The Baron's Quest

by Margaret Moore

  He moved away at once. “What is it?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused.

  She got to her feet and tugged together her loosened bodice. “This is wrong! You think you can seduce me! And in the chapel, too. You are a wicked man! You think only of your own pleasure—worse than Philippe de Varenne!”

  Raising his eyebrows as if he truly didn’t understand, the baron said, “Actually, I was thinking of your pleasure, too. As for wicked, I have often been called that. But to say I am worse than Philippe de Varenne is a very serious charge.”

  “You are!” she cried, nearly sick with shame and dismay and shock at her own weakness. “You have Josephine de Chaney with whom to assuage your lust!”

  “That is very true.” The baron folded his hands in his lap. “I would like to know why I am worse than Philippe.”

  She went to move past him, but he grabbed her arm. “Why am I worse than Philippe?” he demanded sternly.

  “Because you…because you made me feel safe with you! Because I thought I could trust you,” she cried defiantly. “I can’t trust anybody! Now let me go!”

  His grip did not loosen as he smiled slowly, with absolutely no vestige of joy. “You have just accused me of being a wicked man,” he said so coolly that she felt like an idiot for being under his spell moments ago. “Do you think I will let you go to your quarters as easily as that if I am a wicked man?”

  Her heart filled with fear that she had been completely wrong about him, but her doubt lasted only a moment, for he calmly remarked, “To prove that I am not worse than Philippe, I will let you leave. Not only that, but I will see you safely back to your quarters, lest Philippe be lurking outside.”

  He stood up, then cursed vehemently, reminding her of his injury. Well, she would not have any concern for him, not after tonight. Even if he wasn’t a wicked man, he was still a cold and heartless one. “I don’t want…I don’t need an escort!” she said firmly. “I want to go to the village.”

  “Not tonight. Another day will do.”

  “But—”

  “I told you, not tonight,” he ordered harshly. “I require your assistance,” he continued, the words seemingly wrenched out of him. “I’ve twisted my damn ankle again Give me your arm and help me to the hall. Then Philippe won’t come near you.” He gave her a scornful look. “I won’t kiss you again, if that’s what you fear. As I told you before, I have no need to force myself upon unwilling wenches.”

  As if she had to be reminded that she had been so willing a short time before! Nevertheless, he was right about Philippe, and it was very late, so she reluctantly put her shoulder beneath his arm. Conscious of the heat of his body next to hers and trying not to be, she helped him limp out of the chapel and across the courtyard, maintaining a stony silence all the way.

  “What did you mean, you can’t trust anybody?” he asked as they entered the hall.

  “I meant I can’t trust you or your men,” she said between clenched teeth. He didn’t need to hear what she had discovered about Osric. She didn’t owe Baron DeGuerre anything except money.

  “So, you have finally found out it is better not to trust other people.”

  She did not bother to respond. He so obviously believed he was right, he did not need her confirmation.

  As they crossed the threshold of the hall, he grimaced with pain. “Be that as it may, I believe I will trust your advice and stay off my foot,” he said quietly. “This once. Fortunately, I have a mistress of such renown that no one will be suspicious if we choose to pass most of the day in bed.”

  Gabriella pressed her lips together, and it took all her fortitude not to slam her foot down on his injured one.

  Josephine shifted in the bed, drowsily aware of a most uncomfortable chill along her back. With a sleepy smile on her face, she reached around to pull more coverings away from Etienne, who tended to commandeer linens with the same authority with which he ruled his estates.

  He was not in the bed.

  She opened her eyes and sat up, looking at the luxurious coverings stupidly for a moment, then around the room. Where could he be? She had not felt him leave the bed, nor had she heard anything, such as a servant or soldier come to summon him away or tell them of an emergency.

  Perhaps Etienne was making a surprise patrol of the sentries. Sometimes he did that, seeking any who were sleeping at their post, or who did not know the proper password.

