by Ann Lawrence
“Would Prince John do that? To his own brother?”
Gilles stopped his packing and smiled cynically at her. “My sweet. If John and Richard could conspire against their father—why not one another? ‘Tis why we barons will meet. To prevent chaos from following these ill events.
“It was Richard’s charge to me to see to the loyalties of certain of his lesser barons whilst he is gone. This coil will surely bring every grasping fool from the woodwork to snatch what they may of Richard’s.”
Emma rushed forward and touched his arm. “Will you be fighting?”
He looked down at her hand and she snatched it back. He caught her fingers and drew her close. “Aye. Mayhap. Political turmoil breeds unrest at all levels. Remember the massacres of the Jews of York? England does not need a repeat of such a disaster.”
Massacre. A chill entered the warm room. What if he fell in battle?
“Will you send me with your blessing?” he asked.
He kissed her and all thought of his anger or her position fled her mind in the fear that he might be injured or killed. “Aye, my lord. Go with God.” She held him tightly to her. She tried and failed to say she loved him. A man who talked of emperors and kings did not love his weaver. The most she could offer him was her prayers.
* * * * *
“‘Tis a chore,” Gilles sighed as he oversaw the disposition of his men.
“Aye. ‘Tis a chore to ride and fight and wield a sword again.” Mark Trevalin grinned. “You and Roland have missed such a chance, I beg to say. Your swords grow limp with inactivity.”
Gilles joined Roland in a guilty smile as Trevalin continued to taunt them with references to old swords. Both Roland and Gilles itched to be gone. Despite the gravity of King Richard’s position, both hoped for a skirmish to test their skills. Roland clapped Gilles on the shoulder and went off to make his farewells to Sarah.
Gilles went to the hall for a final adieu to Emma. He watched William move about the hall, laughing, teasing the serving wenches, buffeting the young knights and squires. Gilles’ chest tightened. William’s every move was followed by the females of the hall. Each woman watched him for a different reason, though all seemed to admire him for his comeliness. Gilles must admit that William was a fine warrior.
Emma came from the chapel, and although she appeared to be oblivious to William, Gilles saw that William’s body had tensed at her presence. With great subtlety, William worked his way to the side of the hall by Emma and her table. Gilles could see that whatever William was saying to Emma, she was persistently shaking her head in negation. Gilles could not stop himself, he strode to the young people.
“Damnation, Emma—my lord. Are you ready to depart?” William straightened at Gilles’ approach, yet ‘twas obvious to Gilles he’d cut off some personal conversation between the two.
“See to our mounts, William. I’d like to leave as soon as the horses are ready.”
Gilles watched Emma. Her face was flushed and she avoided his eyes.
“Emma, we leave within the hour. Is there anything you need before I go?”
“Nothing, my lord. It is most kind of you to inquire. I will be safe here.”
“Look at me.” Gilles hated the sound of supplication that colored his words. Emma looked up, rose to her feet, and gave him her total attention.
“Go with God, my lord,” she said into the silence. “The hours will be empty with you gone.”
A flush of satisfaction replaced his apprehension. “Come,” he said. Then added, “Please.”
“Such soft words, my lord, how could I refuse?”
William watched them walk out of the hall. He cursed softly. He hadn’t given Emma a thought until he’d noticed Lord Gilles’ interest. Envy gnawed at him. He wanted to wield the power of a Gilles d’Argent. One day barons would listen to him. He only needed a wealthy wife. With a fat purse and a place at court, he could be a man of influence.
In the meantime, as a small child wants what he cannot have, William wanted Emma. He’d had her once. He’d have her again.
* * * * *
Emma followed Gilles into his chamber. She was so close behind Gilles that when he turned she was almost touching him. He ran his knuckles down her soft cheek. As he studied her flawless skin, watched her eyes watch him, she turned her head and kissed his palm.
“I am sorry, my lord, that you will miss the Christmas celebrations,” she said.
He shrugged. Hard on Christmas came Epiphany. “I hold little liking for the trappings of the season.”
