How angry Edith had been when she had found him there with another girl! He felt a twinge of guilt at the memory of Edith’s wrath. What a callous youth he had been, far more concerned with satisfying his own needs than giving any thought to the girls, for there had been several more after Edith. One or two had even been very willing daughters of noblemen, eager and surprisingly experienced.
He felt another pang of remorse when he passed the mill. Did anyone still suspect him of beating the miller under cover of darkness? They certainly had at the time, and he had neither defended nor excused himself, for he had done it, of course. He had been convinced the man was a cheat and a liar despite his smiles and compliments. Like Chalfront.
Bryce scowled darkly. Chalfront! Even if the bailiff was an honest man, he should have beaten him before he went away, or at least threatened him with such a fate if he ever dared to so much as look at Gabriella!
It would have been so much better if he had never gone, he admitted to himself. But the shame he had felt when his father continued to listen to Chalfront, taking the bailiff’s opinion over that of his own son, had sown the seeds of his discontent.
They had said so many harsh things to each other that day! Perhaps the most galling had been his father’s complaint about Bryce’s penchant for hunting and sport when he should have been attending to his studies. Coming from his father, who hated any kind of book work and left it all to Chalfront, that had struck Bryce as the height of injustice.
Now that he was older, he often wondered if his father, with his slightly wistful expression, hadn’t been hoping his son would do better in that regard.
If only he could ask him! But now he was too late.
Too late for that, but not too late to help Gabriella. God’s wounds, if that fellow’s words had a grain of truth in them, if Baron DeGuerre had harmed her or taken her against her will, or if he had even touched her, that man would regret it! “I swear it,” Bryce muttered aloud.
Then the road went over the ridge and he could see his family’s land stretching before him. He scanned the woodlands, barren with the approach of winter. Beyond that was the castle, his father’s lifelong passion. It did look magnificent, Bryce thought proudly, although even now he couldn’t understand why his father would get so excited about stones and designs and carving, just as his father couldn’t understand his son’s need to fight and hunt and be away from the stuffy confines of hall and home.
The sun was high overhead when Bryce finally arrived at the village. It seemed deserted, until he heard the lowing of cattle and bleating of sheep. Of course. The men were rounding up the animals for the fall slaughter and separating them based on their condition.
He passed Osric’s cottage and noticed Osric sitting behind it in the sun, his right hand bandaged. An injury, or had he finally been punished for his poaching? Perhaps the baron was not nearly so sanguine about such activity, which was not something Bryce would hold against the man. He had often quarreled with his father about Osric, too.
A window in one of the largest houses stood open, and from it came the sweet sounds of a feminine voice. A woman moved to close it and Bryce’s breath caught in his throat.
She was the most astonishingly lovely woman he had ever seen in his life. Indeed, he suspected she was surely the most beautiful woman in the world, with her long, unbound golden hair, pale skin, slender throat and lips half parted as she drew the shutter closed.
He suddenly had even more reason to be glad he had decided to return home.
And then, just as suddenly, his lip curled with hate, for Robert Chalfront came bustling down the road toward him.
“Greetings, Robert,” Bryce called out as he stepped into the road and blocked the man’s way.
Robert Chalfront’s mouth dropped open. “You!” he gasped.
Bryce bounded forward and took hold of Chalfront’s garments by the neck, lifting him so that the bailiff’s feet barely touched the ground. “Come now, man. We can’t have you falling on the road in a faint, can we?”
“What… what are you doing here?” Chalfront rasped.
“I daresay you wish I wasn’t. Stolen any more money lately, Chalfront? Threatened any widows with dispossession?”
“I never —”
“No, but you wanted my father to.”
Bryce let go and Chalfront stumbled, then righted himself. “You have no right to accost me in such a manner,” Chalfront said with unexpected warmth.
“Where is Gabriella?”
“In the… in the castle, of course,” he answered, drawing himself up to his full height, which meant that he came even with Bryce’s chin.
“I knew my father was a fool to trust his money to you!”
“It has been proven otherwise,” Chalfront retorted. “The baron —”
“Ah, yes. The baron. He’s next on my list of people to visit. He’ll be sorry I’ve come back, too.”
“Robert? What is it, Robert? What’s happening?” a woman’s voice called from the door of the large house, and the beautiful creature Bryce had seen before stood there. “Who are you?” she demanded haughtily. “What do you want?”
“I am sorry to disturb you, dear lady,” Bryce said with a courteous bow. “I have business with this simpleton.”
“That simpleton is my husband, and the bailiff here. If you have business with him, I suggest it can wait until later. He has much to do today.”
Bryce could hardly believe his ears. Robert Chalfront was married to this beauty? It seemed incredible, although it might go a long way to explain the alteration in the man’s manner. Bryce had expected him to cower with fear, not upbraid him.
He scowled at Chalfront. “Out of respect for your wife, I will wait to speak of these matters another day.” He walked close to Chalfront. “Sleep well, knowing that I will come to you soon and you will have much explaining to do, for I know what you did to my sister.”
