The Baron's Quest

by Margaret Moore

  “He didn’t defend her,” Donald said. “If he truly cared for her, he would.”

  “Come now, Donald,” George replied. “He isn’t a knight. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s completely terrified of Baron DeGuerre. She wasn’t, though. Whoever would have imagined a woman standing up to Baron DeGuerre?”

  “He’s not a god, you know,” Philippe said scornfully. “You all treat Baron DeGuerre like he’s the second coming!”

  “You say that because you’re new to his service,” George said affably. “You’ve never seen him fight By God, you’d change your tune fast enough then.”

  “Perhaps,” Philippe said, clearly unconvinced.

  “Our Donald’s still suffering the effects of being trained by Fitzroy,” George said with a sad smile and laughing eyes. “That man’s notions concerning the fairer sex are even more strict than the baron’s.”

  “Ah, yes, the famous Fitzroy,” Philippe said. “I wouldn’t mind facing him in a tournament someday. You fought him once, didn’t you, Seldon?”

  Seldon looked away. “Yes.”

  “And you lost?”

  “Yes.”

  “It wasn’t quite a fair fight, I believe?”

  “Shut your mouth and leave it,” Donald snarled, rising. “That was a long time ago, and he’s made up for it since.”

  “Of course, of course, calm yourself!” Philippe declared. “I simply asked.”

  “Come now, we are getting far too worked up. It must be the fine wine,” George said. “We are all friends here.”

  Donald was not appeased. “I’ve had quite enough of you for one night,” he said to Philippe, his teeth clenched. “Good night!”

  He marched from the hall, followed a moment later by Seldon. “That wasn’t very nice, Philippe,” George said coldly. “Seldon was a boy when he did that unwise thing.”

  “He’s still a dullard,” Philippe replied, reaching out for more wine.

  George raised his wine in a salute. “Let us drink to women in general, eh, Philippe? Will that satisfy you?”

  They raised their goblets and drank, then lowered them as Baron DeGuerre rose from the table. They watched silently as he spoke a few quiet words to Josephine de Chaney, whose face betrayed no emotion, before he went to the tower stairs and disappeared from view.

  “One of us is going to be satisfied tonight,” Philippe said nastily.

  “I think I’ll go, too. You’re getting drunk, and you’re rather poor company when you’re in that state.”

  Philippe took a large gulp of wine and watched George saunter away. He didn’t care what they thought. They were all cowards, bowing and scraping before Baron DeGuerre.

  He took a few more gulps. He didn’t care what the baron thought, either. The man was mortal, like all the rest, and he lacked breeding, too.

  Why didn’t women see that? Why did they always pass over him, so much more deserving, and try to entice the baron? No matter what the others thought, he was sure that was what Gabriella Frechette was trying to do. She was a mere woman, after all.

  A pretty, shapely woman with no male relative to protect her. God’s wounds, what he wouldn’t give to be in the baron’s place at this particular moment.

  Well, let the baron tame her first. He, Philippe, could wait.

  Chapter Three

  Gabriella wiped her sweating palms on the skirt of her gown as she paced the length of her parents’ bedchamber and struggled to stay calm. It was a losing battle, every moment seeming an hour while she waited for the baron to appear, trying desperately to convince herself that he would not dare to hurt her.

  Her eyes caught sight of the narrow bed, the replacement she had provided for her parents’ ornate one. Her gaze quickly returned to the marble beneath her feet.

  Oh, if only Bryce were here! He would save her. He wouldn’t shrink from fighting the baron himself, if he had to. He was always ready for an altercation, with his father, with Chalfront, with the reeve, the miller, the cloth merchants. How many times had she acted as mediator? Too many to count. She had come to pride herself on her diplomacy.

  What had happened to her skill when she had confronted Baron DeGuerre? Had pride made her foolish? Had she felt so secure in her place and in the servants’ regard that she had stupidly risked speaking without deference to Baron DeGuerre? Or had she been too upset to think with necessary clarity?