She wrapped her arms about his waist and laid her head on his chest. “‘Tis said your hall is decked with pine and delicacies from the Holy Land will grace even the lowest table.”
“I will miss only the scent of our skin,” he whispered against her hair. “Yearn only for the taste of you.”
Emma lifted her face and studied his. “Do not go,” she said softly, her arms unconsciously tightening on his waist. “It will all be but empty revelry without you.”
For a moment, they said nothing, then he kissed her forehead, gently, but with a possessiveness he could not conceal. “Why me?” he asked. Her answering smile warmed his bleak heart.
“‘Tis a mystery, my lord. I just know that I have but to see the shape of your profile, the line of your shoulder, your hand upon the table…and I want to touch you. I know when you have entered a room, long before I see you—I feel it deep within my body.”
Gilles’ mouth went dry. Her words struck him silent.
After many moments, he found his voice, licked his dry lips and searched for some hint she wanted William. “Surely there are others who have much more to offer you.”
Emma shook her head in vehement denial and squeezed her arms about his waist. “No man has offered me more. No man is your equal. You are cool, calm still water. You are sleek strength, like oak carved for a great purpose. You are sweet reason to my madness. I see you and I want to touch you.”
He groaned at the power her words had over him. He clasped her tightly to him and knew the last place he wished to spend the night was on the road.
* * * * *
A fortnight later, William Belfour rode across the drawbridge and onto the slick stones of the bailey. Behind him rode seven men-at-arms. They were weary and wet, sent on a mission to gather more men. Gilles could not do it himself. He’d been forced to lay siege to Castle Woodleigh in an endeavor to oust a baron who was determined to take advantage of Richard’s imprisonment to seize as much property as he could.
The vassal had refused to accept terms and, with stifled delight, Gilles had set his siege in motion. William had volunteered to marshal more forces. He’d ridden to the d’Argent vassals and called upon those who owed their forty days. Next, he’d traveled down the coast to Seaswept and summoned Nicholas d’Argent to his father’s side.
How he hated the man. In possession of a wealthy manor for no more reason than the luck of paternity. Mayhap Nicholas would fall to a sword or eat tainted meat at the siege site, and Lord Gilles would need another to command Seaswept.
William knew there were no more men to be had at Hawkwatch, but when the weather had turned brutal, William had used it as an excuse to make his way there, rather than travel the extra miles to the siege site. He’d justify himself later.
Tweaking the cheek of the serving wench who’d just breathed a blatantly sexual invitation, William smiled. “Have a bath brought to Lord Gilles’ chamber and…come yourself, Beatrice.”
“Aye, Sir.” Beatrice hurried off to obey his request, thrilled that she had been so favored. When the deep wooden tub was filled with steaming water, she stood hesitantly in the shadows until the kitchen boys were gone and then stepped forward. William stood naked by the tub, one hand drifting back and forth in the water, boldly aroused.
“Well?” he asked. Beatrice hurried forward. She shivered a moment as she sank to her knees by the side of the tub. His eyes were cold and distant, as if his thoughts lay elsewhere. That
he knew she was there, however, was evident as he locked his hands into her hair and pulled her roughly to face him. “There be few as privileged as you, Beatrice, yet are you easily replaced. Please me well and I may call upon you again to assist me.”
William’s words frightened Beatrice. His tone and words were not gentle or inviting—they were hard and coldly spoken. She desperately wished for a life far from her father’s mill, but scrubbing Lord Gilles’ floors was not far enough. Mayhap with Sir William she would find a future of ease. She took him in her hand and tried her hardest to please, but her nervousness made her clumsy and rough with him.
As many women before her had been mistaken, so now was Beatrice. William would never seek a common maid’s attentions for long. He used her merely to assuage his ache. If ever he wed, he’d reach for wealth and position. ‘Twas the reason he’d scorned Emma and her child.
“Enough,” he ordered, as Beatrice continued her ministrations even after his release. He turned abruptly away and stepped over the side of the tub, sinking into its still steaming depths. “Bathe me,” he ordered abruptly.
