The Baron's Quest

by Margaret Moore

  Osric shook his head, his body shaking with sobs. “Oh, mercy, my lord! Please, I beg you!”

  “Luckily for you, this is the first time you have been brought before me,” Etienne said. “Sergeant, his fingers are the price he will pay.”

  The sergeant nodded grimly while Osric’s screams grew louder and more piercing.

  “Do it on the village green, so that all will learn that no man should dare to steal from the king. Or from me,” Etienne ordered.

  Etienne’s resolute gaze met Gabriella’s briefly, before she bowed her head and hurried toward the chapel. He could not tell what she was thinking from her large brown eyes, but he thought he could make a very good guess.

  She despised him.

  It was weakness to care what she thought. It was foolishness to feel the pain he experienced as he watched her go. It would be an admission of her power over him if he went after her to explain.

  All these things he thought as he stood in the courtyard, knowing the truth of them.

  But he simply could not bear to have her hate him, so when the courtyard was empty once again, he followed her.

  Gabriella hurried into the chapel, wanting to be alone. Away from the baron. Away from the wedding. Away from everything.

  She sank onto the bench nearest the altar, every limb quivering. The lights from the many small candles flickered and danced, casting elusive shadows on the walls. The air was cold and incense-scented, the bench hard and unyielding.

  Gabriella noticed almost nothing of this. Her thoughts were focused solely upon her reaction to what had just transpired.

  Although the punishment was harsh, Osric had broken the law many times and never been caught; now he had, and now he must pay. Indeed, the baron had applied justice with more mercy than he had to. He was not the unjust lord she had feared. He was ambitious and fiercely protective of his property, but he was no monster.

  He was a man, and she loved him.

  Hopelessly, she knew, and so she must leave this place while she could yet contemplate going where he was not. Before she was tempted to forget her upbringing, and who she was.

  She must leave Castle Frechette, which was no longer a home but a place of torment, and forget that she had ever seen Baron DeGuerre. She would ask Mary to take her in, until she could figure out where to go next.

  Then she realized she was not alone. Slowly she turned to see the shadow of a man cast by the light shining in through the stained-glass window, a tall, muscular man who wore a long robe.

  She rose quickly.

  “I will… I will leave you to your contemplation,” the baron said, his voice sounding loud yet hesitant in the stillness.

  “No, I will go,” she said quickly, moving toward him and the door, more confused than ever by his apparent uncertainty.

  “I have not come to pray for forgiveness,” he said with an obvious attempt to sound defiant. Was that dismay she saw wrinkling his brow? Was the always confident Etienne DeGuerre questioning his decision?

  More importantly, if that was so, why did he seek her out?

  “It is Osric who should be asking for forgiveness,” she replied at last, a hope she dared not harbor growing in her heart. “Why did you follow me here? Was it to explain to me that you were merely an agent of the law? A lord with a responsibility to punish wrongdoers? That you were only doing your duty?”

  His eyes narrowed, as if he wondered what she meant by her words. “I have no need to explain my decisions to anyone.”

  “No, you do not. Because what you did was what you felt you had to do. I am the daughter of an earl, my lord. If my father was a lenient man, some of his friends were not. I have met unjust men in my life. You are not of their ilk, no matter what others may say.”

  His pale blue eyes seemed to glow in the darkness from some kind of inner struggle being waged within him. “You flatter me,” he remarked.

  “That was not my intention,” she answered. “I do not need an explanation for your decision about Osric, because I agree with it.” She hesitated, then decided to tell what she had discovered, to prove that he had not erred in what he had been forced to do. “I knew about Osric before.”

  “So I understood.”

  “Since my father’s death, I mean. I overheard him speaking with his mother. I could have said something to William, or Mary, or even Osric himself, to warn him to leave the village, but I was angry and upset at them, and—” she lowered her voice as she made her admission “—at you, for being right.”

  “Then you understand that I only did what I had to do tonight?” he asked, and she knew with sudden certainty that her answer truly mattered to him.

  She nodded slowly as he came toward her.

  “Do you hate me, Gabriella?” The question was posed softly, yet she heard the need in his voice.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Perhaps you should. I am a man who takes what he wants.” Despite his bold attempt to appear cold and unfeeling, she saw a mixture of hope, desire and despair in his eyes, like those of a man beholding something he wants very much but fears he can never have.

  “What do you want?” she asked softly, half-afraid to pose the question, and more afraid not to.

  “I want you.” His voice grew hard again. “I am in need of another mistress, after all.”

  “I don’t believe you have so little respect for me that you mean such an iniquitous proposal,” she said. “You care too much for me.”

  His eyes widened for the briefest of moments, and another flicker of pain passed through them. “As you have already discovered, Gabriella, there is but one way I love,” he answered, reaching for her and pulling her into his arms. His lips swooped down upon hers in a burning, heated kiss that left her dizzy and breathless before he pulled back and ran his searching gaze over her face. “Would you take Josephine’s place?”

  “No,” she answered, twisting away from him and planting her feet apart. “I will not dishonor myself, not even for love.”

