Love at First Sight

by Sandra Lee

  “Lund, Henri, you will have to help Sperville hold him if I am to find the source of his ailment.”

  Plague take the wench, Gavarnie swore to himself. She would badger him to the grave. Even now, Lund and Henri were moving toward him, the louts.

  “The first person who lays hands on me will die,” he blustered.

  Lund and Henri halted to exchange wary glances. “Papa, pwease, let her help you!” Nicolette cried from outside the pen.

  “He will remember naught of this once he is recovered,” Golde persisted. “Indeed, he will understand your good intentions and be grateful.”

  “I will not,” he vowed.

  “Come,” Sperville addressed the two liegemen. “Would you truly consider leaving our liege in a pig stye?” The simpering bastard. Rage blew through Gavarnie like a hell-borne gale. To be forevermore pitied and scorned. But the devil would take him before he’d be physically restrained while the buzzards ogled him.

  He scrambled to his feet. “There!” He backed toward the gate. “Are you satisfied?”

  He spread his arms and legs wide. “Does it please you to see a man so foully disfigured?”

  A hush fell over the stye. Even the pig stilled and grew silent. Lund glanced at Henri, though there was no horror on their faces. Sperville was peering at him with a puzzled tilt to his brows. Finally Golde rose from her bent position.

  “Calm yourself, mi’lord,” she soothed. “I know it appears dire to you, but I have treated such wounds often. A few cobwebs and bee tails and you will be fine.”

  He frowned at her. What in God’s name was she talking about? He glanced at his hands, then jerked his head down.

  No blood. No half-hinged appendages dangled beneath the hem of his mail tunic.

  Giving the buzzards his back, he spun to face a deserted corner of the stye. He yanked up the chain mail tunic that covered the armor plate on his thighs, then snatched at the drawstring of his braies. Closing one eye, he peeked inside. Everything appeared normal. He opened his eye and pulled the material farther away from his belly. Nothing. He eased his hand in for a closer inspection.

  He flinched.

  Then he sighed gratefully. Though the area was most tender, all was intact. He felt like jumping for joy. Well, mayhap not jumping, but—

  “Mi’lord?” Golde’s husky voice invaded his good cheer.

  So, that was what the wench was about with her talk of cobwebs and bee tails. She believed him daft and sought to humor him.

  Of all the arrogance, the conceit. That she would think she knew more of his person than he. Turning, he glared at her.

  “You dare to presume much which does not exist. Cobwebs and bee tails. There is naught wrong with my head, Mistress Know-All. My armor pinched . . .”

  Words deserted him. Everyone was looking at him, nonplussed. He stabbed Golde with a hateful look and lowered his voice that the entire castle would not hear.

  “When you landed in my lap, my plate caught . . .”

  Faith, were they not all so stupid, he would not have to be so explicit. “I thought I’d been—that is, it felt as if . . . Well, you can imagine my horror.”

  Abruptly Henri and Lund grew interested in the ground. Sperville turned his head to study the pen’s railing. Only Golde continued to look at him, her lips trembling as if she were holding back tears.

  Good, he thought. The hellhag deserved to humiliate herself by weeping before the assembled castlefolk. With luck, the humbling experience would improve her nature. In future, mayhap she would not be so quick to insert her overblown opinions where they were not welcome.

  He hitched up his braies, then smoothed the mail tunic over them.

  Golde’s shoulders quivered. Her nostrils flared. Her mouth opened.

  His brows swooped down abruptly, and he narrowed his eyes. ’Twas not a cry of regret that issued forth.

  ’Twas laughter! Bubbling peals of mirth. Gut-wracking, tear-dripping gusts of merriment.

  “Only a woman,” he snapped, “filled with sick whimsy, would find humor in such a lamentable state of affairs.”

  His comment did naught but make her laugh harder.

  “You do not hear—”

  He clamped his jaw shut. He’d meant to say how no one else was laughing, but the point was disproved before he could make it. A chortle here, a snort there, those present acted like a bunch of giggling virgins at the first sight of a naked man. Even the pig seemed to be snickering.

