Eauda washed her gently. “May God be with you then, my lady.”
Hmph! Where was God when the villein were screaming? Chrestien wondered glumly. For all his thunder, it was, in fact, the Wolf who had come to their aid.
She could not quite relinquish her anger for these men who were responsible for the death of her father—nor could she reconcile the scourge of all Normandy with the man who had very likely saved hers and Aubert’s lives, but he had, she was loathe to admit.
Even now he sat downstairs, lording it over her people. And yet... once he’d known she was Gilbert’s blood, he had allowed her free reign of her home. And there were betimes a look in his eyes that spoke of kindness. That man could not be the same man whose name evoked such dread into the hearts of men and women. Like her Viking forebears, even the rumor of him was terrifying.
But, aye, she would deal with the Wolf later.
For the moment, Chrestien was filled with sheer bliss to be submerged in the cleansing liquid. It had been overlong since she’d been able to repose in such luxury, and she closed her eyes to savor the scent of the rosewater as Eauda rinsed her hair with the fragrant mixture. Water rushed down her face and, for an instant, she pictured herself bathing beneath a splendid waterfall, basking in the warmth of the sun’s rays. And then the sound of pounding reached her ears, and before she could cover herself the door burst open.
Her breath caught as she watched the heavy coffer she’d placed in front of the door tumble across the floor—as though it were nor more than a feather in the wind—and she was suddenly more than acutely aware of her nakedness as the Wolf strode toward her with a wicked gleam in his clear blue eyes.
Eauda screamed and ran from the chamber as the Wolf sauntered to and stood directly before the wooden tub, and Chrestien could not blame her, for she felt like fleeing too, but she dared not rise from her refuge within the suds.
“Never threaten my men again! Do you hear what I say, boy? If you are to continue to have free roam of this demesne, you must keep my men with you at all times—and that includes bath time! And do not look so mortified, for you have naught to be seen that has not been seen by my men before.”
Chrestien merely stared at him, mouth agape. The Wolf’s lips were moving, but she could hear naught he was saying because blood was rushing through her ears, blocking all sound save for the pounding of her heart.
Chapter Seven
Weston had been furious when his men had relayed the tale of Christopher’s tantrum. He’d seen women give in to such madness but never, in his nine and twenty years, had he ever met a man—or boy—who was so stupid—or demented to challenge him or his men. Which of those this one was, he could not discern, for only an idiot would attack two armed knights with but a tiny poniard.
The only reason his men had left the chamber to fetch him was that they’d feared to run the little imp through. Weston had given them explicit instruction that the boy not be harmed, but at this moment he regretted issuing such an edict. His temples throbbed angrily and the muscles of his neck corded with fury. He was so blinded by rage that he could not clearly see the person lying within the tub.
He started to walk away before he could do something rash, but something in the back of his mind acknowledged what his eyes would not, and he stepped back over the tub to peer down at the form below.
He blinked in surprise.
Naught in all his years could have prepared him for the sight he beheld. He stared in disbelief at the creamy mounds of flesh that greeted his eyes. Perfect twin peaks rose above the pool of soapy water and he could but stare at them stupidly.
Christopher was a woman.
With skin as pure and smooth as new silk.
Surely this could not be the same bedraggled lad he had seen but hours before?
His gaze settled on the face—features he would never have believed existed behind all that grease and grime.
But what took his breath away were the eyes—the darkest pools he’d ever beheld... as deep and enchanting as a forest pool at midnight.
He was drawn into them…
His loins tightened, bringing him rudely back to reality, but he said not another word, too stunned was he at the discovery. He back-paced until the hind of his legs touched the bed and when he realized he could retreat no further, he spun about and walked away—quickly, before his body could refuse his command.
Chrestien watched in horror as the Wolf backed away from her with a look of utter disgust. Mortification at her discovery quickly turned to self-pity—an emotion she had never experienced before. The look on his face nearly brought her to tears.
Was she so hideous then?
But Adelaine was so beautiful.
