LordoftheKeep

by Ann Lawrence

  “Take your muddy boots from my fine bed—now.” Gilles’ words were softly spoken, but the menace in his voice was real.

  Angelique, sensing his displeasure, slipped her fingers into his, and hid her face against his knee as he spoke. William rose hastily and swung his feet to the ground.

  “Forgive me, my lord. I forgot myself.”

  “So I see.” He lifted Angelique into his arms. The images that had risen in his mind tormented him—Emma kneeling over William’s huge phallus. Her carnal kiss of the previous night had stunned him. Now he knew her tutor.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gilles found no joy in the fine supper of sauced partridges and leek pie. A traveling troupe of mummers did not amuse him either, for they baited the women of the hall. Their ribald songs and poems chafed at him. He was not pleased at the women’s blushing discomfort, or Emma’s in particular. Worse, William entered into the amusements. His rich voice held every woman of the keep enthralled. Silence fell whenever he sang. The room was mesmerized by his words, the richness of his voice.

  Gilles lifted his hand. William caught the barely perceptible gesture, gave a nod, and brought the song to a close.

  One woman wept as William’s song ended. Emma sat stone-faced.

  “A voice to match the face,” Nicholas d’Argent remarked to the company as he lifted his tankard of ale. “I would imagine he’s had every woman worth having hereabout.”

  Gilles bit back a sharp retort. He shifted his gaze from his bastard son to his legitimate one. The two men held little resemblance to one another save height, breadth of shoulder, and fierce fighting ability.

  Nicholas had blue eyes, too, but a soft blue, like his mother Margaret’s. His arched brows and full lower lip all reminded him of Margaret. Only Nicholas’ black hair, long reach, and sure foot were his. And mayhap his sharp tongue and quick temper.

  Beatrice leaned between them and refilled Nicholas’ tankard. She issued him a silent invitation. His son seemed oblivious. It pleased him. Gilles liked Catherine, his son’s wife, very much. It would sadden him to know that so soon after the nuptials, Nicholas sought another woman. A few months ago, he wouldn’t have cared if Nicholas was constant; a few years ago he wouldn’t have known it mattered.

  “Will Catherine ever forgive me for calling you away over the Christmas season?” Gilles asked, smiling as he pictured the tiny woman who had captured his son’s heart.

  An answering smile lit Nicholas’ face. “Aye. As she still stands in total awe of you, she would forgive you anything. But I should soon return. How can we get you your first grandchild if I am here and she is there?”

  Gilles’ face stiffened. He already had a grandchild—one he could not acknowledge. “Then, by all means, provision your party and take to the road.”

  Gilles left the table abruptly, but a few moments after he had gained his chamber, the door opened and Emma slipped in as silently as a wraith.

  She took his hand and led him to a seat by the fire. Acting the part of squire, she eased his clothing off, taking each piece and laying it carefully aside. She slipped out of her own clothing and wrapped his black silk robe about her. The sleeves hung inches too long at the cuff, the hem trailed like a train behind her. She returned to where he sat naked, feet outstretched to the leaping flames at the hearth. Slowly, she skimmed her fingertips along the tendons knotted in his neck. Gooseflesh broke out on his arms.

  He captured her hand and pulled her around to stand between his thighs. Very slowly, she sank to her knees, then sat back on her heels. Her breath felt hot in her chest, her heart seemed to stutter.

  Here, kneeling at the fire before him, she felt the full weight of his scrutiny. All about them receded—the sounds in the hall below, the call of a sentry overhead. He leaned forward and pulled the knot at her waist. With a soft smile, he opened the silky material and slid it from her shoulders, baring her breasts. Cool air swirled across her skin, tightened her nipples. A heady, powerful feeling swept through her. She desired him, only him, saw in his eyes, the flare of his nostrils, that he met her desire, wanted her with an equal ardor.