  Of a sudden, Golde sobered. “Hold, Ronces. We are coming out.”

  Gavarnie looked to see the boy straddling the rail. By all that was holy, if aught befell his son—

  “Come, mi’lord,” Golde clutched his elbow.

  Whore’s gleet, Gavarnie swore to himself as she steered him toward the gate. He’d forgotten his supposed blindness. But apparently he’d not given himself away, due no doubt to the chaos in the stye.

  Plague take the hellbag. ’Twas all her fault. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, exiting the pen.

  “She was helping the pig,” Nicolette proclaimed, racing to greet him.

  “The sow caught a splinter in her hindquarter.” Golde’s voice carried loud as Alory and Ronces approached.

  Was it his imagination, or did the wench’s tone carry a hint of threat as well? He glanced at her to find her gaze leveled on Ronces.

  Abruptly worry settled in his head. What went on here? His son’s thin features reflected great distress.

  “Was it your plan to let the sow kill my children?”

  “Nay, Papa.” Ronces voice was scarce more than a whisper. “She—”

  Golde stalled him with a slight shake of her head before he could finish. “I could not carry all my medicines, and ordered the children to help me.”

  Something was amiss, and he would know what it was, by God. Though how he would go about finding out was another matter. If he were truly blind, he would never have realized the undercurrents that waxed beneath his very nose. But to say aught of what he’d witnessed would expose him.

  “Mi’lord.” Sperville came to stand beside him before he could determine a solution. “Let us get you and mistress to the bathing barrels. ’Tis only midmorn, and already the day grows short.”

  At the double meaning behind the chamberlain’s words, Gavarnie’s hand swept to his chest. Beneath the chain mail and undertunic, he could feel the pouch that hung from his neck. It contained another message warning him of danger.

  He’d found the missive stuffed in his chalice yestereve at the king’s reception. ’Twas the reason he’d returned from Atherbrook a day early.

  It took all his will not to stare accusingly at Golde. Gone was the unreasoning terror that had gripped him upon discovering Golde in the pig pen. Gone was the fear for her life.

  Instead, anger fed on his belly. He’d forbidden his children to go near Golde, using her convalescence as an excuse. Not that she didn’t appear healthy as a bear at the moment.

  But he’d reissued his command to Nigel before leaving for Atherbrook. Under no circumstances were his children to be allowed near Golde. And though the steward did not know his suspicions regarding the wench, an order was an order. Yet here were his children with Golde, and Nigel was nowhere about.

  Scowling, he turned his attention to his oldest son. “Ronces, take your brother and sister to your chamber. Stay there until I send Roland for you.”

  SEPERATED BY WOODEN SCREENS, a half-dozen public bathing barrels were housed beside the laundry. Despite the heat of the stall where Gavarnie sat upon a stool, chills gripped his flesh.

  Not that he was sick. Rather, ’twas an icy wasting of his soul, until all the sun in the world could not warm him.

  He had decisions to make. Decisions that would see him live and prosper, or see him dead.

  That the king intended to kill him, he no longer doubted. He and Sperville had purposly been seated at the table farthest from William’s throughout the royal reception. Meanwhile, William had surro
unded himself with those most royally favored at the moment, including de Warrenne and Gundrada.

  Betweenwhiles, in the two days since Gavarnie had left Skyenvic, it appeared Golde had managed to ingratiate herself to his children.

  She was only trying to help. Alory’s words to the swineherd in Golde’s defense. Please, Papa, let her help you. Nicolette’s words. Since when had either child trusted Golde?

  And what was Ronces about? The boy had silently reached out to touch Golde’s hand, casting her a grateful look, before leading Alory and Nicolette away from the stye.

  Gavarnie’s lip curled. ’Twas well and good he’d returned home when he had. Another day, and the wench would likely convince his own children to murder him.

  No sooner had he completed the thought than he heard Golde’s voice as she entered the bath house.

  “. . . is the only other tunic I brought with me, Hesper. Until I can afford another, I can hardly dispose of this one.”

  “Just so’s ye knows,” Hesper puffed, “I don’t think I’ll be able to get rid of all the stains.”