“Me?” Chalfront squeaked. “It was the baron —”
“Robert!” his wife called out. “Enough. You should not be discussing such things in the street.”
“Yes, my love,” Chalfront answered. He gave Bryce a condescending look. “You will find much has changed since you were last here, Bryce Frechette, and I would prepare to be humble, if I were you. If Gabriella had been less haughty, she would have spared herself much trouble.” He took a look at Bryce’s face and wisely said no more, but hurried inside his house and slammed the door shut.
Bryce heard the bar slide home. Then he grabbed his horse’s reins and marched off to find his sister.
As Etienne walked alone through the belt of woodland on his estate, he told himself he was checking the condition of the game in the forest before the winter set in, and to ensure that Osric’s punishment had served as a deterrent. His gaze roved over the ground and the underbrush, much of the branches bare in anticipation of winter. Still, the limbs grew thick and close together, and there were patches of evergreens such as holly that could hide a trap. Vigilance would be necessary to overcome the long years of the late earl’s deficiency in enforcing the law.
That did not explain why Etienne was alone. He should have brought his forester, or his huntsman, or any one of his knights for safety, if nothing else. However, he had told George that he could walk faster if he was by himself, which was true, and wisely George did not repeat his request to accompany his lord.
Etienne was, in actuality, walking at a slower pace than his usual brisk stride because he had come to the solitude of the forest to think.
No, not even to think. To give himself up to an uncharacteristic bout of self-pity, brought on by the hopelessness of his regard for Gabriella Frechette.
God’s wounds, how he wanted her! If someone had asked him a few weeks ago what he might feel if he sent Gabriella away, he would have said nothing at all, and would have told himself that he would miss her a little. He would have convinced himself that it was not her loss he regretted as much as the lost opportunity to make love
with her. If they had asked about Josephine, he would have said, with a straight face but a touch of amusement, that of course he would miss her in his bed.
Instead, he had discovered that he missed Josephine not at all, and if he bemoaned his empty bed, it was because Gabriella was not in it. He had never known such bliss as he had experienced that night in the chapel with Gabriella. Never before had his heart been so engaged, his emotions so in tune with the desire of his body.
Never had he been able to talk to anyone as he had talked to her. For years he had hoarded the story of his past, locking it away, until she drew it out of him, like a medicus drawing poison from a wound, as she herself had said. She was like medicine to him; with her to listen, he had felt whole.
He had been alone all his life, lonely and lost, until a young woman with soft brown eyes offered him her love. How much he had wanted to describe his feelings for her, of his passion and joy, his hope and love.
He could not. He did not have the skill, could not find the words. He had risen from the floor beside her and looked at her, loving her. Then, suddenly, he had grown afraid, more afraid than he had ever been in his life. He was terrified of her, and the power of the emotions she stirred within him. He remembered the overwhelming potency of love that could sweep everything before it like chaff in the breeze, including honor, self-confidence and strength.
His first impulse had been to tell her of his fear, but abashed before her, ignorant of the words he needed to say, afraid of the control love could exert over him, he instead had obeyed the impulse for self-protection.
He had walked away. Like a coward.
He had gone to the battlements and stood on the wall walk for how long he didn’t know, as he fought a battle between a desire to acknowledge his feelings and his ancient need to protect his already crippled heart. Then he discovered there was a worse thing than surrendering to love, and that was to reject it.
He had returned to the chapel, but Gabriella was already gone.
He could not blame her for fleeing. He blamed himself for taking too long to understand his own heart, and for being so long unused to having any regard for the feelings of others. Indeed, he had tried to ensure that he did not have to consider anyone but himself for many years.
He set about searching for her at once, but he soon realized she had either fled the castle, or was hiding from him. At dawn he had considered rousing his men to help him look for her, but his pride had silenced him. What would he say to them? That Gabriella had run away after making love with him in the chapel? What would they think of her?
He had decided to wait, hoping she would come back to him of her own will. That she would humble herself, so that he did not have to.
She did not return, and then he feared the time for explanations had passed. Two days had gone by, and in that time he had come to fear that she deeply regretted what they had shared.
Perhaps it was better for Gabriella to learn that his love was weaker than his selfish need to protect his pride.
With such unhappy thoughts for company, Etienne turned his weary steps for home.
Seated in Mary’s cottage, Gabriella’s heart felt like a lump of ice in her chest. Her arms were wrapped protectively about her, as if by doing so she could protect what remained of her self-esteem. She had lost most of it when Etienne DeGuerre had taken his pleasure of her and then left her lying on the floor of the chapel like a discarded weapon.
Stunned by his action, she had lain motionless for what seemed a very long time, waiting for him to return.
Then, as the moments passed and he did not come back, a growing sense of shame and degradation had crept over her. Despite her deeply felt belief that she would have no regrets about giving herself to him, it had taken only those few moments to destroy that faith. Regret? She felt it keenly. And shame. She had weakened, lulled by his apparent need, and she had let him triumph. She must have imagined that vulnerability in his eyes and been deceived by a man clever in the ways of seduction.
