The Protector

by Madeline Hunter

  “Nay. You are going home. You are too ignorant for this place. A lamb amidst a pack of wolves would be safer.” Still holding her hand, he threw cloaks around. By the time he found hers he had created a tremendous mess. He draped it around her shoulders, then gestured to a page and sent a message of explanation to Christiana. Silently, and with long purposeful strides that had her scampering to keep up, he pulled her toward the castle gate.

  She was seething by the time they turned onto the street where Christiana lived. Her hand hurt badly, and the skirt of her gown had been ruined.

  She expected him to throw her into the house and then return to Elizabeth, but he followed her and kicked the door closed behind him.

  “What happened back there?” His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

  He wanted to know how badly to hurt Ian. There was a limit to the damage she would let Morvan do in the name of protecting her. This wasn't Gurwant, after all.

  She swept past him toward the stairs. “It is none of your concern.”

  A hand grabbed her shoulder. She flew backwards, landing against the wall, pinned there by his forearm. With his other hand resting on the wall near her head, he leaned over her.

  “What happened back there?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? He was after you all evening. He took you into that garden, to that arbor, and didn't even try to kiss you? It is the only reason that damn garden was even built.”

  She struggled against his hold, but in vain. “Aye, he kissed me. Is your curiosity satisfied now?”

  Something dark flashed in his eyes. She smelt the wine on his breath. Too much of that, she knew, could turn men either stupid or mean. Just her luck that with him it was the latter.

  His head came down to hers, and his mouth found her ear. “Did you like it? Did you lose yourself in it like you do with me?”

  Icy fury spilled through her. This had nothing to do with her at all. It wasn't some threat to her safety or even her virtue that made him like this, but only his stupid male pride. He didn't want her in this way, but God forbid someone else bested him at it anyway.

  She gritted her teeth against the maddening emotions that pounded through her. “Well, Morvan, it wasn't waves crashing against the rocks, but the tide came in all the same.”

  His head jerked back. The dim light picked up a dangerous sparkle in his eyes. Despite her smug satisfaction at his reaction, she knew that she had made a mistake.

  He brought his hand over and held her chin. She knew what he was going to do. Furiously, she struggled against him. This was ludicrous, pointless. It had nothing to do with desire or lust and everything to do with power and pride. She didn't intend to be some chess pawn in a game of male competition.

  He ignored her protests and lowered his mouth to hers, then pressed a kiss on her that deepened quickly.

  She expected to feel nothing, as with Ian. But she found to her horror that despite everything, despite even the appalling way he was using her, Morvan was not Ian. Her body began betraying her. She beat back her response, pushed it away, just as she continued to try and push away his body. But he only kissed her harder, hungrier, and then turned his mouth to her neck. He moved his restraining arm down and slid it over so that his hand closed on one breast.

  It was cruel mockery, and she would not let him do it. She grabbed his hair and yanked. “Nay, you will not. I have been manhandled enough for one night.”

  He froze. She had never seen anyone so furious in her life.

  “You let him touch you.”

  “Aye, damn you, but then I fought him as I'm fighting you.”

  She swung her fist, but he was too quick. He caught it and slammed it up onto the wall. Livid beyond reason, she pounded his shoulder with her other clenched hand. That ended up high above the other side of her head. He took both her hands in one of his and repinned them to the wall above her. Then he kissed her again.

  She fought it. She gritted her teeth against the sensations. Furious with her weakness, she tightened her body against showing any reaction. But when he forced his knee high between her legs, her whole body flexed.

  “Are you contented now?” She glared at him through tears of rage. “Your reputation as the greatest lover in England is safe. Even unnatural women respond to you. Are you satisfied? Will you leave now?”

  “Nay. I am not and I will not.” He lifted her away from the wall and moved to close his arms around her.

  It was her chance, and she took it. She kicked and pummeled and broke free. “Go to hell, Morvan!” She flew toward the stairs, barely escaping the hand reaching to grab her.

  Near the top landing she ran straight into David, heading down. His clothes looked as if he had thrown them on, and he was blinking sleep from his eyes.

  He looked at her, then to where Morvan followed just steps behind.

  “Damn.” He pushed her behind him and up the stairs. “Go to your chamber and bar the door.”

  “Get out of the way, David,” Morvan said.

  “Nay. You will not do this in this house. You are drunk.”

  “At worst only half so.”

  “It is the half that governs your judgment. Is this how you protect women?”

  “She is in no danger from me.”

  “Are you sure? I am not. She doesn't want you this night. Leave.”

  “You are wrong, David. He will not threaten me in that way,” Anna said.

  “Go to your chamber.”

  Startled by his severe tone, she backed away.

  Morvan laughed. “Hell, David, I am impressed. I think this is the first time that she has obeyed a man without an argument since I met her.”

  She hurried to her chamber and heard no more.

  Morvan had his anger under control by the time he returned to the hall. He knew that Ian was still there, but he forced himself not to look for him. He would deal with Ian later. And then he would deal with what he had done to Anna this night.