  Whatever she had thought, she would never have guessed he would assert his authority by vile means.

  She still could not quite believe it. She had never heard his reputation sullied with such an accusation, or any other abuse of women. He was said to be ruthless with his opponents in tournaments, but not vengeful. His ambition was considerable, yet many men wanted power and wealth. Women vied for his attention. Would they, if he was a rough and violent man?

  Or was she desperately seeking succor where there could be none?

  Once again she cursed herself for a stubborn fool. Would it have been so hard to bow her head, to act afraid, to cower before him? To at least remain silent in his presence?

  Perhaps if she did so when he finally came here, he would let her go. She would kneel before him and beg forgiveness. Anything to let her retain her honor. After all, her personal honor was all she had left.

  Yet what kind of honor was it that begged? If he harmed her, he would be in the wrong. She would know it, and the people would know it. Her family was not totally friendless. She could tell others what he had done. She would dishonor him.

  What was she thinking? This was a man who lived openly with his mistress, and Josephine de Chaney was but one of a long line. He refused to give the proper tithes to the Church, and he was harsh in his punishment of those he perceived to have broken the law. It was said the only thing Baron DeGuerre respected was power, and she had none.

  Gabriella pressed her frigid hands to her hot cheeks. Why did he not come? Was this part of her torture, this agony of waiting?

  She went to the window and looked out in the faint light of the slender moon. Once this land had belonged to her family, until her father had let Chalfront take charge.

  Chalfront! Her hands balled into fists. She hated the bailiff as much as the baron, with his talk of help and assistance, when she knew—knew!—that her father’s financial difficulties were his fault.

  What was Chalfront thinking now? Was he pleased to see her humbled and humiliated by Baron DeGuerre?

  The door burst open and crashed against the wall as the baron strode in, looking like the very devil in his long black robe, his chestnut hair brushing his shoulders in that heathen fashion, his eyes gleaming demonically in the flickering light of the flambeaux he carried and set in a socket on the wall.

  Gabriella stepped back into the shadows, trying somehow to hide.

  Baron DeGuerre looked around until he saw her. With a leering smile made grotesque by the shadows cast by the torch’s flame, he closed the door, shutting her inside the room with him. “Come here, Gabriella,” he said, his deep voice low but the command clear.

  Now was the time to beg for mercy, Gabriella thought desperately. She told herself she should throw herself on her knees. Implore. Plead.

  Instead, all the proud heritage of her noble blood asserted itself within her, and she simply could not be the instrument of her own further humiliation.

  The baron’s brown brows lowered as his hands went to the lacing at the neck of his robe. With slow movements his long fingers untied the knot there, and as she watched, speechless, he drew the heavy garment over his head and let it fall in a heap on the floor.

  His chest was muscular, covered with several small scars of battle, his broad shoulders powerful, his arms lean and sinewy beside his narrow waist. His hips, encased in taut chausses, were slender, but muscular, too.

  Not taking his eyes from her, he went to the bed and sat on it. “Come here and take off my boots, Gabnella.”

  He had the strength to defeat her. She could fight all she wanted, and he wou
ld triumph at last. Struggling against him would be useless.

  Slowly Gabriella raised her eyes to his face. What was he, really, but a man, and one completely in the wrong? She had righteousness on her side, and surely God would help her. She would not let this man defeat her. There must be some way, some weakness, if only she could find it….

  “Take off my boots, Gabriella.” He held up a booted foot and waited as if he had no expectation of refusal.

  With watchful eyes, still searching for an opportunity, Gabriella moved slowly toward him. She reached out to take his boot in her hands—and then she thrust his leg up as far as she could and made a dash for the door.

  Not fast enough. He was off the bed in an instant. He grabbed her arm before she could reach the latch, yanking her around and pulling her against him. His icy blue eyes stared down into hers as she struggled in his strong, encircling arms.