Could her temperament truly make her so frightful?
Perhaps her hair had been her glory? Without it, she had simply nothing to hide her face. She knew that must not be true, for her father had called her lovely, but no one had ever gazed at her with such terrible loathing.
The echo of his footsteps ebbed and Chrestien willed herself to finish her bath, taking as much time as she dared. Then she rose from the dirty water.
Janelle entered the room cautiously, closing the open door to hide her mistress’s nakedness. Taking a bedrobe from a coffer, she placed the robe about Chrestien’s shoulders, and Chrestien was relieved to see her faithful maid.
“Eauda came raving about the devil in your bower. I flew up the steps as quickly as I could. He has not harmed ye, has he?”
Nothing except her pride—which was ludicrous, she realized. Chrestien shook her head, pulling the robe tighter as she lay upon the bed she had once shared with her sister. She’d give anything for Adelaine to be with her right now.
Never in her life had she felt more alone.
“Chrestien! I have never known you to feel sorry for yourself, and you’ll not begin now!” Janelle scolded, with the familiarity of a maid who had long been in service.
She went to one of her coffers and opened it. “Here! This should make you feel better,” she said and removed a green sendal gown, accompanied by a bliaut of white silk. Her father had bought the material from a merchant aplenty so she and Adelaine could have like gowns. It was this gown they had worn to fool Aleth the first time he had visited Lontaine, and the recollection made her smile.
Placing the gown upon the bed, Janelle handed Chrestien her chainse and once she had it on, she raised her arms for Janelle to place the remaining finery over her head. Once her dress was complete, she stood to smooth the folds of her bliaut, glad not to be wearing the odious mail after all. Thankfully, the gown hid her bruises as well.
Janelle placed her hand lovingly on Chrestien’s cheek and winked. “Smile, Chrestien! You have too lovely a face to be frowning—even with your hair butchered as it is.” Chrestien gave her a half-hearted smile and Janelle reassured her. “Do not worry. He’ll do naught to harm ye now that he knows ye are a woman of gentle birth.”
* * *
There was foul play at work here, but of what nature, precisely Weston could not fathom. He was more than a little unnerved by the discovery of a woman in the tub abovestairs. Although some part of him heaved a sigh of relief to know that he’d not been ogled by a man in his tent, for the most part he was furious with himself for not realizing sooner—and for being bested twice—not by a man, but a puny woman! But the thing that weighed heaviest on his mind was the lie itself. What in God's name could the girl hope to gain by such a ruse? Obviously, de Lontaine had no son... but that also meant that neither was his daughter married to de Montagneaux for she was here at Lontaine, alone, dressed as a boy.
What man would have a woman so full of vin aigre?
Hours ago he’d made a hasty decision to take leave of Lontaine, for he’d feared that if he remained near the little vixen he would give in to a very primitive need to throttle her soft little neck. He’d ridden from the fortress angry, leaving full half of his men with Michel to garrison the newly taken keep, but more than anything else to guar
d the little lying, conniving—beautiful, intoxicating witch.
The fact that she was a woman changed nothing. She was not to be trusted—nor underestimated apparently. The wound at his shoulder itched even as he considered her treachery, mocking him. He refused to touch it.
The sun was setting, and he was loath to make camp so close to Castle Montagneaux, but he also wanted to inspect yesterday’s battleground—to see if he could find some clue as to why the battle was waged. Anyway, he’d pushed his men to near exhaustion, and a good night’s rest would do them all much good. The morrow would prove to be a long day.
Henry had given Weston two edicts: the first to seize Lontaine; the second to secure Aleth de Montagneaux’s fealty to the Crown... providing that Aleth’s reasons for truancy were in line with Henry’s interests.
Henry was appreciative that de Montagneaux had not taken his men into Tinchebrai and meant to reward him by allowing him to retain his well-garrisoned estates.