  “Hmph,” Gavarnie snorted. Doubtless, the deceitful wench would buy an entire new wardrobe with the coin William would pay her for killing him.

  Footsteps entered the bathing stall next to his, and he crossed his arms over his chest. While he sat unattended, Golde had her own personal servant. Sperville was out hunting Nigel, and Roland was taking his leisure in fetching him clean clothing from the wardrobe. His water would be long cold before he stepped into the barrel.

  “Yech,” Golde muttered to the swish of wet material.

  Hesper tsked. “’Twould not be so difficult had the chil—”

  The serving maid’s words ended abruptly, followed by several moments of silence.

  Then Golde inquired in an overloud voice, “Where is his lordship?”

  Gavarnie gritted his teeth. Did the wench think to fool him with her innocent facade? Whatever trickery she was about, she’d enlisted Hesper’s aid. Just wait until he got hold of the older woman.

  “I am here,” he snarled, unable to keep his anger at bay.

  More silence, and Gavarnie stared at a small knot of wood in the screen that separated him from Golde. There wasn’t a man, woman, or child in the castle who didn’t know the knot had once been removable, after the milk-maid had caught a stableboy peeping at her and near poked his eye out.

  But it appeared the screen had not been repaired, as he’d ordered. And though he would never stoop to such methods only for self-gratification, ’twould serve him well if he could see the deceitful goings on in the next stall right now.

  “My apologies for the trouble you went to on my behalf,” Golde said at last.

  Water splattered, and he surmised Hesper had just poured a bucket over her. Using the noise for cover, he eased from the stool, then nearly slipped. Though it required only two steps to pluck the knot from the screen, the floorboards were slick as seaweed.

  “You should speak to Spindleshanks about his squeamishness,” Golde continued, as he closed one eye and peered through the hole. “Doubtless, ’twas he who insisted you come to my rescue. If you could see, you would have known I had matters well to hand.”

  Gavarnie sucked in a breath. If he could see any better, his eyes would fall from his head. Instead of sitting on a stool, Golde was standing. Indeed, were she not moving, she would appear to be a precious piece of metalwork. Light from the opening between the outside wall and ceiling sprinkled over her like silver dust.

  But move she did, soaping and scrubbing her hair. Below her raised arms, her breasts danced like juicy, ripe melons in the hands of an experienced juggler.

  Gavarnie licked his lips, then winced as pain lanced through his loins. How long since he’d had a woman? Of its own volition, his gaze lowered to the crutch where Golde’s thighs met.

  He scowled. Must that, too, sparkle with invitation? Indeed, the black curls there seemed to wink at him teasingly.

  Cease, he ordered his lecherous thoughts. ’Twas no more than sunlight striking beads of water. Tonight he would avail himself of . . .

  Breta? Nay. She was too skinny.

  Enid, then? He wrinkled his nose. She was overripe.

  He envisioned every woman he knew who would be more than eager to share his bed, but all were lacking in one feature or another.

  Hesper’s voice intruded on his musings. “If ye would sit on yon stool, mistress, I would do yer hair.”

  Whore’s gleet. If the old woman mined his viewing pleasure, he would—

  “My rear is the only thing that has not been exposed to filth this day. I would rather rinse before I sit.”

  Gavarnie loosed his pent breath and rubbed his shaft. Praise God for Golde’s practical nature; or praise the devil. At the moment it mattered not who held Golde’s soul, so long as she continued to scrub her hair . . .

  Or run soap over her breasts and belly. His mouth opened as her hands slid lower.

  “. . . mi’lord?”

  ’Twas a moment before he realized Golde was speaking to him.

  “What?” His voice bounced in his face and he leapt backward. Immediately his feet slipped, and he barely caught himself on the barrel’s rim to avoid a fall.

  “I say, why are you returned so early from Atherbrook? We did not expect you until tomorrow.”

  He straightened, praying she’d not noticed how near the screen his voice had sounded. “I—I . . .”

  Sweat broke on his brow as he cast about for a lie. “I returned early to make certain of preparations for my guests.”