Soon enough, her pride had reasserted itself, galvanizing her to action. If he wanted to treat her like his whore, she would let him — this once! She would leave the castle immediately, for she had paid her debt, by God — with her body and her honor. Let him try to tell her otherwise!
She had hurried from the chapel, pushing past the gate house guards, who wisely did not try to stop her, and had run to Mary’s cottage.
Mary, sensing that all was far from well, took her in without a word or question. Even now, though she glanced at her guest often with worried eyes while she stirred her pot of dye, she remained blessedly silent.
And here Gabnella would stay, until she could earn enough to get away from this village. To go some place, any place, where she could forget she had ever loved Baron DeGuerre.
If she could ever forget she had loved him.
With a low moan like a wounded beast, she covered her face with her hands.
“Gabriella!” someone shouted, by the sound, standing in the middle of the village green.
She sat up as if stabbed, the familiar voice shocking her.
“Who’s that?” Mary demanded, looking up from the bubbling pot of bright orange. “He’s calling your name like a fishwife at market.”
Gabriella didn’t answer as she leapt to her feet and ran out of the cottage toward the green.
“Bryce!” she cried, throwing herself into her brother’s arms. “You’re safe! You’re home!”
He hugged her tightly, returning her fervent embrace. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner, Gabriella,” he whispered. “I didn’t know about Father, or the rest of it, or I would have come back at once, I promise you.”
She drew back and surveyed him anxiously, wiping the happy tears from her cheeks as she devoured him with her eyes. He had always been handsome, tall and muscular; now, though, there was a leanness and maturity to his features that he had never possessed before. His tunic and chausses were plain and of inexpensive fabric, but they suited him. He still wore the sword their father had given him the day he had taken part in his first tournament. How long ago that seemed, and yet it felt like yesterday, too.
She wondered if he saw similar changes in herself. He probably did. But that didn’t matter, now that he was home “Are you well? When did you get back to England?”
“I should not have stayed away,” he said softly. “I was a selfish fool. Can you ever forgive me?”
“I can and I do,” she replied sincerely. “Has it been difficult for you, Bryce?” she asked, ignorant of the crowd gathering around the green, watching them.
He shrugged his shoulders and frowned deeply, looking so like their father that she felt renewed pain for the loss of him. “Somewhat, but not so difficult as it has been for you, I take it.” He took her hand in his and regarded her pensively.
“What… what have you heard?” she asked, flushing deeply. The truth was not pleasant; depending upon whom he had spoken with, rumors might be even worse.
“I curse myself for being so long!” he said between clenched teeth. He reached into his belt and produced a purse heavy with coins, and his expression softened. “I saved nearly everything I won or earned, because I knew Father would have need of it someday. But I waited too long, for him and for you. I am so sorry, Gabriella!”
“It’s all right, now,” she answered truthfully, for his anguish was clear to see. “I confess I was upset that you weren’t here. I thought…well, it seemed you had abandoned me.”
“And left you at the mercy of this Baron DeGuerre.” He regarded her steadily, anger brooding in his eyes. “Has he harmed you, Gabriella?”
She didn’t know what to answer. What did it mean, “harm.” That her life had been changed forever, she could not deny.
Then she realized Bryce wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was staring over her shoulder at something behind her, his eyes narrowing with a fierce and angry look.
She twisted to glance over her shoulder. Baron DeGuerre, his blue e
yes gleaming like two jewels, marched toward them.
“Gabriella, what is the meaning of this? Who is this man?” the baron asked, more agitated than she had ever seen him.
She commanded herself to ignore him, to pay no attention to the desire overwhelming her despite her resolutions, to attach no significance to his expression, or the unusual anxious tension in his body.
Bryce gently pushed her away and faced Baron DeGuerre with a purposeful stance. “I am her brother, the Earl of Westborough.”
Did the baron sigh? She couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t care. She must think of Bryce now.
“Her brother you may be,” the baron replied, running his gaze over Bryce, “and indeed, I do see a resemblance. I am the Baron DeGuerre.”
With trepidation, Gabriella saw her brother’s hands curl into fists. “Bryce—” she cautioned.
Her brother ignored her. “I know what you’ve done,” he accused.
“Bryce, he hasn’t hurt me,” she protested, afraid for her brother. She well remembered the cold, fierce menace in the baron’s eyes when he had dragged Philippe de Varenne past her, and she could guess how he might respond to a false accusation.
Bryce glanced at her, his eyes flashing with anger. “He thought to dishonor you!” He turned back to Baron DeGuerre. “You base, disgusting bastard!”
“I myself prefer ‘spawn of the devil,’” Etienne replied, controlling his torment and his fear as best he could. Nevertheless, a sense of fatality crushed him, for he spied the pouch of money in Bryce Frechette’s hand and knew what it meant. This man could pay the debt and take Gabriella away.
“I am going to plead my case with the king, DeGuerre,” Bryce Frechette said. “I can pay my father’s debt, and my family has more right to this land than you. Come, Gabriella. You are leaving here at once!”
The Baron's Quest Page 20