Beatrice stared at him, bewildered. He had closed his eyes. She took up a cloth and soaked it before reaching into a nearby pot of soft soap. She worked up a lather and started to scrub his chest.
“Jesu,” he exclaimed, snatching the cloth from her hand. “You’re as rough as a wild boar. You’re no better at washing than you are at pleasuring. The calluses on your hands are rivaled only by the clumsiness of your tongue. Be gone.”
Beatrice shot to her feet as if burned; indeed, her face flamed and her hands shook. “But, William, I-I wish a chance—”
“Can you not obey, either? Do you need a strapping? I’ll need to find another to service me since I feel ill-satisfied from this encounter. Mayhap you could redeem yourself by finding me another—one more gentle, with smooth hands and soft lips. Be gone.”
If he’d shouted the words, they’d have hurt less. Beatrice was used to her father’s cuffs and shouted orders. It was the cold quietness of William’s words that sliced her to pieces. As she flew to the door, he repeated his last request.
“Bring me another wench, quickly.” Out the door she ran, took the stairs two at a time, tears obscuring her vision. She stopped on the last round of the staircase and looked wildly back up whence she’d come. Surely everyone would know she’d been favored and discarded—as she was so soon back at her duties from Lord Gilles’ chamber. And whom could she find to replace her? Everyone would scorn her if she had to summon another to take her place.
* * * * *
Emma rounded the turn in the stair and nearly ran into Beatrice who sat on a step, face buried in her hands.
“What’s the matter?” Emma dropped down beside her. She picked up the edge of her apron and wiped away tears and grime dislodged by the unexpected cleansing.
“That one! ‘E angers me so.”
“Who?”
“‘Im. ‘Im!” She flung an arm up toward Gilles’ chamber. Emma suddenly knew to whom Beatrice referred. She’d seen the girl trailing William up the stairs not so long ago. “Dry your eyes and tell me if William hurt you.”
“‘E…‘e said my lips were chapped, my hands rough and clumsy. ‘E found me unworthy.” Beatrice laid her head on her knees and choked on her sobs.
“Don’t, child.” Emma tucked Beatrice’s fair hair into her headcovering. “Go back to the kitchen and have some warm milk with a little honey. You’ll feel much better.”
“Nay, nay, ye don’t understand. ‘E bid me find another…another…one with softer hands—” Beatrice sobbed. “‘Ow could ‘e do this? ‘E wrote me a song.” She buried her face in her apron.
Emma’s heart ached for the girl. She knew the power of William’s songs.
Beatrice lifted her red eyes to Emma’s. Her voice was a strangled whisper. “‘E sang to me. Fair as the moon, ‘e said I were.”
“Oh, Beatrice.” So much for a new song for each new wench. Emma lifted Beatrice’s head and again wiped her cheeks, looked into her large blue eyes. She took up one of Beatrice’s work-roughened hands. “These calluses have been earned honestly. Don’t let him shame you so. You must not be lured by honeyed words. Save yourself for a more worthy man—a man as good as Mark Trevalin. I think he shows great interest in you. Did he not show you great favor at the Christmas feasting? Did he not present you with a token?”
Beatrice sniffed and wiped the back of her hand under her nose. “‘E did. A ribbon wiv a lock ‘o ‘is ‘air.” Then she looked above. “Mark is not so ‘andsome as Sir William.”
Anger surged through Emma. “William is not worth Mark Trevalin’s right arm. I will deal with Sir William.”
She patted Beatrice on the shoulder and climbed the stairs. When she reached Gilles’ chamber, she was so angry she pounded the door fiercely. How dare William presume to take the lord’s chamber whilst he was gone?
“Enter.” William stood naked before the fire, warming his hands. “Surely you are most eager,” he said, turning to see which maid came so demandingly to seek him. A grin lit his face as he saw who stood in the open doorway.