  Aye, that was it. Tomorrow the lords and ladies billeted at Skyenvic would return from the king’s reception. None would question his decision to ensure their continued comfort.

  “But you are arrived so early in the day.” Abruptly her tone grew anxious. “You took no chances riding through the forest at night, did you?”

  Her concern was affected, he told himself, though why he should feel disappointed with the knowledge was a mystery.

  “No one knew I was leaving,” he groused. “Indeed, my own liegemen knew nothing until they were wakened in the dead of night.”

  He blew a sigh of relief. That much was fact. After he’d discovered the second message, he could not abide at Atherbrook. And while he knew not who was sending the missives, he had not questioned the warning. Not after the attack in the lane.

  At the sound of more splashing water, he scuttled back to the peephole. ’Twas only to see Golde’s face, he assured himself, to gauge her true feelings by the look in her eyes.

  Which he never saw.

  He flattened his hands against the screen to steady himself.

  Bent at the waist, the wench had turned her backside to him while Hesper poured clean water over her hair.

  Her bottom seemed to pout at him, as if it had been denied his attention.

  And so it had, he sighed gustily. A full fortnight had passed since he’d last carried her from his tub. Longer still since the night he’d felt her slick lust for him; since she had begged him to have done.

  He fair stroked the flesh from his shaft while eyeing the pink bud that peeped at him from the center of her core. To taste its musky sweetness, to bury himself—

  “Uh-hmm.”

  Sperville’s discreet cough startled him. His feet slipped as he jumped from the peephole, and he thudded to the floor, a water bucket clattering where he struck it.

  “Mi’lord?” Golde called.

  He gave the chamberlain an I’ll-slit-your-throat-if-say-aught look, and forced a casual reply. “’Tis naught but the squeamish Spindleshanks, come at last to assist me.”

  Sperville cast a withering look upon him and helped him from the floor to the stool. Then the chamberlain grabbed a bucket and dipped it in the barrel.

  “Were Sir Varin and Arnulf present at the reception?” Golde asked, just as Sperville doused him.

  “Nay,” the chamberlain answered while Gavarnie blew water from his nose. “Hi
s wife was recently delivered of a babe, and he is not expected for several days.” The sneaky bastard, Gavarnie thought, clearing his throat. Sperville had deliberately thrown the water in his face. He swiped back his hair and cast the chamberlain a vicious look.

  “Speaking of babes,” Golde grumbled, “you could at least try to control your temper around your children, mi’lord.”

  Gavarnie’s anger suddenly blossomed to full rage. “I need not your advice on how to raise my offspring.”

  “Stupid man! Your children performed a good deed this morn, and their thanks is your foul tongue. I suppose you beat them for attending mass.”

  ’Twas the last straw. Gavarnie shot upward, determined to break down the screen and strangle the wench.

  And he would have, too, had his cursed feet not slipped from beneath him again. By the time Sperville had helped him up, Golde had stomped from the bath house.

  SEVENTEEN

  GOLDE GRIMACED upon entering the wardrobe. Hesper had already removed the soiled bed linen, and without the smell of honey, the small anteroom reeked from the dung the children had placed in her boots. Scooping them up, she strode from the dark little room.

  Gavarnie would doubtless complain were he to find such filth in the wardrobe. And while she would claim that her boots were filled with dung from the pig stye, he would yet wonder why she’d brought them upstairs without first having them cleaned. Indeed, he might take Hesper to task for not cleaning them, under which circumstance Hesper was liable to crumble and tell him the truth about her boots.

  Golde rolled her eyes. Easier to avoid the entire issue by removing her boots from the wardrobe before Gavarnie arrived. Besides, she had no desire to speak with his toadship at the moment. She’d already explained to Sperville that she’d accidentally spilled honey on herself while treating the pig.

  The sound of footsteps halted her midchamber.

  “Where have you been?” Gavarnie demanded, his voice echoing from the corridor.

  “I was called into New Market to resolve a dispute,” Sir Nigel responded. “I had no idea you’d returned.”

  Golde spun and hurried back to the wardrobe.