered the solar. He had mounted the steps so quietly that no one there noticed his coming.
“Giles!” Sanal rushed across the solar to meet him. “Jenia and Chantal were held in the dungeon, here at Thury.”
“So I just learned from a man-at-arms.” Lord Giles took her by the shoulders, holding her away from him so he could gaze directly into her eyes.
“I never knew of it, Giles. Walderon never told me. But now Lord Garit thinks I am to blame for Chantal’s death.”
“I didn’t say you are to blame,” Garit corrected her. “We all know full well that Walderon is to blame. I merely wanted to know if you ever had any suspicions, and if so, what you did about them.”
“I have told him and told him,” Sanal cried, looking around at all of them. “I did not – did not—” She dissolved into tears against Lord Giles’s chest.
“Garit,” Lord Giles said, “I think you may believe Lady Sanal. I knew her years ago, when she was yet unmarried, and she was honest then. What she has endured as Walderon’s wife cannot have altered her essential character.”
“If you vouch for her,” Roarke said, “then I will accept her version of events as she understood them.”
“So will I,” Garit added. “I recognize Walderon for the lying villain he is and you, Lord Giles, know Lady Sanal better than I do. My lady, I apologize for upsetting you. I fear I am not entirely myself at the moment. I accosted you because Walderon is not here for me to challenge. I would like to meet him at the end of my sword.”
“You will soon have your wish,” Lord Giles told him, “though I would advise you to control your anger and keep Walderon alive. Only he can explain his actions and his motives, for both are far removed from what decent men would consider reasonable. I promise you he will explain, and most likely with little urging. It’s my experience from the few villains I have known that they almost always try to justify themselves and their wicked deeds. They enjoy impressing others with their cleverness.”
“There can be no justification for what Walderon has done,” Garit stated.
“What did you mean when you said Garit will soon have his wish?” Roarke asked.
“Ah, yes. That’s why I was looking for you,” Lord Giles said. “The man-at-arms whom we sent last night to carry our message to Walderon has returned. He says he encountered a bit of difficulty in getting away from Walderon, who wanted to keep him close by in case the message was a trick. Walderon is no fool. But our man did escape and then he rode so fast that he nearly foundered his poor horse getting here. He wanted us to have as much warning as possible.”
“Warning?” Garit repeated, a slow and wicked grin spreading across his somber features. “Does that mean what I think?”
“Indeed,” Lord Giles told him. “Just as we hoped would happen, Walderon has decided to postpone his visit to Calean City. He is returning to Thury to make certain all is well here. He’s traveling slowly because of his large entourage, which our man reports amounts to a small army. He estimates Walderon should be at the castle gates by mid morning tomorrow, mid afternoon at the latest.”
“He will find the gates closed and barred,” Garit declared, his teeth showing in a fierce grimace. “We will force him to fight in the open, where he can employ no treachery against us. We have you to counter his corrupt Power if he tries to use it against us.”
“Well, then, we need to begin preparing for a nasty battle,” Lord Giles said with a sigh. “I will speak to my squires.”
“Wait a moment.” Roarke held up one hand.
Garit and Lord Giles had started for the stairs leading to the great hall below, but both men paused to listen to their friend.
“If half of what I’ve been hearing is true, Walderon is a harsh master,” Roarke said. “That’s why the castle folk came over to us so easily. But now, we cannot depend on them to take their chances with us against Walderon. They are likely to fear his reprisals if he should win any battle against us. Because of their fears, we may have to deal with treachery inside these walls. Don’t forget, many of the servants know about those secret passageways. A solution that doesn’t depend on open warfare seems preferable to me.”
“You make a fair argument,” Lord Giles said. “What do you suggest?”
“A bit of trickery,” Roarke responded, his dark eyes lighting with a mischievous fire. “Lady Sanal, will you help us?”
“If I can be free of Walderon, I’ll do anything you want,” Sanal told him. “I am sick of his cruelty and his ambition.” She looked frightened, but resolute.
“Thank you.” Roarke flashed a quick smile at her before he turned to Jenia. “Will you pretend to be Chantal just one more time?” he asked.
“Roarke, exactly what are you planning?” Garit demanded.
“If we can confuse Walderon and lure him inside, we can hold him as hostage to prevent his men from attacking while we question him,” Roarke said.
“Only tell me what you require of me and I will do it,” Jenia said. “Uncle Walderon expects to be rewarded for his secret crimes. I want to see those crimes revealed and see him punished for them.”
“So do I,” Garit declared stoutly. “Roarke, even if your plan means I won’t have the chance to meet him in man-to-man combat, if we can capture him and take him before King Henryk for justice, then I will be content.”
“Good.” Lord Giles nodded his approval of Garit’s sentiment. “I’m glad to hear you say that, my boy. I’m old enough to think the less blood we shed, the better. Let us keep our men inside these walls. The squires won’t thank me for denying them a taste of battle, but the older men-at-arms will agree with me.”
“Are any of Chantal’s gowns still here at Thury?” Roarke asked, looking from Jenia to Sanal.