  Her repose destroyed nonetheless, Josephine climbed out of bed, drew her heavy velvet robe over her nakedness, slipped her feet into her cloth slippers and went to the window, peering at the courtyard, the gate house and the wall walks.

  The sentries were clearly visible, but there was no sign of Etienne. Mind, he could be in a part not visible from the window, around a corner or in the shadows.

  Then she gasped and her chest tightened as if a fist had struck her hard upon it, for there was Etienne in the courtyard, his arm around Gabriella Frechette in an intimate embrace. Thus entwined, they walked slowly toward the hall.

  Tightly clutching her robe together with trembling hands, Josephine’s incredulous expression was replaced by a grim one as she stepped away from the window. What need to wonder what was between them, when she had the evidence of her own eyes?

  Josephine silently cursed herself, and her own complacent laziness. She had grown remiss in her attentions to Etienne. Although she had been dismayed by her exclusion from his recent journey, the separation should have sounded more of an alarm to her. She should have remembered that they had been together long enough for his desire for her to wane, and should have trusted less to the power of her beauty.

  And she should have paid more heed to the way he treated Gabriella. She never should have relied on Gabriella’s forcefully stated morals to prevent Etienne’s seduction. Etienne was more than capable of gently wooing away all such protestations.

  Josephine wandered toward the bed, rubbing her arms to give them warmth, then disrobed, climbed into bed and lay down to think, if not to sleep. In another moment, she heard steps outside the bedchamber. Etienne entered, moving silently and cautiously, clearly believing that she still slept.

  She did not disillusion him, and kept up the ruse when he joined her beneath the coverings.

  It was not easy to lie beside him, listening to him breathe, aware of his muscular body that had given her so much pleasure. But ignore him she must, for she had plans to make, and she had to make them quickly.

  Etienne was pleased that Josephine slumbered undisturbed. He had no desire to make any explanations for his absence when he got into the bed beside his mistress.

  It was warm under the covers, and certainly more comfortable than the chapel. He should be able to get to sleep now.

  Provided he could stop thinking about Gabriella and what had just happened between them. He had, without a doubt, made one of the stupidest blunders of his life.

  It was true that he had needed to know what had happened to her. The behavior of his men was his responsibility. Once he had heard, though, he should have sent her away. He should have listened to his logical, rational mind and never given in to the temptation to kiss her. Or to continue kissing her, even though he understood why he had done so.

  He cared for Gabriella Frechette as he had never cared for any other woman, and he had foolishly given in to the impulse to demonstrate his feelings in the only way he knew how.

  His mouth drew into a grim line as he lay motionless. For him, there could be no other way to express love, or at least what he understood by that word. What did he know of tender emotions? Who had been his teachers?

  His mother had not loved him. He had been but a poor substitute for the man to whom she had given her whole heart. When he died, there had been no love left to give to her son. With him she could only share a sense of dreams unfulfilled, a need for power and glory, and of someday, perhaps, being worthy of a dead man.

  Women had desired him, and some had claimed to love him, but there had always been that
look, deep in their eyes, a hungry, greedy look that seemed to say, “What is my love worth to you?” There was not a one of them who would have made an unselfish sacrifice for his sake.

  He recalled how Gabriella spoke of her brother. Her undying faith in his return. Her wistful tone, the look in her eyes.

  What would it be like, he wondered, to have such a love? Or to possess a family?

  Not a family like the de Varennes, who were as quarrelsome and vicious to each other as they were to their enemies, but a family such as the Frechettes. He had heard enough about them to know that they were admired and well loved; even the knavish Bryce was thought of kindly, his temper and imprudence put down to high spirits and an adventurous nature.

  Undoubtedly he would never know

  He tried to tell himself that none of this was important. An ability to express a tender sentiment could not be expected, given his upbringing, and hadn’t mattered to countless women.

  Etienne continued to attempt to convince himself of the futility of yearning for something he could never have all the rest of the night.

