by Sandra Lee
Her steps slowed to a halt. Delamaure stood on the bank opposite her. The black-eyed stare he leveled at her gleamed hard and sharp. His nostrils flared. His visage darkened with heated blood. A wolf that had just scented its mate. Though a black cloak concealed his body, he exuded raw, randy strength.
Warmth pooled in her groin at his predatory gaze. Possession. ’Twas what he wanted. How she longed to surrender, to be held in his powerful embrace, to feel his hands on her. A blush crept over her face. None would dare ridicule her so long as she held the baron’s favor. She would be safe.
The hand shook her more urgently.
Golde refused to open her eyes. “Get thee gone, wretched gnat.”
“Lady, please,” a young woman’s voice quavered. “It’s me duty to rouse ye. His lordship commands yer presence.”
“The baron?” Golde rolled onto her belly and snuggled her face into the woolen blanket she’d used to pillow her head. ’Twas remarkable how comfortable the scratchy material felt against her cheek, despite its sweat-ripened smell. If only she could again draw forth the stream’s cool image. And Delamaure.
“Lady,” the girlish voice pleaded, “if ye don’t obey the summons, Sir Gavarnie will have me hide.”
Golde jerked to a sitting position, prepared to unleash a poisonous rebuke.
A freckle-faced serving girl gave her a horror-stricken look and backed toward the door. “Y-y-yer pardon, lady,” she stuttered. “I will tell Sir Gavarnie ye are lamed up.” Golde forced a tired smile. She must truly resemble an old dragon-hag if the girl’s distressed appearance were any indication. “My apologies for my ill-bred manner.” The maid halted her backward flight and nodded her redhaired head, though she yet appeared discomfited. Doubtless, the baron was no less cruel to his servants than he was to his daughter. The poor maid would likely suffer should she fail her task.
Golde rose, her body feeling leaden as a great iron cauldron. “I will attend the summons.”
She checked Nicolette and found the child’s skin cool to the touch. While the little girl’s coloring was yet wan, ’twas no longer deathly gray. Golde smoothed a light brown ringlet from the child’s brow. Who would guess that beneath the angelic features lay a stubborn little mule? And mule she was, if her reaction to last night’s bath were any indication. Golde tucked the bed sheet more closely about the girl’s chin, then stretched.
The motion did naught but drain what little energy she possessed. Dropping her arms to her sides, she addressed the young serving maid, who hovered uncertainly by the door. “Where may I find the baron?”
The girl bobbed a quick curtsy. “He is in the hall. If you will, follow me.” Turning, she made to leave.
“A moment,” Golde begged. “Are you not to stay and care for his lordship’s daughter in my absence?”
The girl paused. “I gots me chores to finish in the hall, then me duties in the kitchen.”
“Am I to wait for someone to relieve me?”
“Not so’s I know. Sir Gavarnie only told me to serve ye the message that he wished t’ see ye.”
“Is his lordship aware there are none to watch over his daughter? Hesper was up all night and has gone to catch some rest.”
The serving maid’s glance darted back and forth between Golde and Nicolette. She chewed a fingernail, and her features grew apprehensive. “Do ye wish me to ask?”
“Nay. I would that you stay and attend the child. I will speak with the baron.”
The maid flushed and her freckles appeared to take on a greenish cast. “I daren’t do that, lady. Someone would tell the steward I wasn’t at me chores.”
The girl backed away as Golde strode forward. Fearing she might bolt any moment, Golde fair leapt to cover the distance between them. The servant flinched as she wrapped an arm about her shoulder.
“Calm yourself.” She drew the maid back inside the room. “I will explain the situation to the baron. I am certain he will appreciate your attention to his daughter. The child should not be left alone.”
The servant, a good head shorter than Golde, gave her an anxious look. “I ar’nt certain his lordship will care.”
He would when she was finished with him, Golde thought. Patting the girl’s arm, she fixed a kindly smile on her lips. “I assure you, the baron is most concerned with his daughter. Why, early this morn I carried Nicolette from his bed where she slept wrapped in the comfort of his arms.”