  All her efforts to disengage herself from his grasp seemed to be no more than a petty inconvenience to him. Aware of his arms around her, his naked chest against her rapidly rising and falling breasts, the proximity of his mouth, she stopped struggling. “You can’t do this!” she cried desperately.

  “I can’t prevent a servant from leaving my bedchamber before she has finished her work?” he asked coolly, not attempting to tighten his embrace.

  “Work?” she gasped incredulously. “Is that what you call it? You have a mistress for that!”

  “I don’t need an unwilling wench to excite me,” he said, letting go of her and stepping away toward a table bearing a goblet of wine, “although you might consider Josephine’s example as a way of achieving your former level of prosperity. She, too, comes from an impoverished noble family.”

  Freed from his grasp and convinced that he did not mean to rape her, Gabriella frowned at his insult. “I will never be any man’s whore!” she said, tossing her head.

  The baron arched one eyebrow as he turned to look at her. “I would not be so quick to condemn Josephine de Chaney,” he said as he picked up the goblet. “What do you know of her life, or the choices she has been forced to make?”

  “I would rather die than take such a course!”

  He took a sip of the wine. “Really? I wonder.” He sauntered toward the bed, then faced her, running his gaze over her in a way that brought a blush to her face. “Josephine needs a maidservant. I think you would do well in that capacity. Now take my tunic and wash it.”

  She tried to decide if he meant what he said, or if he was toying with her.

  “I assume you know how to wash a simple tunic?” the baron asked sarcastically when she did not move at once.

  She did not, but she nodded anyway.

  “Then take it and go.” His tone was dismissive, and she knew she was indeed free to leave.

  She quickly gathered up the discarded garment in her arms. It smelled of leather and horse and smoke… and him.

  As she started to rise, she realized a woman was standing on the threshold.

  “Ah, Josephine,” the baron drawled. “Why the delay, my dear?”

  Josephine de Chaney’s look was sweetly venomous as Gabriella hesitated, not wishing to push past the lady whose voluminous skirts filled the doorway, but anxious to be gone.

  “You’re not jealous of this serving wench, surely?” the baron said with a deep, throaty chuckle that contained no true joy. He came toward his mistress and pulled her into his arms, out of the doorway.

  The way clear, a relieved Gabriella hurried out of the room. Once in the corridor, she glanced over her shoulder to see Josephine de Chaney bent back over the baron’s powerful arm while he kissed her with fierce, unbridled lust. Before she could go on her way, Baron DeGuerre raised his eyes and looked at her over Josephine’s head, his lips still upon his paramour’s and the expression in his eyes mocking.

  As Etienne continued to kiss Josephine, he subdued a smile that had nothing to do with the beautiful woman he held in his arms.

  Now Gabriella Frechette should finally understand her place, he thought. It crossed his mind that he might have thought of a better means of education; however, he had not, and he never wasted time with useless regrets.

  Not that he would ever have taken Gabriella against her will. He truly despised men who violated women of any status, and he would certainly never stoop to such a loathsome tactic.

  How much better and easier it would have been if the wench had been born a servant in this castle. Then he would have given her a small present, she would have been thankful, he would have given her another and made a proposition, which she would surely have accepted, and then she would be in his arms, returning his kiss with passionate intensity….

  “A moment!” Josephine protested softly as she reached up to grasp her stiffened crown and scarf that he had pushed askew. “You are going to strangle me, my love!” Josephine gently extricated herself from his embrace, watching him shrewdly as she walked past him, carefully folding the expensive scarf and placing the jeweled headdress on the table.

  He realized she often looked at him thus, like a master attempting to gauge a pupil’s response. When had he ever seen Josephine truly passionate, whether with desire or hate? Never before had it occurred to him how cool and remote she often was; or perhaps, if he had noticed, he would have considered that a blessing, for he had no wish to be tied to a woman in any way. His two marriages, both of them advantageous alliances, had not been pleasant experiences. When each of his wives had died, he had been more relieved than sorry. Fortunately, he no longer had any need to increase his personal wealth or power by such a method.

