by Geri Borcz
Someone nearby choked.
Juliana felt her face burn scarlet to her roots. How had she offended God to earn such a penance?
"Careful my lady," the messenger said. "'Tis a formidable weapon." And he stepped closer.
Her eyes drifted closed. She muffled a groan, a muted sound unconnected to the bump. His voice, another contradiction to his size, instead of grating and raspy, washed over her in smooth, deep tones like a dark, velvety river. Rich and enticing.
Realizing she still kissed the bow, Juliana popped open her eyes while yanking the weapon down. And caught the messenger right in the face.
He grunted. She foundered in an agony of clumsiness and stepped forward, hand outstretched toward the callused fingertips that were massaging his damaged chin.
The messenger stepped back, then mumbled through his fingers.
"God's. . .given us a day to sap the strength, my lady."
His second choice of words, she guessed from his tone.
"Oh, sir," she said. "Pray forgive my foolishness."
Flustered, she lunged to retrieve her fallen arrow and collided with the messenger’s head when he leaned to do the same.
"By the Saints," Juliana grumbled, "save me from chivalry."
"Lady, please," he growled, then cleared his throat, apparently struggling for calm. "Get inside before. . .inside where 'tis cooler."
Juliana squeezed her eyes closed. Colors danced behind her lids. When she focused again, she met a solid wall of black-clad male chest and sucked in a shaky breath. He smelled of horse, leather, and sun-drenched man.
She followed the chest up to his face. Concern had replaced his devastating smile, but amusement sparkled within his glorious blue eyes. Juliana shot a glance to his companions and saw the same reaction. Then a flood of humiliation doused her fascination.
Their wordless mockery kindled her anger and her stubborn fires. Granted she appeared far from the gentle-born woman, but how dare the knaves laugh at her?
She tilted her chin, straightened her spine, and resisted the urge to rub the stinging flesh on her face, far less abused than her pride.
"You wish to speak with my father?" she blurted without preamble, then cringed. Did he mistake her for a servant? "Ah, I am Earl Baldwin's daughter, Lady Juliana."
She watched a puzzled gaze drop to her feet and trail back up again, and cursed the blush heating her cheeks.
"The Earl has other children besides his sons?"
Juliana swiped limp hair from her eyes and retreated behind the stern mantle of castle mistress.
"Just one," she said, "and make no mistake, I am she. Now, if you please, my father is not yet here, but comes anon." She gestured to the keep, then scowled. The messenger had leaned away in reflex. "You may wait within, and tell cook I said to feed you."
In an attempt to recoup her shredded pride, Juliana mustered what dignity she could and spun on her heel, leaving the knights to fend for themselves. She berated herself for the clumsy impression.
What nonsense that the messenger's opinion should matter.
Owing the worry to frayed nerves, she hastened back to her brothers, determined to appear calm and collected for her new stepmother. To accomplish that, Juliana needed to get the two imbibers out of the way. As she walked, she sensed the full weight of sapphire eyes boring into her back.
Merely nerves you feel.
So convinced, still she inched her chin over her shoulder for a peek at the dark knight.
* * *
Rhys's temper was sorely tested by his reason for coming and by the sweltering mail. Now, as he watched Juliana flounce away, a thunderous expression darkened his features and he sucked in hot air through clenched teeth, attempting to regain control.
"That woman needs a keeper," he said to his two knights. "Tis a wonder they let her run free." He blew a harsh breath, then added, "She dares to treat me like a servant. There's much of the earl in her."
Alain vented the laugh he'd failed to suppress. "Content yerself with knowing that, as she looked down her pretty nose, it throbbed."
"Your charm doesn't desert you," said Costin, the youngest, who stepped to Rhys's side and clapped him on the shoulder. "S'truth, it fairly gallops away."
Through the teasing, Rhys watched the earl's daughter arch like a stretching cat. His gaze lingered on hips that swayed seductively within body-molding fabric.