  “I don’t love you,” the baron replied with forced arrogance. “I don’t love anybody. I simply desire you. I will use you and, when I see another woman who catches my fancy, I will send you from my bed.”

  “You think to frighten me away from you,” she charged, “but it is already too late to do that.” He was trying so hard to hide his true feelings! Yet his desperate words could not mask his agony, and love for him filled her. She went and stood directly in front of him, so that he would be forced to see her. “You already care for me, or you would not be trying to scare me away”

  “Are you a mind reader, then?” he demanded scornfully.

  “No. I know—” She took a deep breath “—be—cause I feel the same for you.”

  He stared at her with an expression that was, she realized with great dismay, one of horror. That was not what she had thought to see. “What has happened to you?” she cried anxiously. “What has made you so afraid to love?”

  His horror disappeared, replaced with his usual cold impartiality so quickly that she marveled at his self-control. And cursed it. “I do not need your help to find the answers to such ridiculous questions,” he replied.

  “Are you going to shut me out?” she asked. “Are you going to lock your heart away again, behind that wall of reserve? Then why did you come here?”

  “I was momentarily… weak,” he said harshly. “Now you may go back to the dancing and leave me alone.”

  “I won’t, any more than I would leave a wounded man on the road. Whatever has happened to you in the past has left a poison in your heart. Let the poison drain, before it festers and kills you.”

  He gazed at her, still struggling with his wounded heart. “I do not need your physic, you who had parents and a brother who loved you. You would never understand!”

  She reached out to take his hand in hers. “I can try, and I can listen,” she said softly. “I will not go from here until you tell me who has hurt you so badly, unless you pick me up and throw me out
that door.”

  He looked as if he would indeed do that, and then, his shoulders slumped and he shrugged as he sat wearily on the bench. “You are a stubborn woman, Gabriella Frechette. If you want to hear about me, I will tell you—if only to convince you that I can never love you, or anybody else.” He spoke almost to himself, or as if he were addressing the spirit of the air and not a flesh-and-blood woman. “I was born a bastard, the son of a knight my mother loved with all her heart. He died before I was born. My mother always believed he was returning to marry her when he met with his fatal accident.

  “She loved him so much that there was little, if any, love left for her child, except as the reminder of the man. Ever since I could take my first steps, she told me of my father’s greatness. His battle prowess, his skill, his manners, his looks—they were my bedtime stories, along with the exhortation to be worthy of him, a man I had never known. Oh, the goals my mother set for me!” he said wryly, but it was a tortured attempt at lightness that touched her more than another man’s tears might have. “It was not enough to be good at fighting. I had to be the best.”

  Here, then, was the root of his ambition. It was not to achieve power or glory or wealth for himself alone, but to be worthy of an ideal. Suddenly she saw not the great Baron DeGuerre sitting before her, but a lonely little boy trying to win his mother’s love.

  The baron sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead as if he would blot out his memories. “I left home and began to earn rewards at tournaments and the notice of great lords. I became the best, for my mother’s sake.” His estimation was said without arrogance or undue pride. “I saved most of what I got, to provide for her. I bought her a fine house and horses, and hired her servants.

  “Still not enough. I must be even better. Richer. More powerful. By this time,” he said, glancing at Gabriella with a sad, ironic smile, “I enjoyed what I had become. It was no longer for my mother’s sake that I strove, but my own.

  “Then my mother fell seriously ill. I rushed to her bedside and saw to it that she had the best of care.

  “Yet all she ever spoke of was my father. His name was the one always on her lips when she was able to speak.” His voice became ragged and low. “Not one word did she spare for me. I should have told her what I knew,” he continued bitterly, “what I found out when I was earning my rewards in tournaments and heard my father’s name mentioned. He wasn’t coming back to her when he died. He was on his way to be married, to somebody else.”

  “Why didn’t you tell her?” Gabriella prompted gently, although she thought she could guess the answer.

  “Because even then, I think I was trying to ease my mother’s pain,” he replied, confirming what she suspected as he sighed once more. “At any rate, she died.”

  “And you were left alone.”

  He looked surprised. “I was free.”

  “What kind of woman could not love her only child?” Gabriella wondered aloud.

  He regarded her steadily. “Don’t you know? A woman who has succumbed to the domination of love,” he answered. “She set her heart on one human being who was gone and did not see the child at her knee.”

  Gabriella nodded pensively.

  “Is it so surprising that I should try to understand her?” he asked as if he had heard her unspoken thought. “For years she was the only person in my life, and I studied her well. But now you know why I do not want anyone’s love,” he warned. “Love is a snare and a weakness, and I will have no part of it. I am content to be alone.”

  “No, you are not content,” Gabriella protested fervently, her heart full of love for the abandoned, vulnerable man. “You are lonely and your heart is full of bitter pain. Nobody wants to be alone.”

  “I don’t want your love!” Etienne said sternly, rising abruptly.

  “Whether you want it or not, you have it,” she said gently, and with all the determination of her stubborn nature, revealing what she had been uselessly trying to fight, and what she wouldn’t fight anymore.

  She walked toward him slowly. Now was the time to decide. What was more important, her honor or this man? Could she deny that undisguised look of longing in his eyes, or ignore his loneliness? If she did, would she not rue it the rest of her life?