“Eager is not how I would describe my mood, William. You are the lowest, vilest man I have ever met,” Emma said from the doorway. His casual nakedness further angered her. She was about to slam the door and leave the sight of him when, like lightning, he was across the room, snatching her into the chamber. They struggled a moment, William only holding her with one hand as he shut and bolted the door. When he was able to use two hands, he trapped Emma against the stout oak. The iron latch dug painfully into her back. She fell still to give herself relief and became aware that William was panting, not from exertion, but from exhilaration.
“Nay, Emma, fight me more. Fight me.” He bent his head and claimed her mouth, silenced her protests. Despite the sharp pain of the latch, she fought him. But he was a seasoned warrior, and she, a woman skilled only at weaving. He had her skirts up and his hand between her thighs before she could stop him. He whispered erotic words and groaned in her ear as she fought his questing fingers. Emma took advantage of being held by only one hand to slip her own hand to her belt. She slowly drew forth her eating dagger, gritted her teeth as William groped more forcefully for entrance, and slashed out at him.
“Bitch!” he roared and released her. He stepped back and examined the deep slice Emma had carved in his upper arm.
Emma put one hand on the latch.
“Open that door and I’ll pursue you just as I am and proclaim you my whore to all below. I am sure Lord Gilles will take exception to such news.”
Emma froze. Satisfied as Emma stood motionless, he smiled. “Ah, I have your attention.”
“William, you surpass all that is evil.” Emma shook inside yet held the knife steady before her.
“Me? Evil? You sought me here, Emma. Now what would Lord Gilles think if I told him you sought me in his chambers and took your pleasure of me?”
Emma could only stare open-mouthed at his audacity. He stood squarely before her, arms outstretched. Blood dripped from his wound to puddle on the wooden floor. “Come, Emma. Put aside your knife and temper and let me make you scream with delight. Surely, ‘twill be far more pleasurable to lie with me than with an old man.” He took a step forward but stopped when Emma lifted her knife.
“I know how to use this, William. Stand back.” She avoided looking at his heavily aroused body and took in instead the face that had once held her in thrall. She recognized the guile in his smile now, saw the menace twist his lips as he whispered.
“How will you explain drawing my blood here?” He lowered his arms and then coated his fingers with his own blood. He stepped forward and raised the bloody fingers to her as if in invitation. “Come, sweet Emma, lick this blood from my body.” He laughed and drew his bloody fingers across his belly and over his manhood.
Emma frantically searched for words to stay his progress for he drew ever nearer. She knew she could do ser
ious damage with her blade, but she also knew their contest would have only one possible victor. He was Angelique’s father.
She had not the will to harm him.
Chapter Eleven
“Come, sweet, I shiver at the thought of you lapping up every red drop of blood you’ve drawn.”
“Stay!” Emma ordered. “What makes you think Gilles would believe you over me? He treasures me. He would not hesitate to punish one whom I accused of rape.”
Her words reached him. William froze and tilted his head. The fire cast his hair into a silver blaze. It gilded his body, made him beautiful, powerful, masculine. But Emma could see beyond his fine face and form now. She saw the coldness in his eyes. She saw a man at war with desire and ambition.
“If he treasures you so greatly, why are you naught but whore to him?”
His words sliced into her heart as surely as her knife had sliced into his arm, but then she remembered the way Gilles had looked at her before he’d left. Her words carried the sure ring of conviction. “I do not think Lord Gilles thinks of me as a whore. Shall I tell him instead to think of me as your wife?”
William sneered, but his words lacked heat. “Leman. Whore. Wife. What is a name? But mayhap we should call this contest a draw—but only for this once. Come so boldly to me again, Emma, and I’ll know you do wish to resume where we left off. I’ll have you beg for it, on bended knee, you bitch. I vow it.”
“How easily vows come to your lips.” Finally, she felt some measure of control over him.
“Get back to your bastard.” He turned, strode to the tub, and splashed water on his wound.
Emma edged to the door and was through it in a trice. She sheathed her knife with a quick thrust of the blade. She stood at the head of the stairs where the sounds from the busy hall drifted up to her. For the first time she walked boldly down, head up, ready to challenge any who might look at her with derision. What had been her heartache now had become her weapon.
