by Anne Stuart
“I need you, my lady,” Nicholas said in a plaintive voice, a thread of laughter just barely discernible beneath his warm tone.
She forced herself to look at him, a long, slow, measuring look, from his long, bare feet up his strong, hairy legs to the folds of material that she belatedly realized was an altar cloth. Past his stomach and chest, past vast expanses of golden, firmly muscled skin, until she met his mocking gaze.
He wanted to shock her, she realized. He wanted to shock them all. The least she could do was refuse to rise to his challenge. “Commune with your God, Master Nicholas, and do it quickly, before you catch your death of cold,” she said calmly.
“And before the abbot returns with the reinforcements,” Brother Barth added hastily. “He’s not a man you should underestimate.”
“I seldom underestimate my enemies,” Nicholas said. He caught the altar cloth in one large hand, and for a moment Julianna was afraid he was going to pull it off. She refused to flinch, but instead he simply held it, leaving Brother Barth free. “Escort Lady Julianna back to her room, brother,” he said sweetly. “I’ve interfered with her sleep enough for one night.”
Barth looked at him warily, but Nicholas seemed to have tired of his game, and he stood still and grave, watching them.
She went willingly enough, her back straight, trying to ignore the fact that she was improperly dressed. The heavy linen shift was made of many ells of material, and there was no way anyone could have an inappropriate glimpse of her body, but she still felt vulnerable. She and Brother Barth moved through the corridors in a troubled silence.
By the time they reached her door she could stand it no longer. “Brother Barth . . . ,” she said, pausing in the entrance.
“Yes, my lady?”
She didn’t know how to ask him, but fortunately Brother Barth was a wise, discerning man. “You needn’t fear the abbot, my lady. Master Nicholas will be kept safe. God protects the simple-minded.”
If there was one thing Master Nicholas was not, it was simple-minded. She had little doubt that everything he did had layers of reasoning behind it, including the recent scene in the chapel.
Not that she should care, she reminded herself. Her main effort once they reached Fortham Castle would be to keep out of the way of both the priest and the fool as much as possible.
“And if you’re concerned about dealing with Father Paulus in the future, let me give you a bit of advice. Listen chastely, never talk back, and then follow your heart. You have a good heart, my lady—anyone can tell that at a glance. I sense that the fool does as well, no matter what game he’s playing. Just keep clear of the abbot, and you’ll be fine. If I know the good abbot, he’ll be concentrating on the earl and his new lady. He’s an ambitious man—he’s never had much time for those without power.”
“And I’m definitely without power,” Julianna murmured. “Good night, Brother Barth.”
“More like good morning, my lady,” he said gently.
She could see the first light of dawn tingeing the sky beyond the arched stone windows as she looked past him, and in the distance she could hear the faint sound of plainsong. The monastery was awakening, a new day was dawning, and her new life was about to begin.
“Morning, indeed,” she said. And she would make the best of it.
THE COURTYARD was a mass of organized activity when Julianna emerged a few short hours later. The grim abbot was already astride a sturdy donkey, with a serene-looking Brother Barth beside him. Sir Richard was pacing back and forth, and Nicholas was nowhere to be seen. There was no horse waiting for her, and she accepted her future gloomily, moving toward the litter.
“There you are, my lady,” Sir Richard said grumpily. “We had almost given up hope of you. Father Paulus, may I present her ladyship, Julianna of Moncrieff, daughter to the Countess of Fortham? This is Father Paulus, the abbot of Saint Hugelina.”
In the cool light of dawn the abbot failed to look any more welcoming. He stared down at Julianna from his perch on the donkey, his bright, colorless eyes blazing down. “I rejoice in the knowledge that I can help lead this stray lamb back into the fold,” he intoned.
Even Sir Richard looked startled. “Lady Julianna hasn’t strayed anywhere, my lord abbot,” he muttered.