  She was Gabriella Frechette, daughter of earls and lords. She had nothing but her honor left.

  And she had no other gift, save that, to prove her love. Here, now, she would make a new decision.

  He did not move. He did not speak, not even when she put her arms around him and kissed him.

  She felt the tension in his body, like the string of a bow drawn overly tight. Then slowly, as her kiss continued, he moved to embrace her delicately, as if he were afraid she might break in his grasp. Or as if he feared she did not mean what her actions implied.

  She drew back and smiled her love. He wasn’t the bold, brave baron now, but a lover uncertain, and she would convince him that she would not regret her decision. Still smiling, although her heart raced, she began to untie the laces at the neck of his long tunic. She sensed that he would not take command here, that it was her place to lead.

  With sudden understanding and a look of such hopeful delight that Gabriella knew she would never, ever be sorry for what they were about to do, he grabbed her hand and pressed fervent kisses on her fingers.

  Then she was in his arms, surrounded and held tight against him while their lips met in passionate delight. With one accord they sank to their knees as their kiss deepened, unmindful of the hard stones.

  Her fingers worked the lacings until she could reach one hand inside his tunic to feel the warm, hard flesh of his chest.

  She withdrew her hand and pulled away, so that she could see the buckle of his belt. Breathing rapidly, she had it undone quickly, but as it fell to the ground, he pulled her to him with a low growl of desire and kissed the tops of her breasts. She gasped and leaned back as his chin nuzzled down the fabric of her bodice until her breasts were exposed to his lips and teasing tongue.

  Her hands clutched his long hair and she couldn’t suppress the moan of pleasure as he continued. What he was doing was so astoundingly wonderful she had an urgent need to return the pleasure. She tore at his tunic until she widened the gap enough to reach his nipples with her mouth. As he had done, she kissed and suckled and lightly brushed each hardened nub with her tongue.

  He put his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her backward until she lay on the floor. His eyes full of primitive desire, he knelt between her legs and leaned forward. While he kissed her, one hand raised her skirt and caressed her thigh, the other supported his weight. His lean, strong fingers, cold at first, grew warm as they continued to probe. She closed her eyes, awash with sensation and craving more.

  He thrust his tongue gently inside the soft confines of her mouth, and his fingers continued to work their magic. Incredible sensations swept over her, each more powerful than the next. Tension built and ebbed and built again, until she was whimpering with need.

  Then she felt him enter her. A brief pain soon passed away as he began to move, thrusting rhythmically. She clutched his muscular arms while his lips moved over her until she thought she would faint with pleasure. His breathing grew ragged, nearly as ragged as her own.

  The tension continued to build, and her knuckles grew white as she held him in exquisite agony.

  And then she felt an incredible release of pleasure that made her cry out with sheer unbridled delight. He groaned and she slowly realized that he, too, had experienced release.

  He lifted himself away from her and rose, his tunic falling into place as he gazed down at her, his pale blue eyes telling her…nothing. Then he turned and left her there.

  Without saying a single word.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bryce begrudged having to let his lame horse walk the last few miles toward home. He wanted to reach Castle Frechette as soon as he could, which had been his aim since he had left Dover. Unfortunately, the lameness of his horse was but an
other in a series of troubles that had delayed him.

  Not for the first time he cursed his angry haste at leaving his home. Long chafing at what he perceived as a lack of independence, the confrontation with his father over Chalfront had seemed the final straw. But if he had known he would never see his father alive again—!

  To his infinite regret, he had not considered such an event, and so had gone away, too upset to linger to explain his mistrust of Chalfront to Gabriella, supposing he had even been able to put it into words He had no evidence beyond his own distaste for the obsequious man who couldn’t be made to see that a nobleman had certain expenses that could not be ignored or deferred.

  As time had passed, and Bryce had grown wiser and seen more of truly dishonest men, he had come to doubt his suspicions of Chalfront. If the bailiff had been dishonest, would his father not have suspected, too?

  Still the days had passed, and he, proud and stubborn, had waited for his father to try to find him. When he did not, pride and stubbornness kept him away. Why, even the trip to Dover had been based upon the whim to taste good English ale.

  Thank God for that whim, if that was all it was, and not a divine inspiration. And how fortunate it was that he had met that fellow in the tavern. If he had not, Gabriella’s sufferings might have been prolonged. As it was, they would end soon.

  As anxious as Bryce was to get home, the leisurely pace allowed him to savor his return, at least a little. Each step of the way brought back some memory of his past, both good and ill.

  Here was the apple tree he used to climb as a boy, where he could watch the traffic on the roadway — and throw apples at unsuspecting travelers. Here was the stream he and his companions used to bathe in during the hot summer months, splashing and screaming with delight. There was the tumbledown cottage he had gone to with Edith, a buxom lass far more mature than he, and where he had joyfully lost his virginity. He smiled to himself thinking of the delightful sensations she had introduced him to in that ruined place and sighed. She had married before he left and probably had several children by this time. Perhaps the remnants of that old blanket were still in the cottage, though, or the blackened coals from the fire he had made when the blanket proved insufficient to keep them warm.