A flash of silver swept before her eyes and she dodged it, blinking instinctively to avoid it. “Why have you brought me here?”
She moaned, closing her eyes against the pain in her head and the nausea that threatened to rise with her fear.
“Because this is where ye belong, my lady,” he said, with so much emphasis upon the word my that it made her stomach roil.
With the poniard he held in his hand, he proceeded to sever the cord binding her wrist and she winced. The flesh of her arms tingled oddly, and she tried to rub them, but somehow could not. She had little control over her benumbed hands. It was as though they belonged to someone else.
How long had she been here?
“You should have been mine,” he told her simply. “Ye should have come to me... and were I lord of Montagneaux, ye would have been offered to me first.”
“Nay,” she countered, “I would have gone to no man as my father pledged me to the Church.”
“Ah, yes, and is that why you let Henry’s Wolf put his cock inside you? Because you were pledged to Holy Church?”
Chrestien shuddered over the way he looked at her. “You are vile!” she spat.
Rolfe’s answering laughter was wild, without reason, and Chrestien decided she would not argue with him further. The man was mad!
His laughter ceased abruptly and he shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “At any rate, if not you, it would have been your sister. There is naught different between the two of ye... save that now she is dead and ye are not.”
Tears welled in Chrestien’s eyes. “You killed her!” she accused him. “And for what?”
He shrugged. “For Lontaine, of course. It was my birthright and your whoreson father stole it from me.”
“You lie! Aleth bequeathed it to my father.”
He smiled thinly, ignoring the truth. “I think it only fitting that Gilbert's daughter should repay his debts. Don’t you?”
“What do you have to gain through me?” Chrestien asked him. “I have already taken my vows and King Henry will never give you what you want.”
He smiled again, and for a fleeting moment his eyes took on a gentle, yearning look. “I’ll not harm ye,” he promised, his fingers coming to rest upon her cheek.
It was all Chrestien could do to keep from recoiling at his touch as he fondled her cheek with his thumb. She cringed, the muscles in her neck tightening with fear.
“Mayhap I cannot wed with ye, but you will be all to me a ladywife should,” he said wistfully.
Chrestien shook her head, horrified by the prospect. “I am already wed!”
He seized her by the hair. “You will obey me,” he demanded angrily.
Dear God, he did not mean to ransom her. He intended to keep her here. “Nay, I’ll not!” she swore and would have screamed, but knew the futility of it, for she knew instinctively that wherever he had brought her, there would be no ears to hear her screams. And from the looks of the room he had placed her, this demesne had not seen the warmth of love in decades.
“Ah, but ye will,” he swore. “Time will make ye mine, Chrestien... for you will never leave these tower walls.”
“You cannot keep me locked away forever,” she said, unable to mask the contempt she felt. As the prickling sensation ebbed from her wrists, she felt a sudden rush of pain and cried out. But she would not cry—refused to give him the satisfaction of breaking her spirit. Somehow she would find a way to escape from here. Somehow.
“’Tis merely the blood rushing back into your wrists,” he revealed. “The feeling will pass.”
His hand returned to her cheek and she turned her face from him. Once again his hand wound itself in a lock of her hair, jerking her closer. “Never turn from me again!” he warned. Then he suddenly released her and sat beside her upon the bed. His voice was a pleading whisper, as he brought his lips to her face, his mood changing abruptly without reason.
He bent his head to hers and tears flooded her eyes as he tried to pry her mouth open with his tongue, forcefully bringing its disgusting wetness into her mouth. When she would not yield sufficiently, he bit down upon her lip with blade-sharp teeth, cutting until she could taste the salt of her own blood. She opened to him then with a cry of fright and his kiss turned gentle, belying the roughness of his handling. It did naught to ignite the fire she had known with Weston. She cringed when he moved to her neck, exploring there…
“Please,” she begged, and when it seemed he would not cease, she began to sob in earnest and his kisses ceased abruptly. He buried his face in her hair, straining to control his desire, trembling with the potency of it. She recognized that now.
Once he composed himself again there was no tenderness in his gaze. His teeth were clenched and his twitching lip betrayed his barely contained fury. “There will be a time, Chrestien, when you will welcome my touch—plead for it, even. There will be a time,” he warned. “Because, indeed, ye will never leave here,” he reiterated as he rose.
And he turned away, giving a sudden peal of laughter that chilled her to the bone.
“Weston will come for me,” she assured him with more confidence than she felt. “And when he does, he will kill you.”
“I thought ye more clever than that, Chrestien,” he said as he closed the door, bolting it after him.
Even through the thick oak doors she could hear his next words and they sent tiny chills down her spine. “But if he comes... I will kill him and leave his bones where ye can see them from the tower window.” His laughter rang behind him once again, echoing through the keep and returning unanswered.
Chapter Seventeen
In his heart, Weston could not believe Chrestien would leave him.
In his anguish, Baron Grey had suggested mayhap his wife had fled from him in fear. He was worse than an old woman with his absurd accusations. Weston would never mistreat Chrestien, and he resented the implication that he might. Still his soul wept, for their last words to each other before she'd disappeared were spoken in anger.