“We all have strayed in our hearts, Sir Richard,” the priest replied. “I will show Lady Julianna the way to forgiveness.”
Oh, Christ, Julianna thought miserably. It only needed this. She caught Brother Barth’s warning look and belatedly remembered his advice. She ducked her head dutifully, keeping her gaze downcast. “I look forward to your wise counsel, Father Paulus,” she murmured.
She stole a glance at him as she was helped into the litter, but Father Paulus had already dismissed her from his attention, concentrating instead on Sir Richard.
The litter was empty, and she told herself it was relief that swept through her, not disappointment. She hadn’t been able to rid herself of that vision of his flesh, vast expanses of golden, muscled skin, and she was just as glad someone else would have to put up with him for the final leg of this too-short journey.
Unless Father Paulus had had his way and Master Nicholas had been whipped to a state where he was unfit to travel.
A moment later the curtains of the litter were pushed open, and the fool was dumped inside. They moved forward immediately, before Nicholas could regain his balance, and in the curtained dimness of the litter she could barely make him out.
Sir Richard, or someone, had been as good as his word.
Master Nicholas Strangefellow was bound and gagged, his saucy mouth sealed by a strip of cloth, his hands and feet tied closely with thongs of leather. He was even blindfolded, his wicked, mocking eyes sealed shut with another strip of cloth.
She stared at him in silence as they moved forward. He had dressed, or someone had dressed him, but she could still see the golden skin of his chest as it rose and fell with the calm evenness of his breathing. He barely moved, seemingly at ease in his trussed-up state, and she told herself she should be profoundly grateful. He was in no condition to bother her during the final hours of her journey home.
And he certainly deserved some sort of punishment for his blasphemy in the chapel. She wasn’t quite sure why nudity was a sacrilege, but since the abbot seemed to be certain it was, she would hardly argue the fact. She leaned back against the cushions, watching him. She could hear the murmur of voices behind the closed curtains of the litter, the sounds of the horses as they moved steadily westward, and she told herself to enjoy the peace.
She lasted almost an hour before she moved forward on her knees and reached for the blindfold. He sat motionless, not even jumping when her hands touched his cool skin, and she untied the cloth that was knotted around his eyes and pulled it away.
He blinked, looking at her over the strip of material that bound his mouth. And then he raised a questioning eyebrow, once more reminding her of a curious hawk.
“I should leave you like that,” she said in a cross voice. “That behavior in the chapel was disgraceful! I can’t imagine why you would do such a thing. It’s lucky that the abbot didn’t manage to have you flogged—I’m certain you deserved it.”
He couldn’t say anything, of course, and she was half tempted to lecture on to her captive audience, except that she was always scrupulously fair.
“If I untie you, will you behave yourself?” she demanded.
He just looked at her, offering no promises, and she sat back, folding her hands in her lap, prepared to be firm.
She tried to close her eyes, humming to herself. She pushed aside the heavy curtain and peered out at the countryside, but since her view was the rump of Father Paulus’s mule she shut it fairly quickly.
It was too dim and too bouncy in the litter for needlework, and there was a limit as to how long she could ignore the pat
ient, watching man.
She rose on her knees again, sighing loudly. “I don’t understand how you can be so bothersome even when you aren’t saying or doing anything,” she grumbled. “Lean forward, and I’ll unfasten the gag.”
He leaned forward obediently, his silken hair falling in his face. It took her a while to unfasten the knot, and all the while he was perilously close to her chest. She wore layers of linen and silk and wool, and she could still feel his breath on her skin. Her hands were clumsy, oddly trembling, and when she finally loosened the gag, she sank back on her side of the litter, letting out her pent-up breath which she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding it in.
He shook his head free of the cloth. She waited for him to speak, to thank her, but he said nothing, patient, watching her. And then he made a faint, shrugging gesture, to call her attention to his still-bound wrists.
“You could thank me, you know,” she muttered. “Turn around, and I’ll untie you.”