  Flames leapt in the hearth, reflected in his black eyes, bronzed his skin. He lifted his hand, but she shook her head. With a low moan, he let his hand fall back to the armrest.

  Emma placed her hands on his knees and using the same light touch as she’d used on his neck, she skimmed her fingers down and up his calves, behind his knee and then finally coming to rest, hands spread high on his thighs.

  “Mon Dieu,” he gasped.

  “Gilles,” Emma whispered, “I felt every moment of your absence, here.” She touched her breast, then returned her hand to him, tightening her fingers, feeling the leap of his thigh muscles.

  “Emma,” he said. “I—”

  The door swung open. “Father?”

  An icy breeze swept the room. Emma froze, then fumbled the robe closed. Gilles leapt to his feet, stepped in front of her, and snatched up his tunic. “Nicholas!”

  Nicholas! Emma quailed. Gilles’ son!

  The young man standing in the chamber doorway flushed red and backed hastily through the door. “Forgive me.” The door banged shut behind him.

  Gilles swore, pulled the tunic over his head, and jerked the door open. “Nicholas. What is it?” he called after the swiftly retreating figure of his son.

  Nicholas turned on the stairs. He shrugged and held up a stoppered skin one might use to hold wine. “I had forgotten in the confusion of the siege. Catherine sent this for you. She said, that is…I just…” he stammered.

  Gilles decided to act as if naught were amiss; he went to his son. “What is it?”

  “Oil. For your back. She knows how your back aches…”

  * * * * *

  Emma hid behind the screen in the corner of Gilles’ chamber until the men’s murmured conversation ended. The door opened. She bit her lip and buried her face in her hands. Her face flamed.

  “Emma?” She opened her eyes. Gilles hung a skin by the fire, and then turned to her, his expression wary.

  She flew into his arms, clutched him fiercely. “Oh, Gilles, what must he think? Finding me on my knees, t-t-touching you—”

  His grip grew painful; he jerked her away from him and held her at arm’s length. “I care not what he thinks.”

  For a moment they stood in silence, the only sound the crackling of the fire. She looked away first. “Of course. It…it matters not.”

  Gilles knew she was lying. Her face was pale, two bright spots of color high on her cheeks. “He will know to send a servant next time he wishes a word with me.”

  “I must go.” She dropped the robe and fumbled for her clothing.

  He snatched her shift from her hand and threw it on the bed. “You must go? Why? Lest my son think what is truth? You service me here?”

  He wished the words snatched back into his mouth.

  “Service you?” He saw the muscles of her throat work. “Is that all this is to you?” she asked, her words barely a whisper.

  “Of course not. But you have told me quite clearly, you are free for nothing more.”

  Her cheeks flushed a deep red. “And do the king’s knights offer more than this to their weavers, my lord, should they be free, that is?” She swept a hand to the bed.

  He committed worse folly. “You come for your comfort.”

  “Do I?” She backed away and groped in the bedclothes for her shift.

  Her question kindled a fire in him. Fatigue and jealousy, a dangerous mix, drove words from his lips. “You give me no indication of anything more.”

  Every jealous thought that had crossed his mind since meeting Emma reared its head to be examined anew. Every gesture, every glance in William’s direction, every word she spoke came under scrutiny. Lastly, he condemned himself for wanting the mother of his grandchild.

  He knew he would soon be half-crazed and take her with violence if he did not gain control of his envy. He might never know if Emma chose him o
ver William by choice or by the necessity of William’s rejection of her.

  She jerked her clothing on with agitated hands. In a trice, she was gone.

  He would never ask.

  He would never know.

  * * * * *

  Emma found Gilles in a small chamber off the chapel, a room with real glass in the windows. The walls held several shelves filled with rolled parchments she supposed were castle records. To her amazement, she saw a number of books, too. One lay open on the table before him. He intently studied one page.

  “May I ask what you are reading?”

  His head came up, his eyes widened as she closed the door behind her. “What are you reading?” she asked again, coming to his side.

