Templeton, Julia

by The Bargain

  She despised every last one of them, but most of all one man. A man she had made a bargain with. A bargain that would begin this night. Her insides twisted at the thought of sharing a bed with the Norman.

  Renaud de Wulf, lord of the keep. Sitting on the high dais, looking down on his vassals and servants with a satisfied smile. He certainly played the part of conqueror to perfection.

  How different he looked without his helmet, the nose-plate having hidden his features from view earlier. Now those features were on display.

  In truth, Renaud de Wulf was striking, with his long dark hair and contrasting silver eyes. His square jaw, straight nose, jutting cheekbones, and obscenely long eyelashes only added to his appeal. The one flaw she could see was a disturbing scar that ran along his right cheekbone.

  In the past fortnight when rumors abounded, she had heard that this monster had been given the scar by his betrothed. The woman, a Norman princess who desperately loved the baron, discovered he had a leman. So great was her fury, she had attacked de Wulf in a jealous rage. If she had scarred him hoping it would detract from his looks, the woman had failed. Miserably so, for the mark only enhanced the barons untamed sensuality. A rugged, dark beauty—which made him even more dangerous. No doubt he had already littered England with many a bastard.

  She prayed she did not add to that number this night.

  "My lady, would you like some wine?" a servant asked, jarring Aleysia out of her unpleasant thoughts.

  "Nay," she replied, with a forced smile. She must keep her wits about her. Mayhap tonight the Normans would become so drunk that she could escape his chamber and release her brother from his prison. Then she would not have to forfeit her maidenhead to the beastly de Wulf.

  The minutes ticked away into hours, and she waited and watched as the ale and wine flowed freely. The noise in the hall grew louder by the second, signaling the soldiers were well in their cups.

  A man broke into song, and was soon joined by his comrades. The song was in French, so Aleysia did not understand, nor did she care to. She hated everything about these men and the wretched country that had brought them to England's shore.

  Aleysia's gaze flitted over the giant tapestries on the opposite wall. They were enormous and had taken a long time to sew. One was a brutal hunting scene in bold colors, and the other of finely dressed women strolling about a garden, in soft, muted colors.

  The latter reminded her of a tapestry she and her mother had embroidered for years, and they had finished it just a year before her mother's death. It had been a depiction of their family. Her mother, her father, Adelstan, and herself, standing in the fields beyond the manor. The tapestry had hung in the manor house, the first thing one saw upon entering. Every visitor had commented upon it, saying how lovely it was. Everyone, save for de Pirou, who had ordered it ripped from the wall and burned shortly after he had murdered her parents.

  The horrible baron had laughed uproariously while Aleysia cried, and Adelstan had done his best to comfort her. How she had wished the man dead at that moment.

  At least de Pirou was in hell now—right where he belonged.

  A woman shrieked, bringing Aleysia's thoughts back to the present. She looked in the direction of the cry to find a woman fighting off the advance of two men. Aleysia went to stand, her fingers curling around the knife in her pocket... when she saw the woman smile, and then laugh before she kissed one of the knights. A moment later the three slipped out the door, no doubt off to find a private corner.

  Aleysia had considered slipping out that very door a time or two, but where would she go? The Saxons who had been here this morning were all either dead or imprisoned in the dungeon. If what de Wulf said was true, then Adelstan had been taken to the tower, where prisoners of significance were kept, though rarely treated any better than those in the dark, dank dungeons. No doubt each entrance and exit would be heavily guarded.

  Nay, she had made a deal with the devil, and she must pay her due. Which meant sticking it out until she could come up with a way out of this mess.

  Feeling someone watching her, Aleysia glanced over at the Norman to find his silver gaze settled on her. Her pulse quickened. His was a stare that could make grown men quiver in their seats. No smile, no frown. No expression at all. Just a cold, distant look in his eyes that was more than a little unsettling. Though it was difficult, she forced herself to hold his gaze.