He didn’t move. In truth, she couldn’t blame him—the litter was cramped, stuffed with pillows, and shifting around would be difficult indeed. He managed to turn toward her, just slightly, but she had no choice but to lean up against him in order to reach the leather thongs that bound him.
They were almost as stubborn as the cloth knotted around his mouth, and she was so intent on loosening them that it took a while for her to notice a few salient points: how warm and hard his body was against hers, with the resilience of muscle and sinew beneath the soft fabric of his tunic; how still he was, calm and silent, as she struggled with the leather; and how the back of his tunic was slowly staining dark red.
The leather knot finally gave way, and his hands were free. Her balance failed, and she fell against him, but his hands came up to catch her, holding her mere inches from his body. Close enough to feel the tension, feel the heat. Close enough to look up into his utterly expressionless eyes and wonder what it would be like . . . what it would feel like . . .
And then she saw the blood. She jerked away from him in shock. “What did they do to you?”
For a moment she didn’t think he would answer. And then his mobile, mocking mouth curved in a wicked smile. “Father Paulus did his best to flay me alive.” His voice was raspy, dry. “He’s surprisingly strong for such a skinny little man.”
“Perhaps he has the strength of his convictions,” Julianna said in an unsteady voice, turning away to rummage among the pillows for her satchel.
“Perhaps. Or he may have simply had enough practice with the whip to build up his strength. What are you looking for?”
She emerged from the cushions with a small, earthenware jar. “A salve of bee’s pollen and lingonberry juice. It works wonders on cuts. Take off your tunic.”
“I think not,” he said with a wry smile that belied his obvious pain.
She tilted her head to look at him. “I can safely rule out any fancy that you’re modest,” she said. “So I can only assume you don’t trust me. There’s no poison in this salve, and it will help the welts to heal more quickly.”
“You don’t have the soul of a poisoner, my lady,” he murmured. “Nevertheless, I’ll keep my clothes on for now.”
Julianna didn’t know whether to be pleased or affronted. “And just what makes you an expert on my soul? I assure you, I have more than enough determination and courage to . . . to . . .”
“To murder someone? I doubt it, my lady. Courage and determination, yes. Murderous tendencies, no.”
“You’re right,” she said flatly. “Because one hour with you would bring them out if I had any.”
He threw back his head and laughed, dismissing his injuries. “Then I can count myself honored to have done such a service.”
“A service?”
“You need never worry what dark urges you have hidden deep in your heart. You’ve faced the worst that life could taunt you with, and you’re free of the taint of murder. Of course, you may have other dark urges. I will do my best to help ferret them out.”
“I have no dark urges. Only for peace and quiet,” she said in a sharp voice.
He merely smiled in return.
HE COULD LOVE a woman like Julianna of Moncrieff, Nicholas thought, staring at her. Mind you, he could love any number of women, well and often, and did so to the best of his ability. But he sensed that the Lady Julianna was different.
If he were a sensible man, he’d keep his distance. Different could mean dangerous, and he wasn’t about to let himself become vulnerable to a pair of shadowed eyes and a soft mouth.
But he also wasn’t a man to hide from danger—he was more likely to ride out to meet it. That is, if he were riding.
Julianna of Moncrieff was a challenge and a temptation, and he never resisted either. She was going to be his reward for success at Fortham Castle. Not his sovereign’s approval or long-promised boon, though those would be welcome. No, the shy, tender flesh of the lady would be his true compensation for a treacherous job well done. Absconding with a priceless relic would be a simple task. Seducing Lady Julianna would prove the real challenge, and he relished the thought of it.
He was impatient for the task to begin, more than ready for the Earl of Fortham. King Henry was generous to those who served him, and Nicholas had yet to fail him in his requests. He wasn’t about to start now.
He was ready for the job to begin.
He was eager for his reward.