  The next day, Gabriella kept waiting for Baron DeGuerre to summon Philippe de Varenne, as he had said he would. However, the day passed, and the baron remained in his solar, closeted with his steward, Jean Luc Ducette.

  She tried not to be disappointed that he didn’t immediately see Philippe. She reminded herself that the baron was a busy man, with many things to consider during the harvest time.

  Nonetheless, as the day progressed and it became clear that neither she, nor his vow to speak with de Varenne, were more important than talking of estate business with his steward, a sense of hopelessness pervaded her. Whatever else she thought of Baron DeGuerre, she thought him a man of his word.

  Another, more disturbing notion came to her. What if Philippe had already been summoned, and he had told the baron his undoubtedly different version of what had passed in the storeroom? What if Philippe had been right, and she wrong, as to how the baron would react? What if Baron DeGuerre believed Philippe? Maybe, when all was said and done, she was nothing but a fool where Baron DeGuerre was concerned, and to trust him to help find her brother was the greatest folly of all.

  At last the time came to help Josephine decide which gown to wear at the evening meal. She had to pass the solar, and hurried by the door, when it suddenly swung open and Baron DeGuerre stepped out. She halted so abruptly she almost collided with him. His arms grasped hers to steady her, and she looked at his face, startled, embarrassed and dismayed by the unexpected thrill the contact with his body caused.

  As if to confirm her suspicions, he would not even meet her eye. Her surprise turned to scorn. He was a lying, dishonorable rogue who had promised to find out about Bryce and to send Philippe away, and he had done nothing.

  She twisted away from him, glad she had not made love to him. To have given herself to one so unworthy would have been a complete humiliation.

  Gabriella straightened her shoulders and proudly lifted her chin. Then she majestically marched away from the baron.

  Etienne watched Gabriella stalk up the stairs toward the bedchamber and thought of the bitter reproach he had seen in her face.

  He could understand why she would think he deserved it. She would know that he had not summoned de Varenne as the first order of the day, or as had been his intention until he realized that he would probably wind up killing the impertinent miscreant if he did so. He had no wish to lose his self-control twice within the space of a single day, and whereas what had passed with Gabriella would have no consequence, the killing of Philippe de Varenne, however justified, surely would.

  “Who was that, my lord?” Jean Luc asked in his low, pleasant voice, which was a distinct contrast to his somber face.

  “That was Gabriella Frechette,” Etienne replied, walking down the stairs toward the hall, commanding himself to remain calm, although the feel of her body against his had aroused him instantly. In that brief moment, he had felt truly alive for the first time all day.

  “The disinherited woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “She is a spirited creature. I would hate to have her accusing me of a crime. A man sitting in judgment would surely be swayed by the righteous passion in her eyes.”

  Etienne paused and glanced at his steward. “She means nothing to me.”

  Jean Luc’s thin lips smiled slightly. “No, my lord, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. Everyone knows you are immune to the simple attraction of a pretty face.”

  Etienne thought it would be wise to change the subject. “You are quite certain, then, that there had been no misappropriation of funds?” he asked, continuing toward the hall.

  “None that I can see. The earl made several bad decisions, but it could have been much worse much sooner. I think we must accept that the bailiff did the best he could under the circumstances, and in fact, I suspect he did rather more than most men would have. Have you any idea why, my lord?”

  They were nearly at the bottom of the stairs. Etienne paused and turned to Jean Luc once again. “Josephine believes he cares for the earl’s daughter.”

  “Ah!” Jean Luc nodded understandingly.

  “She, however, was quite convinced he was robbing the family”

  “Far be it from me to contradict a young lady,” Jean Luc said gravely, “but the evidence of the earl’s spendthrift ways are all about us.” He gestured at the fine stone walls and the carved lintel of the doorway leading to the great hall. “He would have needed a much larger estate to pay for such a castle without difficulty.”

  “Yes. I will tell her so tomorrow.”

  “Would you like me to be there, my lord? To show her the books?”