“Yes,” Sanal replied. “When she departed for Calean the last time, she left some of her clothing here. I gather you intend for Jenia to wear one of those gowns. But she is much thinner than Chantal was.”
“One does tend to lose weight while imprisoned,” Jenia retorted in a quiet voice that did not entirely hide the anger she was feeling.
“Walderon knows where you were,” Roarke pointed out. “He won’t be surprised by the change in Chantal. Remember, according to what Lady Sanal told us, Walderon still thinks Chantal was the woman taken aboard that ship, and he believes it was Chantal who jumped over the side. You can stay close to the truth, Jenia. Tell him you reached shore and then found Garit. With Garit’s help, and that of his friends, you seized Thury for yourself. You have sent word to King Henryk, asking him to confirm your possession of it.”
“Furthermore,” Garit put in, his expression grim, “having received permission to wed Chantal from both King Audemar and King Henryk, I intend to do so at once. Should
Walderon question my word, I can produce the letters. I carry them next to my heart.” For a moment his large hand rested upon his chest.
“Oh, Garit, no.” Jenia touched his arm. “We can eliminate that part of the story. I know how sorely King Audemar’s belated permission grieves you.”
“His permission is the one detail that will certainly draw Walderon into the castle against the advice of his men, who may well prefer an open battle,” Garit said. “Walderon cannot allow Chantal to marry me. It would mean the end of his hopes of taking Thury for himself.”
“Lord Garit is right,” Sanal said. “But please, consider that Walderon is sure to try his own kind of trickery. He won’t give up easily; he’ll devise some plan to prevent Chantal from marrying. To make certain his scheme succeeds, he’ll need to be inside the castle walls. So Roarke’s plan will work at first. But Jenia, this plan could prove dangerous for you. Never forget, Walderon is capable of working dark magic.”
“I don’t care,” Jenia said. “I owe it to Chantal to bring her murderer to justice. My only doubt lies with whether Walderon will believe I am Chantal.”
“You will convince him,” Roarke said. “I know you will.”
“Lady Sanal tells me you have decided on a gown for tomorrow,” Roarke said, standing just inside the doorway of Jenia’s chamber.
The room boasted a pair of small windows. Jenia had opened the shutters to let in the crisp, autumn air and the last rays of sun lit Roarke’s face. He was so handsome and so manly that Jenia caught her breath.
“Yes,” she said, holding up a brilliant blue dress. The fine silk shimmered in the mellow evening light and the heavy gold embroidery decorating the neck and wrists glittered. Jenia spread the dress out to show him how long the loose sleeves were and to let him judge the surprisingly low curve of the neckline. “Will this be acceptable? Will it bedazzle Walderon enough to make him believe me when I claim to be Chantal? I could employ what little magic I can work, to confuse the issue, as I occasionally did at Calean when we changed places, but I’m afraid Walderon will be on guard against such a deception, notice what I am doing, and guess the truth. I don’t want to alert him to a trick, so I think it’ll be wiser not to resort to Power. Chantal possessed none at all, you see.”
“In that case, don’t use yours.” Roarke advanced a few paces into the room. He looked closer at the blue silk and frowned. “I know little about women’s clothing. Would Chantal choose that color?”
“She did choose it. The gown is hers. Aunt Sanal thinks Uncle Walderon will recognize it because he complained bitterly over the cost of the silk.”
“Then wear it. He will certainly have no trouble noticing you, especially if the sun is shining.”
“You don’t like it.” Puzzled by his expression of distaste, Jenia folded the gown neatly and placed it atop Chantal’s low, wooden clothing chest.
“I don’t have to like it,” Roarke said. “The thing is merely a costume suitable for our purposes. It appears garish to me, but then, it’s a court dress, not an ordinary gown.”
“I cannot fault you for not liking it. It’s Chantal’s, not mine, and I wish I didn’t have to put it on. Even the fabric smells of her lavender perfume.” Jenia blinked away a few tears.
“I know the impersonation will be difficult for you,” Roarke said.
“But well worth my effort if the ruse succeeds.”
“When I think of you,” he said, coming closer, “I see you wearing russet brown, or perhaps a golden-green silk to make your amber eyes shine and your skin glow.”
“And you claim to know nothing of women’s fashion,” she teased, trying to smile because she was growing tense at his continued nearness. The attempt at humor failed, so she resorted to honesty. “In truth, Roarke, I would prefer to wear brown or green, with no decoration. My one court gown was made of fine orange-red wool and it was quite plain. But tomorrow, I am to be Chantal, so my preferences don’t matter.”
“Where is that gown of yours?” he asked.
“Ruined the first time I wore it,” she answered. “A drunken knight spilled an oily sauce on it. I tried to clean it, but when the wool dried it reeked of rancid sauce and the color was sadly blotched. Aunt Sanal refused to let me wear it again, so I gave it to a beggar woman, thinking she’d be so glad of the warmth that she’d not mind the smell, or the odd colors.”
“Walderon should have provided you with another gown to replace it. Or Sanal should have.”