The girl looked incredulous. “Truth tell?”
Golde crossed herself. “Before God.”
The maid glanced at Nicolette and back to Golde. “Then I will stay. Please tell his lordship I shall work late if needs be to finish me duties.”
Golde nodded at the girl’s proffered sacrifice, then headed for the door, frowning. First Spindleshanks, and now the young maid. However did the mean-tempered baron manage to instill such loyalty?
The corridor felt icy after the bedchamber’s heat and Golde crossed her arms as gooseflesh rose on her body. Once she reached the stairs, she quickly descended, scowling.
She’d intended to speak with Delamaure long before daybreak. But when she and Spindleshanks had returned to the baron’s chamber, they’d found Sir Gavarnie and his daughter fast asleep. Sperville had convinced her to leave wolves to their slumber, thus she had returned the child to her bed without disturbing the lord.
A courtesy he’d not returned, she groused to herself. He’d had no qualms about disturbing her sleep. She reached the bottom of the steps and her stomach growled at the smell of cheese and bread wafting through the undercroft. The rude bastard could not even bother to see her fed before demanding her presence.
Golde marched through a screens passage, a freestanding wooden wall that partitioned the stairs and undercroft from the great hall. So determined were her steps, she near collided with a small boy spinning in circles. She halted and eyed the cooking pot perched atop his head. Grime encrusted the fine blue material of his tunic.
“Away with you, bug, lest I squash you ’neath my heel,” she snapped.
The child, perhaps five or six, paused. Tilting his head back, he tried to stare at her, but his eyes refused to focus. He fell sideways, dizzy as a drunken sailor on a gale-blown ship.
Golde snorted. Were all children lunatics?
A sudden, high-pitched shriek erupted behind her, causing her to shudder. Before she could locate its source, something solid thwacked her rear.
“None attack my brother, but that they will be gutted!”
Golde spun to face yet another boy, this one seven or eight. Dressed in a filthy black tunic with gray braies, he brandished a wooden sword at her. Grabbing its tip, she tried to shake it from the brat’s grasp, but he would not leave go.
Narrowing an eye, she taunted, “Only a fool would gut a person’s buttocks. Unless, of course, he lives in a privy and has learned to tolerate fetid odors.”
The boy glared at her, dark eyes sparking with anger. With his black hair and dark complexion, she recognized immediately ’twas the baron’s get. At the same moment, she realized the hall was silent as a tomb. Glancing about the enormous room, she noted that the servants had frozen midtask.
“Dare you imply my son is dullwitted?” a voice demanded from the dais behind her.
She would have known the sour voice, even had he not identified himself as the boy’s father. Ignoring the baron, she continued to address the angry child. “In future, master swordsman, where will you gut a person?”
The little brat’s features were hate-filled. “In the belly.” He shoved the wooden blade toward her stomach with all his might.
Rather than resist the motion, Golde jerked the sword forward, pulling the boy with it. Taking advantage of his surprise, she swept a foot behind his and shoved him backward. He fell on his rear, loosing his grip on the weapon.
Golde placed one foot on his stomach. Flipping the blade in her hand, she pointed the tip at his throat. He flushed darkly, embarrassed.
“Now, master swor
dsman,” she affected a threatening tone. “I will tell you something only dead men know.”
The boy’s eyes grew round and his throat worked as he tried to swallow.
“Never underestimate your opponent.”
Tossing the wooden sword on the ground, she turned and approached the dais without looking back. If the child dared strike her again, she would beat him senseless, baron’s get or no.
Climbing the steps to the raised platform, she nodded at the steward, Nigel, who stood grinning near the seated baron. His merriment only fueled her anger. ’Twas telling of a man’s character that he would find pleasure in the humiliation of a child.
She frowned as a thought occurred. Had she not . . .
Nay. That she’d felt a sense of satisfaction at the boy’s chagrin was different, she told herself. She’d done naught but teach the brat a well-deserved lesson.