Chapter Four
ISABEAU MOVED away from the window, kicking restlessly at her skirts. She was almost feverish with anticipation, and yet there was no way she could make time move more quickly. The passing hours would bring her daughter back to her after ten long years of silence. The passing hours would bring her wedding as well, and a new man to lie beneath, but she was not unwilling. Hugh of Fortham was not a harsh man like her first husband, and he would likely be quick and efficient about the business. In the months of their betrothal, since she first came to live at Fortham Castle, he’d never so much as kissed her cheek, much less shown any sign of overwhelming passion. Nothing to suggest he was interested in anything more than the speedy conception of an heir.
Before she’d heard that Julianna would be joining her, she’d allowed herself to wonder about the man she’d been betrothed to. Hugh of Fortham was a powerful man, whose first wife had died young. He was in the prime of life, a big, handsome man full of noise and energy, yet he barely talked to her or seemed to be aware of her presence at his remote castle. The match had been arranged by the king, and she would have thought Hugh a disinterested bridegroom if it weren’t for the knowledge that he himself had sought out the marriage. He’d had any number of suitable choices, including those with a more optimistic future in childbirth, but he had chosen her, and she couldn’t imagine why.
It wasn’t the first time she’d met him, though of course he didn’t remember. Years ago, when Julianna was still a child, she’d spent a few minutes with a sweet young knight, a few moments of gentleness that she’d treasured over the long years. He’d been kind, when she’d been weeping and miserable and as pregnant as a cow. If he remembered her, he’d probably run in the opposite direction, and she made no attempt to remind him.
She watched him at times, surreptitiously, though why a woman shouldn’t look at her betrothed was an issue she didn’t bother to ponder. Her first husband had been a short, spare man. Hugh was massive, towering over everyone in the court, with strong arms and shoulders and long, powerful legs. His face was pleasing, though his dark eyes were distant when they rested on her, and she found herself occasionally thinking about his mouth . . .
She drew back from such wicked thoughts. Her first husband had been a hard man, but not entirely unskilled when it came to the marriage bed. The thought of sharing those same acts with a man such as Lord Hugh was oddly unsettling. She’d learned to separate her pleasu
re in the intimate act from her dislike of her husband. The thought of receiving that kind of pleasure from someone she had grown to care about was almost frightening.
She would find out soon enough, but she had more important things to think on right now. The long-awaited arrival of her lost daughter and the worrisome presence of Hugh’s new fosterling.
Young Gilbert was a charmer. A handsome, sweet-faced young boy, no more than a child really, who flattered and beguiled and delighted all those around him. Even her gruff betrothed seemed to look on him fondly. But Isabeau didn’t trust him.
Since she was, by nature, a quiet person, she had plenty of opportunity to observe without anyone realizing her watchfulness. She’d seen the coldness in Gilbert’s pretty eyes, felt the chill beneath his flattering smiles. He spent most of his days in training with the knights, and she kept telling herself she was imagining the faint hint of trouble that surrounded him. But then she would see him again, at table, or across the courtyard, and her instincts would become alert once more.
He was of an age that he could have been one of the many stillborn babes she had borne. She should have viewed him with maternal compassion instead of distrust. But she could no more ignore her instincts than she could fly.
She returned to her tapestry, plying the needle with careful, deliberate strokes. It was to be a gift to her new husband come Christmastide—a small hanging depicting one of his favorite dogs. He seemed to devote all his affection and attention to the silken-haired creatures, and it was the one thing Isabeau could think of to please him. One should want to please one’s husband, surely?
She noticed that her hands were shaking, and she let them rest in her lap. It was going to be impossible to concentrate.
LORD HUGH strode across the ramparts of Castle Fortham, his long legs moving impatiently. Gilbert was trying to keep up with him, but the lad had the rare gift of silence, for which Hugh was eternally grateful on such a momentous day. He was in no mood for prattlers, and his new fosterling showed a surprising sensitivity when it came to his lord’s needs.