"Think you'd fair better, Costin," Rhys said, shooting him a withering stare, "if you approached her with sweet words in one hand and yourself in the other?"
Costin clicked his tongue. "Say what you will. My chin doesn't enter now before I do."
"A woman with fire offers more challenge," said Alain. "Pity she favors her brother, Roger."
"She could wake in mud and please the eye better than he," Rhys countered.
"I meant the way Roger once looked," said Alain. "Not as his face is now."
Rhys scratched his sore chin.
"I've seen more beautiful. Still, 'tis a look about her . . . ."
He irritated himself with that admission, because his initial charity toward her had fled. Without a qualm, she wore the evidence of her love for animals on her costly gown, and Rhys had experienced a spurt of admiration. Her presence, though, surprised him.
Oh, not her wilted appearance--that she existed threw him off center. Her skirts had disguised the bow she held to her side, so was it any wonder when it flew between them, he'd lost whatever wits he'd possessed?
He snorted and flexed his fingers, still gazing at her retreating back. A disastrous beginning, and she blamed him. So? Why should that bother him?
"Merely a skirmish," he finished, and grinned. "The day is not yet won. Come! The lady so sweetly invites us to tend ourselves, so let's seek a cooling drink."
"She's no simpering maid," said Alain. He chuckled, then fell in step with the two who headed toward the keep. "And I'll not tangle with her--I prefer a woman against whom I stand a chance of winning." He hooked his thumb over his shoulder, toward the gate. "No doubt that lackwit roused her ire and has paid a dear price fer the offense."
Alain grabbed himself in a crude gesture, and all three laughed as they entered the shady interior.
Inside Baldwin's dimly lit great hall, servants were busy at their tasks and paid little attention to the newcomers who lounged at a trestle table and gulped their ale. Alain eyed a haunch of meat roasting on the spit, and Costin flirted with a buxom young thing who sprinkled dried herbs onto the rushes.
Rhys nudged his arm. "'Tisn't meet to anger the earl before we dicker, so no wenching."
"Me? She has eyes for Alain."
"Hah." Alain punched the younger knight's shoulder. "Would that it were true. We gain scant notice with yer head shining like a beacon."
Costin strummed the wheat-colored locks at his forehead, and his mouth turned in a cocky grin.
"'Tis easy," he said, "when one travels in the company of two who resemble the devil's own black demons. The maids see your ugly faces and swoon with fright."
"Well, yer in the devil's lair," said Alain, "so keep yer wits in yer chausses."
"Should we expect trouble?" Costin asked, losing all humor.
"Always expect trouble," Rhys said, trying to remain indifferent to the shouting that wafted through the opened door. Then at Costin's prodding look, added, "Adington was my late wife's dower land. 'Tis the crux of the matter."
"I don't underst--"
"I'm esteemed in Henry's service, but my neighbor is a border earl." Rhys grunted. "Were you our good king, which side in this quarrel for control of that strip of land would you avoid angering? The writ I received was couched in gentle terms, but I know a royal order when I hear one."
"Baldwin has sons," said Costin. "Settle the matter by offering your daughter--"
Rhys suppressed the stab of pure disgust that sharpened his breath and knew he had to answer the raised eyebrows. "Impossible. Baldwin and Roger share no love for me."
"You'v
e no recourse, then, except to bargain a price Baldwin will accept."
Rhys snorted, visually traced the large wooden beams over his head, onto whose surface seductive amber eyes kept intruding, then tipped his cup. "Thus far, the wily earl would gladly beggar me before settling."
* * *
Rowland mounted the steps and ordered the guard captain to let Oliver pass. Juliana refused.
"I won't suffer his insulting presence any longer."
"Insult?" Rowland smothered a curse and shook off his lethargy. "Oliver dared to insult you? Why that little. . ." His brown eyes narrowed, he clenched his meaty fists and stomped down the steps.
"And Oliver's limp?" asked Raimund.
"I expect," Agnes said, "his wound pains him."