The steward cleared his throat and addressed Sir Gavarnie in an overloud voice. “’Twould appear the servants will idle the morn away, my liege. Mayhap ’twould be an opportune time to dig a new privy.”
Instantly the hall came alive with bustling activity. Breakfast remains were carted off and linen tablecloths snapped as servants shook crumbs from them.
Golde turned her attention to Sir Gavarnie. “What grave matter is so pressing that I am prevented from a moment’s rest?”
Though his eyes remained blank when they shifted to fix on her position, the lord’s features reflected displeasure. “I have e’re impressed the importance of family on my children. They have been taught to defend one another. You have near destroyed the unity I worked to achieve with one swipe of your acid tongue. Do so again, and you risk losing the poisonous appendage.”
Golde raised a brow. His threat would have more effect were he not dressed in such ill-conceived apparel. His pale-green, moth-eaten undertunic in no way matched his short-sleeved, faded-purple tunic. The leather thongs in the tunic’s V-shaped neck were knotted to the point that only a wizard could hope to undo them. Edging nearer the table, she peeked at his lap. His braies were an odd mustard color.
Her mouth crooked in a half smile and she glanced at the steward. In contrast, Sir Nigel was immaculately dressed in brown braies and a yellow tunic.
“You shall care for my children until—”
“I will what?” Golde whipped her gaze back to the lord’s face.
The baron clenched his fists on the tabletop. “You will not interrupt when I am speaking. Nor will you walk away until I give you leave.”
Inexplicably his mouth drew her gaze, then snatched her attention. Darkly inviting, his chiseled lips moved with the suppleness of molten gold. Would they feel as warm and smooth as they looked, or would they-—
’Od rot! Did she yet dream? Concentrating her efforts, she managed a glib retort. “My apologies, sir. I was distracted by your elegant choice of attire. Prithee, continue.”
The baron frowned. “Of what do you speak?”
Golde shifted her gaze to focus on his black eyes, anxious to avoid the absurd feelings his mouth aroused. “’Tis naught. You were saying?”
His features grew stony. “You will tell me to what elegant attire you refer.”
Faith, but it appeared the baron’s gaze was fixed on her breasts. Unaccountably her nipples hardened, pulling taut some invisible string attached to her woman’s core. As if she had waited too long to attend her bodily functions, she was struck by a maddening desire to cross her legs.
“’Tis a most . . .” She licked her lips, and marshaling her thoughts, began anew. “ ’Tis quite an impressive arrangement of color you have chosen to wear.”
There, she congratulated herself. She’d successfully affected a light tone. Confidence restored, she continued.
“Did you select the garments yourself, or was more than one person required to coordinate such an array of shades?”
She scarce had time to blink before the baron had seized her forearm and risen from his chair. Would that she had not edged so near to view the color of his braies. His grip was hard, his callused, dark fingers unyielding. ’Twas unsettling to have to look up to see his chilling features; doubly so, considering her height had ere given her the advantage of looking down on people, including a goodly number of men.
“We shall continue this discussion in my chambers,” he snapped. Spinning her about, he grasped the back of her tunic and propelled her toward the dais steps, forcing her to lead the way.
Her first thought was to drive an elbow into his belly. But as he bunched the material at the small of her back and the tunic tightened across her chest, her wits deserted her.
Straining to acquire all possible contact with the binding material, her nipples again hardened, the treacherous louts.
“My liege,” Sir Nigel spoke, his blue-green eyes sparkling with humor. “Do you wish me to accompany you?”
“Nay.” The baron’s deep voice vibrated as if his mouth were pressed against her ear. “Since it appears she is the only person bold enough to point out the shortcomings of my raiment, the hag can escort me.”
Instantly rage consumed Golde. Hag, was she?
Shuffling forward at a pace slow enough to accommodate a snail, her thoughts ran to vengeance. A toad in his bed. No. Too childish. Fleas, then. There was an idea. She descended the first dais step. But fleas were hard to catch.
“Should we not finish discussing preparations for the king’s tournament before you retire?” Sir Nigel inquired. “At last count, it appears we shall have to provide for several dozen barons and their retinues.”