  Gilles frowned. “I am looking over this old book, a gift from Abbot Ramsey to my father for a window my father gifted the abbey. A collection of the Abbot’s favorite psalms, and so forth. Of no importance.” He made a move to close the book, but she placed a hand over his.

  “What beautiful work.” Emma leaned over his shoulder. Her scent filled his head, distracted him, but he desperately wanted to close the book. “What is the meaning of this lovely work?” Her finger hovered over the large ‘C’ that began the page.

  He cleared his throat. “It represents man’s journey through life.” At the lower hook of the letter a babe rested; climbing the curved back was a young man, hand outstretched, as if to claim a prize; and at the top of the letter, hair grizzled, clung an old man, his life done.

  “Read it to me.” She leaned on his shoulder as if no harsh words had come between them.

  He stalled. “You cannot read?” The room was stifling, kept over warm to dry the air and prevent decay of the documents. Sweat bloomed on his body.

  With a quick touch, she tapped his cheek. “Oh, aye, I can read, but ill. I would prefer to hear the words from your lips.”

  Gilles cleared his throat. “Cast me not off in the time of old age; forsake me not when my strength fails.” How the words tore at him. How could he have been reading just this page when she’d arrived?

  “Beautiful. You have a wonderful voice for reading.”

  Before she could ask for more, Gilles closed the book. He redirected her attention by pointing out the marvelous gilding of the leather cover. “Had you need of me?”

  Emma moved around to the front of the table and faced him. “Nay. But I regret our angry words. Forgive me?”

  He smiled. “There is nothing to forgive. I fear I was out of sorts—too long from Hawkwatch.”

  For a moment, they just smiled at each other. Then she frowned. “There is a boy from the village, Gilles, he has nowhere to go; his parents are dead.” She knotted her hands.

  “Shall I take him in?”

  Her eyes grew round. “You would do that? Take the child into your household?”

  He shrugged and reclined back in his seat, stretched out his legs, and stroked his mustache. “If it would please you, aye.”

  “I fear he is a thief.” She rested her hip on the table and laughed. “Yet, he might make you a worthy page if you lock up that pouch of jewels you have in your coffer.”

  He loved the way her eyes gleamed like sapphires in the afternoon sunlight that shone through the window.

  “But I have another plan,” Emma said.

  “Pray tell.” Impulsively, he rose, circled the table, scooped her into his arms, and returned to his seat. She settled into his lap as if she’d always curled there.

  “The boy worships your armorer.” Gilles stroked his hand from her knee to her ankle. When he tried to slip his hand under her hem, she slapped his wrist.

  “Big Robbie?” Gilles accepted her rebuke and linked his hands about her hip. “He is a man much to be admired—and he and his wife are childless. Do I understand the turn of your thoughts?”

  “Perfectly. And the child’s name is Robert—”

  “Soon to be called Little Robbie.”

  “Big Robbie can teach the boy his craft; the child need no longer steal—or starve.”

  Gilles kissed her neck. “You are as lovely inside as out.” This time when he slid his hand beneath her hem, she did not stop him. Her skin was warm and silky against his palm.

  When duty called Gilles away, a few minutes later, Emma blushed at how boldly he’d touched her. She sat in his chair, chin propped on hands. They’d not discussed what had passed between them, but at least the thieving little boy would have a home—and a chance—before he must forfeit one of his hands.

  The beauty of the book lying on the table drew her. Before she touched it, she wiped her hands down her skirt, then tried to find the page from which Gilles had read.

  Another artful page caught her eye, where delicate shades of greenery entwining a letter ‘W’. Her throat constricted.

  Who is she that looketh forth as the morning,

  fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as

  an army with banners?

  Army? Banners? That was not the way William had sung it. And how could William’s song be here? Her stomach lurched.

  She turned the pages rapidly, looking forward, backward, heedless of their value.

  His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely.

  This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters

  of Jerusalem.