Raimund swung his gaze to the weapon dangling in his sister's hand.
"She got him dead shot to his arse, my lord," Agnes said. "And I believe 'twill be some time before he thinks to ride."
"God's ballocks," gasped Rowland.
He halted mid-stomp, then slid down the rough wall. Once settled on the uneven step, he rested his elbow on his knee and dropped his weary chin into his palm.
"Out with it, Ana," he said, "so I know what lie to spout to Roger."
She drew herself up, appearing taller than her medium stature; her posture so rigid she'd crack in a slight wind. "I caught him laying with my women. Not just one, but two." She shot a condemning look at both brothers and her braid danced at her nod. "At the same time."
"Two?" the twins said in unison.
Juliana glowered at them for being impressed and balled her hands at her hips.
"The villagers send me their daughters," she said, "trusting I'll see they remain virtuous maids. They come to work, not for pleasure. I warned you, and I warned Oliver. If he wishes, he may part with a coin to Fat Edna in the village, but my maids he'll leave alone!"
A sneeze at her back drew Juliana's attention away from her brothers and she forced a cordial smile for Stanmore's priest.
"May I lend aid, my lady?" He sneezed again.
Juliana shook her head and whispered, "I'd hoped to clear the rabble before my father comes."
"A fine notion. Very fine," the priest said and jut his pointed chin toward the opened gate. "But I fear 'tis overlate to worry on that."
Surprised, she gasped and whirled.
There, clearing the portcullis, was her stalwart father heading a column of men. At his side rode a graceful woman atop a palfrey.
Juliana's heart dropped to her toes. Stanmore was unprepared to receive them, which didn't help her cause one bit. She narrowed her eyes as a suspicious thought inched its way to the fore. Oliver. He detained her on purpose, that lout.
As if on cue, Oliver limped through the arched gateway, clutching baggy chausses obviously donned in haste. Behind him staggered his draggled band.
Juliana inched closer to the keep's entry steps, grasping at some semblance of proper welcome while watching her father's head shift to an odd angle in Oliver's direction. He rode past the younger man without a word, but the unmistakable hulk riding behind him drew rein--her eldest brother, Roger.
As Roger questioned their cousin, guilt washed over Juliana in waves. She hid the bow behind her back, then glimpsed down at her once immaculate, but now sorely ruined gown. Hair clung to her damp face. She pushed the strands aside and inhaled a smelly breath and sighed.
Oliver would pay for his prank. This wasn't how Juliana wanted to greet her new stepmother, but it couldn't be helped.
* * *
Rhys gave in to curiosity, left his men to their foolery and crossed the smoky hall to lean against the exterior archway. He crossed his arms over his chest and squinted into the light's glare, arriving in time to witness Earl Baldwin's return.
A wraith-like creature riding beside the earl tore her fatigued gaze from an outraged lad who clasped his injured rump. She appeared sallow beneath her reddened face. Rhys followed the direction of her stare and surveyed the group assembling at the foot of the entry stairs.
To Juliana's side waddled a pinch-faced old matron in lavender whom she called Agnes. Next to her bobbed a scarecrow-thin priest, whose hand seemed an extension of his nose. And in front of him, a messy page tripped over a quiver he lugged. No doubt the lad's hair stood on end due to his angle to the sneezing priest.
Two men, identical and stocky--her brothers, Rhys knew from hearing their names--joined Juliana. Rowland staggered to her left and Raimund stumbled to her right.
Rhys's gaze rested on Juliana.
Something about her intrigued him. He blamed the errant thought on the dulling sun and shook his head clear. When her throaty voice seized him again, he cursed his interest.
"I pray this wife is more stout of heart," he heard her say just as Rowland expelled a hearty belch.
To himself, Rhys agreed.
"God answers all prayers, my lady," intoned the priest through another resounding sneeze.
The good Father spoke too soon.
Rhys watched a young mastiff bound to greet the new countess's horse, but the startled animal shied from the yelping terror. At the same time, Earl Baldwin grabbed for his wife's reins, but his was an act done much too late.
