She yanked at her skirt, trying to cover her naked thighs. At the same time, Axton shifted on the bed. Suddenly he let out a curt oath and caught her wrist. He jerked her skirts all the way up to her waist.
“Where is the ruby chain?”
Chapter 20
He dragged her down the stairs, through the hall, and across the bailey. He’d made a spectacle of every aspect of their dealings together, but this … For Linnea, this was by far the worst.
Her protestations were useless. Her struggles, of no moment whatsoever. Like a recalcitrant child, she was hauled past every staring eye, back to the flour closet. He had snatched a small torchère and lit it on the laundry fire. Now he pushed her into the closet and followed close behind.
“Find it!”
Linnea caught herself on a pile of burlap sacks. A cloud of fine white powder rose from where she’d landed.
“Find it!” he thundered. He advanced on her, holding the torch high so that the narrow chamber shivered with an unaccustomed light. “Find it, damn you. You will not leave this place until you wear it again. So help me God, Linnea, I swear you will not leave here!”
It pushed her beyond the edge of reason.
Although he appeared the very devil at that moment, a furious specter filled with malice, with not a shred of mercy to show, Linnea was past caring. The light quivered, red and ugly, casting awful shadows, but she saw only Axton. With a cry that mingled pain and rage and more frustration than she could restrain, she charged him.
It was like hitting the stone wall itself. He did not budge. But she had caught him unaware, for he dropped the torch. It sputtered and flared, but Linnea ignored it. Axton was her target. Axton and his hateful, hurtful ways.
She punched his stomach with both fists, though it jarred her all the way up to her shoulders. But she would not stop. She could not stop hitting him until his arms caught her in a bear hold.
“Stop this. Damn you, Linnea. Stop this, I say!”
But she couldn’t, not until she was exhausted and simply could not fight his superior strength any longer.
He held her in a smothering embrace. Somehow he’d stamped out the fallen flame before it could ignite any of the burlap sacks. Now they stood in the dark, caught in this angry embrace that was no true embrace at all.
Tears wet her cheeks, but they were tears of anger, at least. She had no intention of crying for him ever again, except, perhaps, in anger.
She tried to pull away, for to rest in his arms seemed somehow the very worst thing she could do right now. But he held her fast.
“If you want that accursed chain, then let me go,” she muttered into the smooth kersey of his tunic.
He shifted, and a fresh panic assailed her. He was aroused! Worse, in that moment of instant recognition, she became aroused too.
No. No! Her mind shouted the words. She tried again to break free of him. To her surprise and relief, however, this time he let her go.
She backed away from him until she came up against a tower of flour sacks. She stared warily at him as she fought to regain her breath. He stared too, and though the dim chamber cast them both in shadows, she sensed some change in his temper.
“Go ahead, then. Find it,” he prodded in a voice devoid of discernible emotion.
Without responding, she shoved herself away from the wall of flour and moved deeper into the storage closet. She’d flung it all the way to the back of her prison, and though it took a few minutes feeling around, she located it without any real trouble. Then she turned to face Axton.
“Here.” She flung it at him.
It hit his chest then fell to the dusty floor at his feet.
“Since we are no longer wed—not in the eyes of the Church anyway—you can have back your disgusting gift.” Emboldened by his silence, she added, “I hated wearing it.”
Still silent, he bent low and scooped it up in one hand. Even in the dim room, Linnea saw the glint of golden chain and bloodred stones, and their winking was like a mocking torment. She hadn’t entirely hated it.
Axton played a moment with the perverse length of jewelry. Then he advanced on her. But this time she did not retreat. When they were but inches apart, he halted and raised the chain until it dangled between them.
“You hated it,” he repeated her words in clipped tones. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. In any event, it has served its purpose with you. We shall see if it works so easily upon your sister,” he added.
Had he struck her fully across the face, he could not have hurt her more. Stunned, Linnea fell back a step, unaware she’d gasped. Unaware of the stark pain that covered her face.