Henry tried to console the old man. But ultimately Weston could endure no more of his lamentations and he’d sent the baron away, promising to send news as soon as he learned anything. Reluctantly, and with a little persuasion from Henry, Grey had finally departed along with Henry. Though to Weston's eternal gratitude, Henry had left him with a league of men to aid in the search for Chrestien.
Once the King took his leave, the search continued night and day, none of them sleeping more than an hour or two here and there, returning to Lontaine only to confer.
Somewhere out there, Chrestien needed him.
Weston must not fail her.
* * *
Rolfe came at least twice each day.
Mercifully, he did not touch her, and on occasion he asked her questions she refused to answer. When he was bored enough with her silence, he would leave.
Jesu, but she would not know what to do if he ever touched her again.
It had become apparent to her that, so long as she faced him squarely and did not display her fear of him, he would not harm her. It was only when she showed weakness that he became angered.
How many days had she been here now? Alas, after so much time, she was beginning to believe his words of warning—that Weston would not come for her. Yet, somewhere in the depth of her soul, she clung to hope.
She wanted to go home—missed her husband terribly—needed his arms around her. Her grief was palpable and she was cold to the bone in this terrible donjon, despite the tattered blankets Rolfe had given her. Wherever he was keeping her, it was a mean place, lacking in aught, save spiders and webs.
For all the times she had accused her poor husband of mishandling her, she knew now the true meaning of mistreatment. Weston might be a hardheaded man, but he was as gentle as a pup. Rolfe, on the other hand, could be mean when angered and she tried not to do so.
“Weston... where are you?” she whispered brokenly and took a small stone from the floor to mark another day on the wall.
If h
er calculations were correct, the twelve days of Christ’s mass would be upon them soon and it seemed she would spend them here, in this cold gray tower.
With a sigh, she rose and went to the window, wondering if Aubert and Janelle would burn a Yule log without her this year. It seemed selfish to hope they would wait, and yet she could not bear the thought that life would go on whilst she wasted away in Rolfe’s donjon tower.
From the high, narrow window she could see for miles, but there was naught familiar about the landscape here, and Rolfe had yet to tell her where he had brought her. For all she knew, she was in faraway England, though she did not believe she had been asleep so long after he had abducted her. Still, it was a desolate place. Not a soul passed by the old decrepit keep and she could not fathom why Rolfe would not at least give her a candle to give light against the night’s blackness.
Then again, why would she have need of a candle? There was naught for her to do in this tower prison but count the spiders and the cracks in the wall.
At least he had given her the wares to stitch with, but she knew naught about sewing and could not see. She had managed only to prick her finger with the needle near a dozen times, even in the daylight with the windows open wide. By now, there were at least a score of red blotches on the cloth where she’d bled upon the canvas. And once the darkness fell, she had not even that to pass the time. She surmised that he did not want anyone passing by to know the tower was occupied, but she never spied a soul below this pile of ruin.
At night, the tiny window allowed little light into the room, and the wind whistled into open crevices. The cold was as tangible as the dismal gray stone of the cobbled walls.
Worse yet was that, as of late, she had to fight a growing nausea she felt in the mornings and eves. At first she had been afeared that she’d grown sick from the foul meals Rolfe brought her. But of late, the food had improved and she guessed Rolfe grew tired of having the chamber pot emptied of bile. But the nausea persisted and she could not imagine what illness had taken hold of her. It would come upon her so suddenly that it was all she could do to make it to the chamber pot before spewing her guts. Will power alone kept her from spewing on the floor, for then she would have to live with it, since she doubted Rolfe employed servants here in this pile of stones.
Down the hall, she heard the distant click, click of his spurred boots upon the stone steps and she closed her eyes against the dread of seeing him again. She knew it was Rolfe, for no one else had ever attended her. When the door creaked open to reveal him standing in the light of his guttering torch, she forced a stoic expression.
He came into the room, kicking the huge oak door shut behind him, before placing his torch in the only iron brace upon the wall. The brace remained empty when he was not around.
In his other hand he held a wad of bedding and clothing, which he tossed upon the bed. His eyes lit immediately upon the plate of half-eaten food and his eyes narrowed. “You’ll not make yourself well that way,” he scolded.
Chrestien’s throat constricted painfully. She could not answer him, as much as she wanted to shout her hatred of him. She wanted to leap at him and scratch his evil black eyes from his face, but she merely shrugged in response.
“Would ye rather I fed ye myself?” Rolfe threatened.
She blinked at him, her dark eyes empty pits, devoid of warmth. She did not answer and he felt a twinge of some emotion he could not place.
Was it pity for the weakening girl?
Or mayhap regret?
Nay, he did not regret taking her, even as sickly as she’d become—and he could not abide the stench of her retching.
Impulsively, he left, bolting the door behind him and returned minutes later with a bucket of warm water and a rag.