  “No. I will do it myself. Now you must be very hungry. I think we have done nearly a week’s worth of work today. Let us forget talk of money, rents and pannage and enjoy our meal.”

  “I agree, my lord,” Jean Luc replied. “I look forward to dining with Lady de Chaney. She grows more beautiful with every passing day.”

  “Are you thinking of becoming a minstrel, Jean Luc?” Etienne asked lightly.

  The steward chuckled noiselessly. “Not I, my lord, not I.”

  A dun shaft of early-morning sunlight that escaped the thick clouds illuminated Gabriella as she stood in the nearly barren solar, once again waiting for Baron DeGuerre. She had been told to come here after mass, by order of the baron. Alda had no idea why.

  Gabriella did. Philippe must have convinced the baron she had lied about their encounter in the storeroom and the baron was going to confront her, perhaps even chastise or punish her.

  As long as he did not try to seduce her again! However, this time she would be more on her guard than she had been in the chapel. She would remember he was nothing but a lustful, arrogant upstart, undeserving of her respect.

  To take her mind away from contemplating the baron or his deeds and his motives, she let her gaze rove over the room. There was some new furniture, of course, to replace what had been sold, but apparently, Josephine de Chaney had not been permitted to utilize her decorative skills here. The table was large and plain, made of solid oak. The two chairs were identical and similarly plain. A single large candle was placed on the bare table, and she wondered what had become of the lists and papers Chalfront had provided to enable Baron DeGuerre to take command of her family’s estate. They had laid on the top of that table like dead leaves of autumn, or pieces of a brittle shroud.

  She could remember so clearly her father sitting in this very room! If he were here now, he would have at least three dogs sleeping at his feet, a brazier lit with coal, a carpet on the floor, a tray of delicious sweetmeats at his elbow, a goblet of wine in his hand and several candles illuminating the room. He would be wearing a warm, colorful robe and a large ornate brooch. His smile would have warmed her more than the brazier, and she would have been happy.

  With the shock of an unexpected gust of wind on a mild summer’s day, the baron strode into the room
and passed her without a word before he sat in the chair behind the table.

  He took possession of the solar like some kind of evil spirit, his face looming above his black tunic in the weak sunlight and his expression was as inscrutable as it had ever been.

  “You sent for me, my lord?” she inquired stiffly when he continued to stare at her wordlessly.

  “Sit down.” He indicated the chair on the opposite side of the table.

  “Servants should remain standing in the presence of their betters, my lord,” she replied, wondering what kind of delaying tactic this was. She could well believe—indeed, she knew!—that he enjoyed making people wait until he deigned to reveal his aim, increasing their anxiety to a fever pitch. As he had done the night of her arrival. As he was doing now.

  “Suit yourself, wench,” he said with a shrug of his broad shoulders, the movement as graceful as a cat stretching. “I have summoned you here to tell you what my steward has discovered about Chalfront’s handling of your father’s affairs.”

  “Yes, my lord?” she responded, trying not to betray any eagerness.

  “Jean Luc has told me, and more, shown me, that not only did Chalfront act properly, he went beyond his duties. Your family would have been bankrupt long before your brother left if it were not for the bailiff’s management.”

  Gabriella stared at the baron’s handsome, impassive face. She had been trying to maintain her faith in her brother’s final admonition, despite Chalfront’s continuous assertions of his innocence. Could it be that she had been as wrong about Bryce as she had been about Osric, and Baron DeGuerre?

  No, it had not been right to think the best of the baron and villagers who she did not know well, but she could trust Bryce, or at least trust that he truly believed what he had told her. If only he had explained why he distrusted Chalfront before he had gone away! “Bryce must have had his reasons,” she said, voicing her troubled thoughts.

  “While it is commendable that you have faith in your brother’s estimation of Chalfront’s character,” the baron said, his voice as cold as the room, “I regret that I must confirm that your father, and your father alone, was responsible for your family’s penury. He spent far more than he could afford on this castle, on the food, on your brother’s horses and armor—on everything, apparently.”