But Axton saw it. He saw it and he was ashamed. St. Jude, would this madness between them never end?
Unable to face her a minute longer, he spun on his heel and stalked away. But with every step he felt the coward. In the face of her bravery and her pain, he felt like the lowliest of knaves.
In the ward he felt everyone’s eyes upon him. But with one sweep of his threatening glare, they all turned instantly back to their work. A silence preceded him like a wave as he stalked back to the great hall. In his wake, however, he knew the buzz would start again. He’d been made a fool of by the most improbable woman, by the least important member of his enemy’s family. By a younger daughter!
His fist clenched around the chain, tightening until the delicate stone settings cut into his flesh. Damn her! Damn her to hell!
He stormed into the hall and up the stairs, taking them three at a time. He slammed the door to the lord’s chamber, then spying the towering bed, started toward it, intent on smashing it fully to pieces this time.
But the chain in his hand stopped him. Like the winds of a storm, cut off in mid-gale, he halted just short of his objective and stared instead at the delicate jewelry. The fact was, he’d given it to her as a form of torment. Could he be angry now that she’d hated wearing it? He’d wanted her to hate it.
With a groan Axton turned away from the bed. In the beginning he’d wanted her to hate it and yet have to yield to it—and to him. But too quickly he’d abandoned his vendetta. He’d wanted her to want him. Only she hadn’t. It had all been a plot, a ruse.
So, what was he to do now?
He knew he must challenge Eustace de Montfort and win the real Beatrix to be his wife. That part was easy and he had no doubt he would succeed, though it galled him to be forced once more to win back what was rightfully his.
But what of Linnea? What was he to do with her? It was a question he had no answer for. He feared he never would.
More than anything Linnea wished to flee her hated prison. No door barred her way. No lock or guard stood between her and the inner ward. Should she wish to flee the very castle itself, she suspected that she could do so. Just walk away and disappear into the forest and never again speak nor hear nor even think the name of Maidenstone Castle. Or of its lord, Axton de la Manse.
If only there was a way, she mourned. But how could she abandon her sister? And anyway, where would she go? What would she do?
For a long, dark while she remained in the storage room. She needed to regain her composure. She needed to know where she would proceed when she finally emerged.
With an effort she controlled her frantic breathing and slowed her heart’s violent race. She battled tears too, but that struggle was harder to win. She was never going to cry over him again, she vowed. But then she would remember some tender word, or some exquisitely thrilling moment they’d shared, and tears once again would threaten.
“Fool!” she accused herself. “You are an utter fool!” But that knowledge offered her no solace.
When finally she forced herself to move, she decided to seek out her father. He was her only ally, though Axton’s mother—She stopped short on that thought. She could no more decipher the Lady Mildred’s intentions than she could decipher her son’s.
Determined to leave the flour closet with her head high and her dignity intact, she started forward again. Near the
door her foot kicked something small and hard. It ricocheted against the wall and came to rest just beyond the doorway. A tiny, glinting jewel.
Linnea stared at it with a mixture of horror and fascination. It was one of the rubies, one of the jewels that had adorned the chain. It must have come loose when she flung the awful thing at his chest.
But it had not been entirely awful, some part of her countered. Not entirely.
She sent a furtive glance around to see if anyone else had seen it. Her hand trembled as she reached for the tiny ruby. Her fingers shook so badly she almost dropped it. Just the feel of it, small and sharp in her fist, was enough to make her dissolve all over again. But she forced herself to be stalwart.
Axton would miss it, she knew. When he gave the chain to Beatrix he would notice the gold setting missing its stone.
But he would not find the jewel, she vowed. Not ever! She would hide it and keep it and … and use it as a way to escape, she decided. It would provide her with the means to leave this place forever—and Beatrix with her, she thought, elaborating her plan. She and Beatrix would use this ruby to buy themselves a place in a convent.