As the countess toppled from the saddle, Rhys wrinkled his face and recoiled. The poor woman nosed into a fragrant pile of horse droppings.
"And at times," Agnes grumbled, "His answer is nay."
~~~~
CHAPTER 2
Confusion erupted in Stanmore's courtyard as enough bodies rushed forward to lift one of Hannibal's monsters.
Rhys saw little need for another set of hands, so he eased his shoulder back against the doorway arch and watched the pandemonium unfold. To any with eyes, it soon became apparent why gentle-born women were a rarity along the border.
Serfs, villeins, knights and soldiers elbowed each other on their way to the countess, and all but trampled the fallen woman in their clumsy attempts to help. Shouts and bellowed curses exploded into the air, punctuated by arms that flapped in accusation and denial. Behind her, milling riders fought to control mounts that reared in frenzy and screamed their desire to join the battle they heard.
Finally, Earl Baldwin's roar blared above the melee.
He barked orders that scattered the ineffectual aid, then, after clearing room around his prostrate wife, wheeled on the nearest two men.
They possessed more brawn than brain, but jumped to their lord's bidding and hefted the petite countess between them. One grabbed her feet, the other took her shoulders, and they lugged her like a sack of grain toward the keep.
The castle-folk crowding the entrance parted a path. Rhys, too, stepped to one side, listening to the jabbering at his back. However, he noticed their fervor changed pitch with the first whiff of the lump carried up the wooden steps.
The groggy woman sagged between her bearers, swaying with their uneven rhythm, while mumbling to Agnes who hovered over her and patted one limp hand. When Agnes glanced up at Rhys, he nodded back, but the sour expression remained affixed to her plump face.
Trailing close behind them, the priest jerked with a litany of sneezes like a banner in a gusty wind. Fortunate for him, one bony hand covered his nose while the other waved the air in time with his body.
A soul had to be devout, Rhys irreverently thought, to see the man's spasm as the sign of the cross.
At the end of the line, the old earl pivoted on the top step, and to Rhys, his ashen face appeared haggard beneath his whiskers. Lines of strain etched his mouth. Baldwin bellowed more orders to his clamoring men, then oblivious to his guest, followed his wife and vanished inside before Rhys could claim his attention.
"What do you here?" said a rough voice behind Rhys.
He stiffened, turned to face the courtyard, and glanced down to the step below him.
There, beneath cropped brown hair, he met the disfigured face of the earl's eldest son. Once a handsome man, Roger now carried old battle scars, the result of
a smashing blow to his helm and nasal. Stark lines crisscrossed the right cheekbone, from forehead down to sullen jaw.
Tight-lipped and unyielding, Rhys nodded to the stocky man.
"I am come to speak with your father," he said.
Beyond Roger, Rhys saw the rest of the mounted men clear the gate and fill the courtyard, kicking up dust in their wake. Juliana was at the edge of his vision. It perplexed Rhys to see Baldwin's men ignore her, but what she did that they ignored startled him to his boots.
She faced off with the unarmed lackwit he'd seen earlier at the gate, and not only wielded her bow like a sword, but to Rhys's amazement, her moves bespoke a modicum of training.
"You surprise me, Monteux," said Roger, cutting into Rhys's bewildered thoughts and dragging his attention back. "You're seldom seen without the bastard at your side."
Roger cast an ancient stone, one aimed at Rhys's cousin, but Rhys checked his temper and refused to rise to the bait.
"I'll tell him you miss him," he said.
Roger snorted and slapped his gauntlet against his mailed thigh. Dust puffed into the air. If it rankled the ugly man that his barb missed its target, his tortured face hid his disappointment.
"My father is only just returned." Roger wiped his fingers across his sweaty forehead. "And his wife ails."
"So I gather," said Rhys. "But inform him I am come to Adington."
"You think too much of yourself. What you do matters little to him, or to me."