  Musicians played, and he took Elizabeth's hand and led her to the floor. The dancing calmed him enough that he felt almost normal when he finally escorted Elizabeth back to her house. She turned to him once they were inside, her lovely skin looking translucent in the warm glow of the candles.

  “Are you staying?” she asked.

  He remembered his first night with her. He had come here bent on a grand seduction, but she had drawn him into a companionable evening of laughter and conversation. And then, late in the night, she had simply risen and announced she was going to bed, and asked this same question. Without flirtation, without words, he had followed her up the stairs.

  “Seeking another interlude, Elizabeth? Before the next old husband?”

  “I am thinking that I have done this backwards. The marriages are too long, and the interludes too short. I am thinking that I have had enough old husbands.”

  The insinuation astonished him. She was beautiful and landed and wealthy. He did not doubt that whatever those old men had given her had grown tenfold under her steady hand. Along with the gold and emerald necklace, it might be enough to support his fight for Harclow. He did not need his own son for an heir—Christiana's would do as well.

  He should grab the prize; only a fool would not. Perhaps if he did not care for her at all, he could do it. But he knew something of what was in her heart, and she deserved more of him than he could give.

  Also, she was not the woman he wanted.

  “If you tire of old husbands, you should find a young one. But I am not he, and not because you are barren. There is someone else in my head and my heart, and until she is gone it would not be fair to you.”

  “I saw you watching her. I hear that she goes to an abbey. When she is gone, will she be out of your heart?”

  It was a painful question. Coming from Elizabeth, it carried significant implications. She was saying that she would wait for him if the answer might be yes.

  “I do not know. In truth, I fear not.”

  “Then you are right.
If I seek a young husband, you are not he.”

  He kissed her for what would surely be the last time, and she turned away.

  He did not leave at once. He waited for the house's other occupant. When the door finally opened, he grabbed the young man and slammed him against the wall with a grip at his neck. Briefly stunned, Ian quickly composed himself and stared coolly over the hand threatening to strangle him.

  Morvan wasn't nearly as interested in killing this knight as he had been two hours ago. He had spent the worst of his fury on the wrong person and in the wrong way. Still, he gripped the neck a little harder.

  “Lady Anna. She is not for you, boy.”

  Ian looked back confidently, fearlessly, placidly. Lids lowered over his brooding dark eyes. “And Lady Elizabeth is not for you.”

  So that was how it was.

  “A fair bargain,” Morvan said as he let his arm drop. And it was. He was trading a woman that he had rejected for one that he would never have.

  He stepped through the open door.

  “Morvan,” Ian said, stopping him. “You should know that she fought me from the first. I have the bruises to prove it. She uses her fists like a man.”

  He suspected that Ian was lying, but doing so to protect Anna. Though he had used her in a dangerous game, he was at least showing some honor now.

  Well, one good turn deserved another.

  He glanced up at the second level of the house. “And you should know that she is aware that you want her, because most men do. If I were you, I would go to her now. If she opens her door to you, it is done.”

  He walked away, hoping for Elizabeth's sake that the boy's finish was as good as his start.

  CHAPTER 16

  THE SUMMONS FROM THE KING came early the next morning.

  Christiana accompanied Anna to the castle. A dozen other people already waited for an audience, even though tierce had not yet rung. Anna brought all of the documents relating to her petition. She tried to ignore the coiling tension that had claimed her since she had woken.

  She smoothed the light brown wool of her skirt, and felt the simple veil hiding her pinned hair. She tried to empty her mind of all thoughts except the upcoming meeting, but to no avail. Memories of last night forced themselves on her.

  She had come a long way since she was twelve years old, but then she had planned it that way. After the attack of Gurwant and his father, she had sworn to learn to protect herself so that she would never be a man's victim. Last night she had proven the value of that vow.

  What had happened with Ian was, she suspected, a common thing for most women. Her only regret was that she hadn't hit him sooner. Morvan, on the other hand, had surprised and disappointed her. His treatment had been an act of anger, and she had done nothing to deserve that except challenge his pride. For most men, though, perhaps that was enough.

  It was not thinking about Morvan that pained her, but rather remembering her own reactions to him. The idea that she had let anyone develop that kind of power over her was daunting.

  She found some solace in the knowledge that Morvan would never want to use it again. Last night had not been about desire. He had acted as if he were teaching her a lesson, although for the life of her she couldn't imagine what the lesson was supposed to have been.

  Her thoughts were distracted by the approach of a man. He was of hearty build and thick-legged and had hair a color much like her own. She judged him to be about thirty-five years old.

  “You are Anna de Leon?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  “I am your kinsman, Harvé. I saw you once at La Roche de Roald when you were a small child.”

  Anna had no recollection of the visit. Harvé was, if she remembered correctly, a third cousin to her father and had lived most of his life in England.

  “Edward asked me to attend this morning. He thought it best to have a member of the family present to aid you.”

  The King thought it best to have a man from the family present was what he meant, even if that man was a total stranger.

  “Edward is a good man with sound judgment, cousin,” he said. “But he is very busy, so don't expect any lengthy discussions.”