It was a pitiful plan, she knew. But at least it gave her some goal, some future to focus upon. Meanwhile, however, she must go to her father and await the arrival of the young duke Henry, and the rest of her scattered family.
Peter sat upon the parapet. His feet hung over the edge as he stared out at the village of Maidenstone. He had found a seam of loosened mortar, and now he tossed the pebbles, one by one, out into the void, watching them plunge silently into the dark moat. A perfect circle of ripples was all that marked each pebble’s entry into the still water. He was too high to hear the sound of water yielding to stone. But he saw the results.
Not that it mattered. Not that it signified anything. Not that it was even particularly entertaining. He tossed out another bit of stone. It was just something to do.
“There you are.”
He turned his head at the sound of his mother’s voice. “You should not have climbed up here,” he admonished her when he spied her flushed cheeks. “You could have sent your maid to seek me out.”
“I may be old, but I am not yet so infirm that I cannot roam any portion of Maidenstone that I wish.” She leaned against the merlon on his left, silent a moment. “I remember how pleased your father was when the walls of this castle were finally completed. This was the last section,” she said, sliding her hand along the top edge of the rough stone, as if it somehow comforted her. “How dearly he loved this place.”
Peter sighed. His father’s memory was not strong in his mind. He’d been but a little child when Allan de la Manse had fallen. In truth, Axton had been more father to him than had his true sire.
“Axton loves Maidenstone as well as did our father.”
Lady Mildred looked a long moment at him. “Do you imply that you do not?”
Peter shrugged. “It is a fine fortress. I do not deny that. It would seem, however, that it is not a place destined to bring happiness to our family. I much prefer our stronghold in Caen.”
His mother smiled. “’Tis just as well then, for Castell de la Manse shall be yours when you are of an age.”
“Mine?” Peter leaped to his feet, unmindful of his precarious perch. “In truth, Mother?” Then he paused. “What has Axton to say on this matter?”
“He agrees. He knows you see it as your true home, as he sees this place as his.”
Peter grimaced. “He may see it as his home, but as of yet it does not bring him any happiness. I wonder if it ever shall.”
He did not have to elaborate, for she clearly knew what he meant. His mother turned to look down into the bailey. “I confess this only to you, my son, but I am torn. I do not wish him to fight this Sir Eustace, and if he is hurt—” She broke off and he could see her chin quiver. “If he is hurt, I shall never forgive her. But I fear also, that even a victory over Eustace will not bring him ease.”
“He loves her,” Peter stated, taken aback that he and his mother had come to the same unbelievable conclusion.
“I believe he does.”
Peter lowered himself from the parapet. “Mayhap he will come to love the other sister as well. They are said to be the very image of one another.”
At that his mother smiled. “Identical in their appearance they may well be. But it is not the face that sustains love. It is something far deeper. If that is what he has found with this girl …” She trailed off, no longer smiling.
For a long moment they stayed silent upon the castle wall. Somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled its ill-tempered threat. The sky hung low and gray, and the wind had begun a fitful assault upon them. Then in the distance, they spied a rider galloping full tilt toward the castle.
“Young Henry comes,” Lady Mildred murmured. “I think I will visit the chapel before the duke arrives.”
Peter watched her turn and slowly depart. She was old, he realized, and she’d suffered much loss in her life. But still she was a lady, gracious even to her enemies, which Linnea most assuredly was.
He frowned. If he ever wed—when he wed, he amended. As a landed knight which he now was—or would be, when he was knighted—he would have to wed in order to beget an heir. When he wed, he hoped he could find a woman as noble and refined as his mother.
Even as he thought of his mother, he spied Linnea across the castle yard, darting from the kitchen storage rooms toward the barracks. He’d heard she was no longer confined. She probably was seeking her father to tell him of the coming confrontation.
He frowned at that. She was ever the warrior wench, it seemed. Though she was without argument a beauty, she was nonetheless too bold for his tastes. She could learn much by emulating his mother, he decided. How to be a proper lady. How to know her place. How to care for her husband and create order all around her, though the world beyond be in total chaos.