  His mouth? Anger filled her. “What a fool you are,” she said aloud to herself in the small chamber.

  Each page of the holy book, each verse, seemed to be from the scriptures. She didn’t understand the words—they were surely not meant to be understood by mortal woman, but some things were now as clear as spring rain…William was not only a liar, and a seducer of women, he was also a blasphemer.

  And she was a fool.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gilles paced the perimeter of Hawkwatch near the hour of midnight. He disliked the frost that touched everything on his manor with a rime of white. The wood beneath his feet was slick and treacherous like the nature of relationships.

  He little liked the touch of frost that had come between him and Emma. Despite their words of conciliation, he sensed a tension festering and growing between them. Envy of William tainted their lovemaking.

  Gilles waited until the change of sentries, barely noting their presence, though he greeted them. Far below, a small shadow darted after the hulking armorer as the man passed through the bailey to the hall.

  Gilles realized he would find his manor running more smoothly if Emma sat at his side. He found her counsel invaluable. She knew the villagers, knew their ways—who cheated, who dealt honestly. Gilles frowned. But to seek her, he must wait until the dark of night, hide behind a closed door.

  He must wed her. The thought felt right and good. He had a barrel of silver coins, four manors under his care, a strong son who would give him strong grandchildren. Only the matter of her vows to William stood between them—vows to a man who would never claim her. Even now, William was picking out his bride.

  Gilles found himself on the spot where he and Emma had stood the first night she’d come to him. He felt her presence there as if her ardor had imbued itself into the very stones as her dyes colored her cloth. He remembered the words they’d said, and knew he wanted to hear her say them before every person of the manor, before God, too.

  William would not have her.

  He would not have Angelique, either.

  How could he convince Emma that her vows to William meant nothing? Only a woman would hold to such nonsense. Her fears of gossip would not taint their lovemaking anymore. As to Angelique’s bastardy, he would find her a suitable husband one day who, for the right marriage portion, would not cavil at an unfortunate birth.

  When he returned to his chamber, he found only Angelique curled asleep in a ball, like a kitten in a nest of furs that had slipped off the foot of the bed. Impatient to see Emma, he hastened to the hall in search of her. Rows of sleeping families filled the cavernous space. There in the far gloom, near the stair
s to the lower level, stood William and Emma.

  Too close.

  They turned and disappeared into the dark well of the steps.

  In the early years of his service to King Henry, Gilles had received a near mortal thrust of a sword in his back during a tournament melee. The blow had pierced his mail, laid open his flesh to the bone, but even that deadly stroke could not compare to the pain that now filled his chest.

  He took the stairs to his chamber slowly, feeling like an old man. Once there, he occupied himself building up the fire, filling the room with light and heat, for he was cold to his marrow. For what seemed an eternity, he waited for her, staring at the bed, allowing his imagination free range.

  She came in quietly, easing the door shut as he had, then she turned and tiptoed to the bed, lifting one corner of the bed curtains and peering in.

  “Are you looking for me?” he asked from his seat by the fire.

  “Gilles, you startled me! I was looking for Angelique,” she said, coming around the bed. “Ah, here she is.” Emma paused a moment at Angelique’s side and touched her child’s brow with a kiss. “Have you been waiting long, my lord?”

  “In some ways but a moment, in others years.”

  She lifted a brow and cocked her head. “I beg your pardon?”

  “That is not all you should beg.” He rose, feeling one hundred years old. How young she looked in the hearth’s light. “You appear flushed.” He moved to the table and poured a cup of wine, but his hand shook, so he set it abruptly down.

  “Am I?” One hand went to her cheek, her other hand to her hair. “I fear I ran rather quickly—”

  “Pray tell why? You had no pressing business here.”

  “I did not want to leave Angelique so long alone; you were busy Roland said and May was—”

  “Do not explain. I understand, you came for your child’s sake.” He moved to the fire and toed a burning log closer to the flames.