“Uncle Walderon was too busy scheming to marry Chantal off to Lord Malin, and Aunt Sanal was too afraid of him to make a fuss about my needs,” Jenia said. “I was only my uncle’s poorer niece, a girl with just a small castle and an insignificant piece of land for my dowry. I thought myself fortunate to escape his notice.”
“I’m glad you did.” Roarke’s calloused hand stroked along her cheek, the rough texture sending chills down Jenia’s spine. “If Walderon had considered you as worthy of his notice as Chantal, you might be dead, too. And I would be grieving for you and missing you as Garit is grieving over Chantal.”
“How could you?” she asked, her voice a bit shaky because his hand was resting on her shoulder and one finger was rubbing against the skin of her neck. “If I was as important to Uncle Walderon’s schemes as Chantal was, you and I would not have met.”
“Then I’d spend the rest of my life bewailing the girl I never met and the sweetness I never tasted.”
“You wouldn’t know what you missed.”
“Yes,” he murmured, his lips just a sigh away from hers. “Yes, I would know. My soul would feel the lack of you.”
“Roarke.”
“I felt it already, before we met,” he said. “My heart was empty and my life was filled with shadows. I am ashamed to say now how bone-weary I was of the mission King Henryk had assigned to me and how annoyed by Garit’s unending insistence that we must find Chantal. Then I saw you stumbling along the beach and I understood my heart’s yearning. You are the sunlight and warmth I was missing.”
“But-”
His mouth met hers and the question Jenia intended to ask vanished in the heat of his kiss. His arms enfolded her and she felt her breasts crushed against his hard chest.
Roarke’s tongue slid along her lips in a tempting, teasing motion. Jenia opened her mouth on a soft intake of breath and Roarke seized full advantage. Jenia moaned and opened wider, longing for more of him. She didn’t doubt where this was leading, not after the passion he had introduced her to during their night together at Calean. She welcomed what would come next.
“Jenia.” He broke off the kiss to gaze at her with a question in his eyes, and Jenia knew he’d stop if she asked him to proceed no further. For all his tough manliness, Roarke would never force her.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered. Sliding out of his arms, she backed toward the bed. She had gained enough knowledge during her one night with him to see and recognize the evidence of his desire flaring against the lower edge of his tunic. She licked her suddenly dry lips, noticing the way his gaze was caught by the slight motion.
“Come to me, Roarke. Bolt the door and come to me.”
The look in his eyes nearly melted her bones. Unable to stand, she sank down on the bed and sat there, immobilized by rising emotion. In a moment the door was securely fastened and Roarke was kneeling next to her, his hands clasping hers.
“How I want you,” he murmured, planting kisses in her palms, one after the other, and then on her wrists. “I find myself thinking of you when I ought to be making plans and conferring with Garit and Lord Giles.”
“They can wait,” she said. “You have set your plan and we can do no more until Walderon appears. This time right now, these few precious hours, belong to us. Lie with me, Roarke. Make love to me.”
No well bred noblewoman ought to make such a request, not even of her husband if she had one. Passionate desire was for peasants carousing in the fields on Midsummer Eve. Ladies were supposed to be above such base eart
hly needs.
Jenia no longer cared about propriety. Most of what she’d been taught was right and fitting for a noble lady had been stripped away from her in the dungeon several levels beneath where she now sat watching Roarke remove her low boots and begin to roll down the waist-high hose she’d worn for riding.
In the violence of Chantal’s death and her own danger, the old rules had become irrelevant to her. She had emerged from the stormy sea a new person, a woman who could shiver in delight at the touch of Roarke’s hands along her calves and thighs, and then higher, more daringly, into the moist warmth of her most sensitive place. Chantal had never known such intense pleasure, and Jenia was not going to forego it because of foolish stipulations about a noblewoman’s proper behavior. When Roarke took his hand away from her, she whimpered in protest.
“Come,” he whispered, tugging at her gown until she understood that he wanted her to remove it. He helped her, and he took her shift off, too. Then he settled her on the bed and stood above her while he divested himself of his belt, tunic and hose and, finally, of his linen undershirt.
She gasped to see him fully aroused, the great, hard length of his manhood jutting out from the nest of dark hair at his groin. His muscular thighs flexed as he lowered himself to kiss her lips and her throat, to wind his fingers through her hair.
And all the time she felt the stiffness against her belly, teasing her as she grew ever warmer, ever more eager to hold him deep within her body. When she could bear the deprivation no longer she reached down and folded her fingers around him, stroking gently.
Roarke went perfectly still.
“You will drive me mad,” he growled, and grabbed her wrist to remove her hand.
“Roarke, please, I want—”
“I know what you want. This.” He tested her with one probing finger and she knew he found her moist and hot. And eager. So eager.
“Yes!” Her hands clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging deep into his strong muscles.
“And this.” He fitted himself to her and Jenia reared up against him, unable to stop herself. Then Roarke was filling her, completing her as they became one. He went still again, this time staring into her eyes as if he wanted to read and know her soul.