“I will be gone but a short time.”
Golde took the second step and felt the baron descend behind her. To see the mean-tempered bastard scratch welts for a week would make fleas worth the effort. Her right foot landed on the third step.
“But de Warrenne will be arriving this afternoon,” Sir Nigel persisted.
Her left foot was yet in midair when the baron jerked to a halt. “I have said . . .”
Golde teetered, struggling to maintain her balance, but her forward momentum was too great. She stumbled to the fourth step. The lord’s grip tightened on her tunic for the barest moment. Then he slammed against her. Unable to bear his weight, her legs buckled.
Cursing, she tumbled headlong over the remaining step to sprawl belly-down on the rush-strewn floor. Gavarnie landed hard atop her, crushing the breath from her.
A chorus of gasps spiraled around her. The hiss of air echoed off the high-timbered walls with increasing volume until her ears rang. She labored for breath as a heated emptiness expanded in her stomach, then spread to engulf her arms and legs.
’Twill pass, she assured herself as anxiety stole over her. She’d had the wind knocked from her before. Any moment now, she’d draw a chestful of air, and all would be well.
She raised her head as several pairs of wooden-soled shoes appeared in her line of vision, only to become hazy and indistinct. She widened her eyes, straining to see, but a white fog rapidly enveloped the room until all was thick and motionless.
Had she fainted?
Nay. Her eyes were open.
She struggled to move, but ’twas if she no longer had a body to command. Dread, suchlike she’d never experienced, consumed her senses.
Had she died?
Abruptly she became aware of the baron’s solid body atop hers. His chest expanded so gradually against her back, she could feel each slight displacement of his ribs as they moved to accommodate air. His indrawn breath rustled in her ears like a slow, gentle breeze, bearing her up, arousing her senses to levels of alertness she had never dreamed possible.
Comfort, fuzzy and warm. Her terror vanished and she reveled in a cool mist that drifted over her.
The baron’s heart thumped once, reverberating, the pulse-beat rippling over the fine hairs that covered her flesh like so many divining rods. How safe she felt. As if Delamaure were protecting her. As if he would never allow harm to befall her.
Then his
breath seeped outward, draining away her sense of ease, bleeding over the fog.
Stained crimson.
Rage?
Not hers.
Delamaure’s?
Or was it directed at the lord?
The crimson color separated into browns, reds, golds— sifting through the mist—spinning faster, drawing her into the vortex—until the shades merged to form a solid image.
’Twas the baron’s bedchamber.
Tapestries, wild and fantastic, hung on the walls.
How had she not seen them last night?
Strangely dressed horsemen, oddly shaped castles, their pastel hues, time-faded. She felt their texture, fine and worn soft. The riders’ ululations called, echoing dimly in her ears. She tasted bland grittiness on her tongue. An elemental odor transcended the scent of arid heat.
Was it brine?
Nay, ’twas sharper, more bitter.
The great four-posted bed drew her attention. There was something there. She should not look. Away, her thoughts whispered urgently.
But ’twas as if some giant serpent had captured her will. The bed dragged her onward until she hovered directly over it.
Good lack!
A beautiful blond-haired woman stared heavenward, her blue eyes death-shrouded.
Now she recognized the cloying smell.
’Twas blood. Everywhere.
Splattering the woman’s waxen face. Covering her bare torso. Raging over the white bed sheets like a flash flood.
Hatred. Fear.
The woman’s?
’Twas as if her cold, dead fingers were reaching out, clutching at Golde’s insides, drawing her into some visceral pit from whence she would never return.
Churning emotions buffeted her and sweat broke on her brow. Breathing, harsh and ragged, filled her ears.
’Twas hers.
She had to escape.
Suddenly a white-hot light flashed from the midst of the sanguine fog. It lanced through her eyes and shot to the tips of her fingers and toes.
Golde yelped.
Quickened by the stab of agony, her arms and legs at last responded to her command to flee. She shot from beneath the baron like a stone from a sling, then scrambled to her feet.