She was lovely... this girl who haunted his dreams. Her hair had grown much since Montagneaux and, even in its dirty state, it never seemed to lose its lovely luster. Her face, with its delicate high cheekbones, was regal and her lush pink lips were a tempting sight to behold. He cringed with remorse when he noted the bruising that was yet so apparent on her bottom lip. He had bitten her severely, he realized. But, damn it, she’d angered him.
His rage was a living beast that not even he could conquer—and God help him when it reared its furious head.
He sat next to Chrestien upon the bed and she recoiled from him instantly.
When it was obvious he only wanted to wipe her face with the cloth he’d brought, she slackened her posture and let him wash her without issue. It seemed she had little fight left in her. Soon he would break her and she would slowly come to love him of her own free will.
His hands were gentle as they brushed her face with the damp cloth, but a chill ran the length of her spine as he gently smoothed her hair from her face.
He started to lave her body as well, but something stopped him suddenly, and he handed her the cloth instead, letting her complete the task. Good thing, because Chrestien would not abide his touch anymore than she must.
Standing, he turned from her to allow her some privacy and in doing so he noted her chamber pot had been abused yet again. He turned, a scowl darkening his face as he observed her. “Ye are breeding?”
Chrestien gasped, startled by his words.
“Aye, ’twas not clear to me at first, but I know now that ye are. Ye carry FitzStephen’ babe.”
Rolfe spat out an explosion of curses.
It was all he could do to acknowledge the fact without venting the anger he’d learned to conceal from her. He knew she was afraid unto death of him—despite the brave face she put forward. Oddly enough, it was that dauntless nature of hers that made him respect her all the more. Even though he oft felt the urge to beat her into submission, he could not allow himself to do it.
He had been prepared to hate her, for he’d not known it was possible to love her. But surely he must—how else could he explain this need to woo her and the terrible feeling of despair when she would not be appeased?
And though his desire for her was great, he could not bring himself to force himself upon her. The biggest part of him needed her acceptance of him, her consent—and he would gain it… even if it took his entire life to accomplish the task.
Rolfe sighed deeply, walking over to peer out the unshuttered window.
He knew this was no place for a gentle woman to live. No one even cared enough to seize it despite its lack of garrison. It was a pile of rubbish, a plot of fetid land where nothing would grow. Worthless leftovers from his brother, who was blind enough, foolish enough or unconcerned enough with his own blood to give him something to build upon—merely a spot on the map he valued only enough not to abandon it entirely.
He didn’t know what to do about the babe.
Could he accept the flesh and blood of another man?
He wanted Chrestien and if he sent her child away he would never gain her trust… or her love. If he kept the child and mistreated it… what then would Chrestien think of him? But he could little bear the thought of dealing with a brat child, wailing for his mama all the time.
And yet... how oft had he cursed his own father for his lack of care? Nay, he would not make such a mistake with this babe.
With a nod to himself, he decided he would raise the child as his own. And he would be a better father to the bastard than his own had been to him. Although his father had acknowledged him as his illegitimate son, he had never treated him with any affection. Aleth had been his only light—his precious heir.
Rolfe had wanted so much to have something, anything of him that would say, “You too, Rolfe, are my blood.” But there was never a thing.
He stared out at the dark horizon, seeing his old man in his mind. All these years later, he couldn’t bring himself to regret murdering the old man, and he would have killed Aleth as well, save for Gilbert’s interference.
Without doubt, Rolfe could not bring himself to regret de Lontaine’s death. But he had to give the man his due. He had raised a daughter worthy to be the w
ife of a warrior. She was her father’s daughter through and through.
Turning from the window to assess the girl once more, his lip curled into a sneer. Even unto the end, Gilbert had fought like a lion. How fitting that his device should be the golden winged Lion and his own should be the snarling red. Together, he and Chrestien would make many fine sons. In truth, looking back on it now, it was no small wonder Gilbert had kept Chrestien to himself, for it would take an extraordinary man to be worthy of a woman like her. “I take it you did not realize?”
Tears brimmed in her eyes, and after a long moment she managed to whisper, “I did not.”
“No matter…”
He started to tell her that he would care for her always and treat her son with a father’s love… but then thought better of revealing his feelings.
It was better she not know his weakness.
The time would come when she would give herself to him freely... only then would he tell her everything that was in his heart.
* * *
Weston sat, eyes closed, upon the lord’s chair in the great hall of Lontaine, his fingers entwined about the near-empty flagon he held in his grasp.
He’d searched every inch of the woodlands, and where he had not searched, Michel had in his stead. He’d checked every abbey, every hostelry... Montagneaux even. Aleth had not seen her. No one had seen her. She had simply vanished, with no one the wiser.
Aleth had even sought out his brother’s aid as far away as Poitiers, although he doubted Chrestien could have gotten so far alone. Two months now, she’d been gone... two miserable months and he could little bear it.
Henry had awarded him Lontaine, but without Chrestien, what did it matter that he was no longer a landless knight? What was there to fight for if she was not here?
A deep gulp from his flagon emptied what little remained and he lay his head back to ease the tightness in his neck. He had hoped to give his wife a memorable Christ’s mass... to make a new beginning for their wedded life together. But the hall was dark. No one sang. There was no joy.
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