It was no secret that de Montagneaux was possessed of armed men enough to have weighed heavily in favor of Curthose. That he’d yielded to Henry’s bidding by not leading his troops into battle greatly pleased Henry. But that de Montagneaux had not openly taken Henry’s side rankled Weston. He did not trust straddlers, though it was not Weston’s right to question Henry’s mandates.
As for the vixen? When he returned to Lontaine, he would simply inform her that she would be leaving Lontaine for the comforts of Henry’s court. She was Henry’s problem now. And as much as Weston loved his country and his king, he would not put up with the little termagant any longer than was necessary.
* * *
Resigned to becoming the most obedient prisoner Henry’s Wolf could hope for, Chrestien descended into the great hall, fully prepared to do anything he would bid of her to keep the peace. She found only half his knights at the table, and the Wolf gone. But if she was confused by that fact, she wasn’t nearly as perplexed as the Wolf’s men at arms were.
The one called Michel showed little surprise when she arrived without her disguise. The rest of them gaped, jaws hanging to their knees as Chrestien entered the hall. She felt like an oddity with all those eyes trained upon her, and part of her wanted to flee... to hide.
Michel sensed her unease and came to greet her. “My lady, I must apologize for my men... ’tis not oft they are gifted with such beauty as yours at table.”
She knew they were merely kind words from a charmer’s tongue, but his good-natured welcome greatly lifted her spirits, and she decided she liked him after all.
“Join us,” he bade her, and the tension dissipated completely as Michel took her by the hand and led her to the lord’s table. He leaned to her and whispered into her ear. “I take it your name is not Christopher?” He grinned boyishly, waiting for her response.
Chrestien couldn’t help but return a smile. “Chrestien,” she said.
She started as Michel lifted the metal eating dagger and struck a silver chalice with it. The gesture was quite unnecessary, for all eyes were already upon them. “Good fellows,” he said. “Ye behold the lady Chrestien de Lontaine. Please give her all the respect due a lady of her station.”
There were murmurs of approval, and with the formalities over, the hall broke into chatter, everyone speaking at once.
Jests were whispered about the Silver Wolf being bested by a woman. And finally, when it was said Weston had fled rather than face his beautiful conqueror, Michel felt compelled to banish the offender from the hall. But Chrestien noted his soft chuckle before rising to reprimand the laughing young knight.
For his part, Michel was quite likable and very, very blond, she noted. His brows could barely be seen on his boyishly handsome face. And he was possessed of a very jovial disposition. Chrestien took to him straightaway. He was so like Aubert, she mused, in that he too had a very sympathetic ear. Chrestien told him, while the other knights attended, about her father’s death and her trek to Castle Montagneaux to see her sister wed. She told him about her sister, Adelaine, about having to cut her hair, and about the knight called Gervais.
Michel threw back his head and laughed when she told about the bedding ceremony, and by then, all the knights had gathered about her, attending with great interest to the tales of her brief sojourn as the Knight Christopher.
Chrestien even told them about the wench that the knight Gervais had bedded while lying but a scant two feet from her face. That story gained a round of hearty laughter. And yet the tale that earned her the biggest roar of laughter was that of her intent to take the veil. What was so amusing about becoming a nun Chrestien could hardly fathom. In any case, she decided not to take offense.
Michel filled her chalice for the third time, and placed more cheese and broken meats onto her trencher. She frowned when he took her hand so presumptuously. But he merely pecked the back of it and declared, “Ye are delightful, Lady Chrestien.” Then a smile lit his lips as he whispered a little more faintly. “My men are enamored with ye—overmuch so. I will see that your door is well guarded this eve.” And he winked at her.
Chrestien’s eyes widened. “You can’t mean they would—”
“’Tis more likely they would prostrate themselves at your feet. But just as a safeguard,” he assured her.
“I see...” Chrestien nodded, but she did not see at all. The room was spinning and the air was growing warmer. Another sip of wine might clear her thoughts, she decided.
Michel chuckled and removed the chalice from her grasp. “I believe you have indulged quite enough though I will take the blame. Most women I have known can consume twice the amount ye have. But then, m’lady... ye are not most women. Are ye?”