The wind thrust his hair into his eyes and he turned against it to watch Linnea disappear around a corner of the chapel. For a short while she’d seemed content to be Axton’s wife. Now they all knew the farce she’d played.
Peter shook his head. Poor Axton. He’d seemed to have tamed her, only to learn, to his humiliation, that he’d done no such thing. Now he must do the same with the other sister.
God help this other de Valcourt bitch if she were anything like her devious sister!
Chapter 21
Henry Plantagenet, Duke of Normandy, entered Maidenstone with all the pomp of a king. But then, it was king he claimed to be, king of England and heir to all the lands his grandfather, Henry I, had ruled a score of years before. His mother, Matilda, had fought Stephen to regain her lands. But it was her youthful son, a brilliant strategist though only nineteen years old, who was succeeding already. He’d stormed Britain, fanned across the entire countryside in his march toward London, and with an astounding lack of bloodshed, had claimed the land his own.
But he seemed intent on seeing blood shed at Maidenstone, Axton brooded. In the guise of sport he would allow two of his nobles to settle their opposing claims by spilling their blood before him. It was Henry’s greatest strength: He assembled powerful nobles around him but kept them at odds with one another and, therefore, loyal only to him.
Axton steeled himself for the coming hours. Maintaining a semblance of civility would be his hardest test. Entertaining Eustace and Beatrix under Henry’s amused observation would strain every bit of his patience. What he wanted was to draw out the other man now. This very minute. Challenge him. Fight him. Defeat him. Then get on with things.
But Henry would never allow the game to be played under any rules but his own. And as Axton’s liege lord, his word was law.
So Axton waited on the stairs to the great hall, then descended when Henry’s milk-white stallion pranced forward.
“Welcome to Maidenstone Castle, my lord,” Axton said, taking his liege’s hand in the required show of obeisance.
Henry looked around the bai
ley, missing nothing with his quick gaze. “I was wont to see this noble assembly of Hampshire stone, which two of my ablest nobles would both claim.” He shrugged then looked down at Axton from his lofty mount. “’Tis a sturdy place, but grim. Nothing like the Tower in London, where Stephen does yet reside,” he added with a wolfish grin. “Come, show me to your table, for I am famished.”
Henry dismounted. Behind him a tall knight urged his steed nearer, then dismounted as well. “De la Manse,” the man muttered his greeting with a grudging nod and an assessing stare.
“De Montfort,” Axton returned. But before he could turn away from the man de Montfort spoke again.
“You have not yet met the Lady Beatrix de Valcourt. My fiancée,” he added in a taunting tone.
Axton had spied the slender figure on the cream-colored palfrey. Her pale golden cloak and hood had blended with the pretty animal so that she appeared a golden creature, a mythical centaur, half winsome maid, half prancing steed. But he had not looked longer than that first glance. Something in him did not want to see her, this woman he was prepared to kill a man to possess.
Now, though, he must see her.
“Come, my love,” Eustace commanded, holding a gloved hand out to her. A page led both woman and horse right up to the steps. Her back was turned to Axton and he saw only her slender arms and hands as she reached down to Eustace for his aid. But then she looked over her shoulder, just for a fraction of a second. Still, it was long enough for Axton to be stunned.
Though he’d known they were twins and shared the same face and eyes and hair, he was nevertheless completely stunned.
It was Linnea. It was Beatrix, he knew, but it was Linnea too. He was momentarily speechless, a state Duke Henry was quick to note.
“Ah, but she is a beauty, is she not, Axton? Fair and innocent. And the prize that you and Eustace do compete over. But where is her sister? I would see the lively wench who has fooled my most able lord.” He laughed out loud and it took all of Axton’s self-discipline not to react to the insult implied. Instead he smiled.
The Maiden Bride Page 27