  His jaw ticked, as though he clenched his teeth too tight. Aleysia's lower lip began to tremble, but she bit the inside of her cheek to steady it. She must not show fear. He must know she would not back down.

  A servant passed by him, and he grabbed hold of her wrist. The woman with copper-colored hair and dark eyes, who Aleysia had not seen before this day, fell into his lap, one arm draped around his neck.

  De Wulf s large hand slid to the girl's waist, and she seemed not to mind. Indeed, she seemed excited to have his attention as she rested her head back against the Norman's neck, her nipples pebbling beneath the bodice of her faded kirtle. The woman's hand slid down de Wulf's chest, toward his stomach.

  Aleysia knew she should look away, especially since the Norman was taking perverse satisfaction in watching her watch him. He wanted her to squirm. As though reading her thoughts, the slightest hint of a smile played at his lips while his fingers brushed lazily across the woman's stomach.

  Heat rushed up Aleysia's neck, toward her cheeks. She lifted a brow, and the side of the Norman's mouth curved slightly. His large, long-fingered hand moved up the woman's belly slowly, to a breast. Aleysia swallowed hard. He cupped the small mound, his fingers rolling over the nipple in a way that had the servant arching her back. The Norman's fingers plucked at the extended buds, pulling, pinching, and to Aleysia's horror, her own nipples tightened beneath her tunic.

  Everything within Aleysia rebelled. How could a woman shame herself so, right in the middle of a hall full of roughly one hundred people? She had no shame at all, her hand slipping into the band of de Wulf's braies, cupping his prominent sex.

  Aleysia's cheeks burned and though she wanted to flee, pride kept her rooted to the spot.

  The woman turned on de Wulf s lap and kissed him, her fingers reaching for the cord of his braies. She tugged for a moment, but seemed to get nowhere. But she would not be deterred. She slipped her hand inside his braies, and for a heart-stopping second Aleysia saw the head of his large cock, swelling up past his navel.

  The Norman flashed the servant a wolfish smile, breaking the kiss for just an instant as he whispered something to her. No doubt some poetic nonsense.

  Shifting in her seat, Aleysia watched the kiss increase to a frenzied mating of tongues. The woman's hands wove through de Wulf s hair, and she rubbed against him, much as a cat would brush against a person for affection.

  And for an instant Aleysia wondered what it felt like—to kiss like that, to desire like that. She had never kissed a boy in all her years, though she had wondered what it would feel like to kiss Duncan once they married.

  She remembered how her parents kissed—gentle pecks on the cheeks or lips. Full of affection, but never a long, searing kiss like the Norman and the servant wench were sharing. God's breath, the woman's tongue was damn near down the man's throat.

  And it didn't look like they would be stopping anytime soon. Indeed, the way she stroked de Wulf made Aleysia wonder if he would take the wench right there in front of everyone.

  A man's laughter caught her attention, and Aleysia turned to the right to find a knight, well into his thirtieth year, watching her. No doubt he had sensed her shock at the servant and de Wulf s public fondling. He brought the tankard to his lips and drank heavily, the brew flowing over the cup, slopping onto his tunic.

  Did the man have no manners? Apparently not, for he proceeded to slurp the stew from his bowl, much in the same fashion he drank his ale. The majority of which had ended up on his tunic and lap.

  Disgusted, Aleysia looked away, toward the nearest door where a guard con
versed with a servant wench. If she were careful, she could slip out the servant door toward the kitchens, and at least find peace for this night, away from the damned Norman who looked ready to take the wench right here and now, no matter who watched.

  Mayhap Aleysia could sleep in the stables, high in the loft, away from everyone, especially de Wulf.

  She took another glance at the Norman to find him fully occupied with the servant, who now straddled him, her skirts hiked up about her hips. Worse still, de Wulf's hands were planted on her plump, bare bottom. For all Aleysia knew, the servant could be impaled on de Wulf's large staff.

  Confused and disturbed by the way her body tingled just watching them, Aleysia left. Making eye contact with no one, she made it to the door without notice. Once down the stairs, she raced toward the stables as fast as her feet would carry her.