Chrestien frowned.
What kind of a question was that?
Of course she was like other women! There was naught they had that she had—or rather that she did not have—or was it that she—Jesu, she could not think straight any longer! The wine was, indeed, muddling her head.
Michel eyed her with amusement. “Why don’t we allow your ladies’ maid...” He waved a hand at Janelle. “The one waiting across the room with the dour expression... to escort ye to your chamber.”
Chrestien peered across the room at Janelle and sighed. “She’s like a mother to me,” she confessed, and her chest heaved. She found to her chagrin that she’d developed a sudden case of hiccups. In all her life she had never felt quite so confused—and not all of it could be blamed on the wine.
Aided by Janelle, Chrestien stumbled up the stone stairs to her bower. Janelle was as silent as the grave until Chrestien was nestled into her bed sheets. Then she squawked at the top of her lungs—saying who knows what, because Chrestien was not listening.
Her thoughts were centered on the Wolf.
She still hated him of course and it made her feel delightfully wicked to know she’d been the cause of his distress and his departure—she knew it in her bones, even if Michel had not admitted as much. Still, she loathed that he had found her so disgusting to look upon that he would need to leave Lontaine to avoid seeing her altogether.
The wine made her feel warm and tingly, and she thought about his lips. They were much too full for a man. His dark hair, with its silver flecks, wild and unkempt, made him look so very dangerous—as did everything else about him. His face was unmistakably handsome... so masculine—not like Michel with his pale and youthful looks. Nay, there was naught about the Wolf that was effeminate, she mused.
Her lids closed sleepily as she pictured his well-defined face—a powerful jaw shaded with the growth of his whiskers... and his deep-set, blue eyes. And there back in the tent… his powerful form—those rock solid muscles in his thighs. Aye, she hated him for certain, she decided and drifted into sleep, grateful for the comfort of her nice, soft bed.
* * *
Weston awoke before Montagneaux’s bells sounded Prime.
De Montagneaux sent a greeting party of six fully armed knights to escort him into Montagneaux’s gates. They were no
match for Weston’s fifteen, but then Weston had not come to do battle, so he’d followed the six as was requested.
Inside, de Montagneaux greeted him with some measure of reserve, and only after Weston stated the purpose for his unexpected visit did he relax, laying every luxury at his feet—including the honor of being bathed by his ladywife, whom Weston now awaited.
The servants had led him to a private chamber in which a very ornate wooden tub graced the center. While he waited, he studied the entwined nude figures that lined the rim of the tub. But as he studied them, he thought he saw the likeness of the vixen’s face carved into the delicate woodwork. He shook the ludicrous thought from his mind and gave his attention to the room, which was to be his until he departed Montagneaux.
The massive wooden bed occupying the left corner of the room bore a feather mattress that was inches thick. A very large, over-embellished, oaken hearth covered the wall he faced and an assortment of trunks lined the right wall. The only door was at his back—a position he did not feel comfortable with—so he raised himself onto his haunches and turned about to face the door, just as it opened to reveal a young woman.
At first, he mistrusted his eyes.
Then he cursed himself for the vision.
He could not have forgotten that face so soon and was angry with himself for allowing the vixen to supplant herself in his thoughts so much that he would see her apparition in his dreams... in his thoughts... in the carving on his tub, and now in the woman who had come to bathe him. The vision spoke in greeting, and in doing so, he was assured he was not seeing ghosts. And instead of being angry with himself, he was angry with her—how the hell had she followed him all the way to Montagneaux?
He watched as the she approached the tub in her rich finery, her head covered with a couvrechef of white linen—no doubt to hide her short, ugly crop of hair.
“I see you have discovered your way here,” he said angrily, though the woman managed to smile sweetly nonetheless. Unfortunately, that did nothing to temper his anger, for after the way she had behaved, her docile demeanor did naught but make him mistrust her further. If he turned his back on her, would he find a knife in it?
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