  “Is there anything I should know?” she asked, hoping that blood counted for something.

  “The continuing strife in Brittany worries him. He hoped that the capture of Charles de Blois would end things. He cannot commit too heavily to Brittany, and wants to hold what the young duke has at a minimal cost.”

  “Then he should be glad of my solution for my father's estate.”

  “When we go in, do not speak unless you are asked to. Edward does not care for clever women. Put yourself in his hands and he will be generous with you.”

  Not speak? Then was Harvé, the kinsman who was more English than Breton, to speak for her? The notion rankled her.

  The door to the King's chamber opened and a page announced that the King would see them.

  Harvé guided her into the noisy chamber, where the King sat behind a square table strewn with parchment documents. At a long table nearby three men passed papers and mumbled to each other. Another very officious-looking man went to the clerks and gave them instructions of some sort, pointing to pages here and there.

  Two chairs faced the King, and Anna took a position behind one, her eyes carefully lowered. Harvé stood beside her.

  “Please seat yourself, my lady.” She glanced up. She had been addressed by the officious man—the King's secretary, she surmised. But her glance also took in the King himself. He was an attractive man in his middle thirties. Long brown hair framed his face and a mustache hung along the edges of his mouth and chin.

  Anna sat on the chair's edge with her hands folded on her lap. She prayed that she looked suitably demure and not at all clever.

  A young boy with blond hair, dressed very sumptuously, walked in and sat in a chair beside the King's table. It was the young Duke Jean. He had a piece of parchment in his hands that interested him more than anyone in the room did. He proceeded to turn his attention to it, folding it this way and that.

  “This is Lady Anna de Leon, daughter of Roald and sister of Drago, both deceased,” the secretary explained. The boy glanced over to her and nodded.

  The King finally spoke. To Harvé. “We received the lady's letters after her brother's death, and regret that affairs kept us from replying. We would have spared her this journey if we could have. However, it is well that she has come to us.”

  “She asks only for your judgment in this, for the situation at the estate is precarious. The Beaumanoir family is pursuing a spurious claim.”

  “We are well aware of that. They have appealed to us, through the French king no less. There was brief mention of it in our last communication with France. You hold one Gurwant de Beaumanoir, I am told.”

  They all looked at her. She was going to be allowed to speak. “He was taken in battle after he laid siege to us. I hold him for ransom as is customary.”

  “He claims betrothal to you.”

  She handed over the papal annulment. “It is no forgery. My brother himself procured it in Avignon.”

  King Edward examined the document. “Your brother never swore fealty to the duke.”

  “He died soon after my father, and without testament or heir. My father's will still stands. I ask that the line of inheritance dictated in it be recognized.”

  “With your brother's death, that makes you heir.”

  “Aye, but I plan to take the veil, and so it would fall to my sister Catherine, and through her to her husband.”

  “But as long as you lived, the estate could still be claimed through you.”

  “I will be in an abbey. If my duke recognizes my sister's rights, there can be no claim through me.”

  “Another king may choose not to recognize her rights. And then the estate is still yours.”

  “Are you suggesting that I would leave the abbey and deliver La Roche de Roald to the Penthièvres and their French alliance?
After all that I have done to save it for Brittany, as my father wanted?”

  “I am suggesting that someone could take you from the abbey and effect the same thing.”

  A nervous pounding began throbbing inside her. She did not like this. Not at all.

  The king gestured to Harvé, who rose and went to him. King, kinsman, and secretary huddled together around the table and spoke in low mumbles. The pounding grew. She felt as though she were standing at the very edge of a rocky cliff.

  The arrow of parchment landed at her feet. She reached down and picked it up as the young duke came forward.

  “It is a falcon,” he explained, reaching for it.

  “It is very clever,” Anna said as she handed the parchment to him. He was an attractive boy. He possessed a wiry energy that spoke well for the future. Would he ever become his own man if he was raised under King Edward's influence like this? Could Brittany ever be independent again?

  He showed her how it was folded. He was still there when Harvé retook his seat beside her. The duke whispered in her ear. “The King's lieutenant in Brittany wrote about you. He said that you fight in battles and wear armor and have the heart of a man.”

  Her stomach sank. So much for the demure nun. The King was letting her play her role, but he knew the truth.

  He whispered again. “My mother wore armor, too. They say she is mad, but I see her sometimes and she doesn't act so with me. You don't look mad either.” He went back to his chair, absorbed again in his game.

  Either. It felt as though the cliff had gotten higher.

  “Lady Anna,” the King said. “If not for the Penthièvre claim on the ducal crown, and their French alliance, your requests would be a simple thing to grant. But under the circumstances we cannot allow it. La Roche de Roald is too close to Brest, and its cove could hide ships that would harass our shipping routes.”

  The edge of the cliff began shaking.

  “We cannot assume that your defeat of Gurwant de Beaumanoir, complete though it was, will end things. And there may be other adventurers. Even in the abbey you would not be secure, for in the last years in Brittany these scurrilous knights, some of whom I am ashamed to say are English, have not been deterred by sanctified ground.”