  Her heart hammered hard in her breast as she ducked down behind a stall. Two Normans spoke to each other nearby. "How long do you think we will stay?"

  "His lordship says indefinitely. Said as much just days ago," the other said.

  '"Tis a beautiful place. I do not blame him for coveting her."

  "Aye, and speaking of beautiful—did you see the Saxon wench? What a beauty that one is. Shame she prefers wearing men's clothing to gowns."

  Aleysia bit her bottom lip.

  The other man laughed. "De Wulf does not care either way."

  "Indeed, he just wants to see what is beneath those clothes."

  "A sweet body to be sure."

  Aleysia pressed her lips together and counted to ten.

  Let the Norman take his whore to bed tonight. She would sleep with the horses and be glad for it. It would also give her the blessed time she would need to come up with a plan.

  "We had best be getting to the hall before all the food is gone," one of the men said. A second later the stable door opened and closed, and soon she was alone, save for the horses, their soft nickering comforting. She recognized her brothers beloved stallion, a gift from their father when Adelstan had turned four and ten. How pleased her brother had been with his trusty stallion. Aleysia reached over the stall and ran her fingers over Galahad's nose. Her throat tightened as the reality of her situation sank in.

  If she did not find a way to release her brother and flee to Scotland, then he would die, and she would have lost everyone she ever loved. "We are alone, Galahad. 'Tis just you and I for now, but soon, very soon, I will release Adelstan, and we will flee this wretched pit of merciless bastards."

  A bird flew out from its nest above, nearly scaring Aleysia out of her skin. "I had best hide away before someone comes looking for me." She kissed the horse's wet nose and then scurried up the ladder.

  Just in time, too.

  She had no more than settled in the soft hay when the stable door opened and closed with a loud thud. She held her breath.

  On the far wall, she could see a man's form in shadow. He appeared huge, tall, with immense shoulders. Then again, she reminded herself, even the smallest of men could appear giantlike when cast in shadow.

  Mayhap those broad shoulders belonged to someone other than—

  "Aleysia of Braemere."

  Her heart hammered hard against her breast.

  Damn! It was de Wulf, and he knew she was here. For the love of God, did the man have eyes in the back of his head? How could he know she had come here when he had been so occupied with the servant wench? Unless, of course, he had finished.

  As though reading her thoughts, he said, "I followed you, little one, so you may as well show yourself now. Or mayhap you would like me to climb up the ladder and join you in the bed of hay."

  She had never moved so fast in her life.

  As she descended, he moved to help her, but she stopped. "Do not touch me" she said, venom dripping from her voice.

  He stepped back, a smirk on his lips. "Very well."

  Making the final step onto solid ground, she turned. "Why do you follow me?"

  "Why did you leave the hall?"

  "I wanted solitude."

  He watched her intently, his gaze sliding over her in a way that made her stomach flip. "Why?"

  How she yearned to slap that smirk clean off his face. "Your men are drunk, as are you. I was not enjoying the spectacle."

  He reached out and plucked a piece of straw from her hair. "Were you not? The way you watched so intently made me think otherwise."

  She frowned. He had to be joking. "I was merely appalled by the public display. That was the only reason I stared as I did. I could scarcely believe my eyes."

  He laughed then, his white teeth flashing in a boyish smile. To her chagrin, he was even more handsome when he grinned like that. "You could scarcely believe your eyes? Now that is a compliment."

  Compliment? Was the man mad? "What do you mean?" The words had scarcely left her mouth when she understood exactly what he meant. The size of his cock. God's breath, the man was incorrigible.

  "Come Aleysia of Braemere," he said, extending his hand. "I have need of a surgeon and you shall assist."

  "A surgeon? You seemed well enough a moment ago."

  He lifted a brow. "Do I detect a note of jealousy?"

  Feeling her cheeks burn once again, Aleysia lowered her gaze to just beyond his shoulder. "I most certainly am not jealous. However, I believe she would jump at the chance to attend you, my lord."