  What was the matter with him? He had the most beautiful woman in the kingdom to share his bed. More than that, she was also a wise and perceptive woman. Even if she was desperate to know what had passed between himself and Gabriella, she would never ask.

  He had the perfect arrangement with Josephine. He gave her gifts, fed and housed her and even allowed her to act as hostess in return for the pleasures of her body and the reward of her beauty. She was like a tournament prize, a living, breathing illustration to all men that he could have the most beautiful woman in the kingdom.

  “What happened to your tunic?” Josephine asked as she sat down before her mirror.

  It struck Etienne that since he had entered this room, he had not observed its state at all. His attention had been drawn to Gabriella immediately.

  The chamber was distinctly barren, except for the items that had been unloaded immediately from the baggage carts. No tapestries, only one chair, Josephine’s own table where she kept her perfumes, another bearing wine, the mirror, their chests of clothing and a bed that was much too narrow. He would have that remedied tomorrow. As for the rest, Josephine would see to it.

  “I thought Gabriella needed to learn who was in command here,” Etienne replied, answering her unspoken question.

  Josephine’s reflection revealed a mildly surprised and pensive reaction. “Half-naked?” she inquired. “Still, if you wished to impress her, I can think of no better way.”

  Etienne turned away to hide the sudden flush of a blush, something he had not felt since he was a youth. At that moment, Etienne DeGuerre would have died before admitting that Josephine, the wise, the shrewd, had guessed something even he had not dared to confess to himself. Deep in his heart, he had expected Gabriella to be overwhelmed by his physical presence, as so many women were. He had more than half expected her to fall into his arms, or at least respond to the sensation of his embrace. When she had not, only then had he concocted the excuse that she should wash his tunic.

  “What is it?” Josephine asked, genuine distress in her voice.

  “It is too cold in here.” He went toward the battered chest he had used all his life. He opened the lid and drew out his fur-lined robe.

  Josephine gave him a glorious smile, reminding him of her beauty. “This castle is a fine one, Etienne. A worthy gift from the king. With some proper furnishings, this room will be quite comfortable.” She hesi
tated a moment. “I am not surprised she refused to leave it.”

  Etienne did not insult Josephine’s intelligence by asking who she meant. “I didn’t expect her to stay. She seems an overly proud woman.” He wrapped himself in the robe, the fur soft against his naked skin.

  “But one with limited alternatives,” Josephine noted. “She is not unattractive. Perhaps someone will offer to marry her. Will you allow that?”

  “Of course,” he answered brusquely, then told himself he was simply annoyed as always when Josephine spoke of marriage. From the beginning, he had made it very clear that he had no intention of marrying again. For him, marriage had been terrible, his wives demanding his attention when he had more important business to attend to than what he would like on the table for the evening meal or if he liked her latest gown bought at great expense. And as for the alleged pleasures of the nuptial bed—he would rather spend ten hours in the saddle than make love to a woman raised only to be a nobleman’s wife, taught that what took place in the marriage bed was merely a disagreeable duty to be endured.

  “The bailiff seems most anxious about her,” Josephine remarked with another smile.

  “Why do you say that? He did little enough to defend her below.”

  “I saw his face when you ordered her to this room,” Josephine said. “He was most upset and actually ran out of the hall.”

  “If he wants her, he can have her,” Etienne replied. “For the present, I ordered her to wash my tunic.”

  Josephine’s brow furrowed with a frown. “It is not her fault that her father was a wastrel,” she said softly.

  “I know, and that is why I gave her money to leave. She chose not to take it.”

  “But a laundress!” Josephine looked at him with mild reproof. Still, even that much condemnation was rare for her.

  He went to Josephine and took hold of her slender shoulders. “I do not mean for her to be that permanently. You need a maid, and she will know what you need done.”