  "I am sure she would, but it is you I want," he said, his voice silky soft.

  She had not expected that bold statement. Nor had she expected the leap of her pulse from such a declaration.

  When she did not take his hand, he reached for hers, wrapping his fingers around hers. How large his hand was, and calloused, much like her father's had been. The hand of a warrior. Nothing soft about it, and the touch sent a current through her. An odd sensation. She pulled her hand from his, but he snatched it back, frowning down at her. "You will not leave my sight, do you understand?"

  "Am I a prisoner then?"

  "You offered a bargain, Aleysia—and I accepted. You will abide by that bargain. For now you belong to me."

  "And if I refuse?"

  "I will kill your brother."

  She stopped in her tracks. There had been no apology in his tone whatsoever. In fact, he made it sound as if he would enjoy killing Adelstan. She ripped her hand from his grasp. "What a horrible man you are to say such a thing!"

  The moonlight had cast them in shadow, but she could still see his eyes, and she saw the surprise there. "You think me horrible? I let you live. I let your brother live. And you yourself are the one who offered your body for your brother's life. How does that make me horrible?"

  Two guards who stood in the shadows laughed, and she wondered if they overheard the conversation.

  Ashamed that others possibly knew of her brazen bargain, heat flooded her cheeks. "Aye, you are horrible because you kill innocent people!"

  "These are times of war. I do what I must to regain peace for my king. And what of you, Aleysia of Braemere? You fought and killed Norman knights alongside your brother. How are you different than I?"

  "How am I different?" she repeated, unable to believe her ears. "You are merciless. You will do whatever you must to get your way— killing, burning villages, starving innocent people. That's the difference between you and I."

  He flinched as though she'd struck him. "Am I worse than de Pirou?"

  De Pirou had been a terrible man, far worse than any she'd known. A man of no morals. The devil incarnate. A most unpleasant creature—but de Wulf was no better, if his reputation proved true. "Does your silence mean that you have been too harsh in your assessment?"

  "I have not changed my mind, nor will I ever. What kind of a man burns the entire north to the ground? You and your men have made the northern country a barren wasteland, my lord."

  He ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. "I grow weary of such talk, and I am bleeding from the wound that you have caused. You are skilled with bow and arrow, Ale
ysia," he said, a smile playing at his lips.

  Ignoring the compliment, she glanced at his shoulder. "Does the wound pain you?"

  "Aye, it pains me greatly."

  She smiled, glad she had caused him pain.

  He took a step toward her, his eyes narrowing as he searched her face. "You smile, Aleysia. How beautiful you are when you put down your guard. 'Tis like you glow from within."

  Her smile melted under his stare, and she looked away, flustered by her reaction to this man. What was it about him that made her thoughts fly right out of her head?

  "Are you not accustomed to men commenting on your beauty?" He sounded surprised.

  In truth, she was not accustomed to such praise. But she had never had a suitor before, save for Duncan, and he had never complimented her... ever. "Nay, I am not."

  "Then I am glad to be the first." There it was again, that silky soft voice that made the hair on her arms stand on end.

  "Come, let us not dally, little one. I am in need of a bath and some rest."

  "Aye, you are," she replied, following him into the armory where men sat or lay on benches and cots, some wounded, others caring for the injured. Seeing de Wulf approach, silence filled the building. An old man with long gray hair and full beard approached Renaud. "There you are, my lord. I've been expecting you. Come." He motioned for Renaud to sit on a bench. "Let me have a look at your wound."

  "Aleysia, sit here," de Wulf said, patting the bench opposite him. Aleysia took the seat and was instantly sorry when de Wulf spread his legs. To her dismay, she was caught there, her knees fit snugly between his powerful thighs. She could not move without touching either thigh, so she kept her knees firmly together.

  He did not smell as bad as one would think from the days of pillaging. Rather he smelled of musk, and something else she could not decipher. A masculine scent that was not at all unpleasant.