Castles in the Air

by Christina Dodd

  He squeezed her toes. “Fear him not. He’s just a man.”

  It struck her then. The man who knelt at her feet spoke French, as she did, as did all the nobles in England, but his accent sounded like none she’d ever heard before. He came from the court, but what had brought him here? “You know him?”

  He laid one gloved hand flat against his chest. “I? The count moves in the highest circles, but his lineage, character, and reputation have been blared about by various untrustworthy sources.”

  “Nay,” she answered thoughtfully. “Not everyone who’s been to court has spoken with the king, I suppose.”

  “Nay, indeed. I’m in no position to judge the truth of your Avraché’s character.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Nay, indeed.”

  “But do you know…?”

  “What?” he urged.

  “Is he related to the king?”

  “So they say.” His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “But who isn’t? Henry’s related to most of noble Europe, and whoever he’s not related to, Eleanor is. The queen, I mean. Queen Eleanor.”

  “You should show her more respect,” she rebuked. “So Avraché is the king’s cousin. Is he very rich?”

  “The king?”

  The impudent fellow’s eyes shone big with innocence above his muffler, but she didn’t believe it. “Avraché. Is he going to gobble up my lands as if they were whey?”

  He looked down at her bare feet. “I have hose you can wear to keep you warm.” He reached for his bags and fumbled inside. She didn’t think he would answer, but at last he admitted, “Avraché is the only son of a wealthy family.”

  Rancor welled in her. “Then Lofts and Bartonhale will account for nothing to him.”

  “Not at all, my lady.” He kept his head down and smoothed the dry but ragged hose over her feet. “His parents are less than generous. To keep him on a short leash, they’ve kept him without funds.”

  “But he’s Count of Avraché.”

  “At birth, they granted him one of his father’s many titles, but although they promised, they have never given him the income from the lands.”

  “How old is he now?”

  “Five and thirty.”

  A groan eased from her. “He’s getting old.”

  He laughed as if he were startled. “I’ve heard he’s…well preserved. At least, you won’t have to worry about your lands. He’ll care for them as if they were his own.”

  The protest burst from her, propelled by her possessiveness. “The lands aren’t his. They’re mine. I’m my father’s only heir, God rest him. When I was a child and he loved me, he insisted I walk every rood of Lofts, meet all the people, for if I did not, he said, I would be cheated out of what is rightfully mine. Now I am heir to my husband’s estate, God rest him also, and I have found that to be a hard truth. Men would take from me by stealth or treachery.”

  “You are sole heir to your father’s lands and your husband’s lands?”

  His words struck her with the force of a spring flood down the river. How had he lulled her so she admitted to such wealth? No doubt he knew the extent of her holdings—such adventurers always did—but she’d confirmed it in a betrayal as unpremeditated as it was unexpected. Who was this scoundrel?

  She reached for his face; he jerked back as if she would strike him. Sulky, she said, “Your scarf.” This time, he remained still as she stripped the material away.

  She dropped it as if it burned her hand.

  His green eyes, his absurdly long, black lashes should have warned her of trouble.

  The man was handsome. More than handsome: alluring, intriguing, with a calm, still demeanor that warned of deep waters, and which offered rewards for exploring them. His ebony hair swept his shoulders and invited a woman’s touch. Clean-shaven, his cleft chin was broad and proud. The smooth hollow of his cheeks caught her eye and dismayed her soul. She pushed his hat off, and his hair tumbled wildly. Black as a raven’s wing, with an unruly curl, it grew longer than she liked, yet her gaze lingered on the shining mass and on the barbaric gold earring that glittered in one ear.

  He was, she realized, kneeling at her feet patiently waiting for her appraisal to end. Obviously, he was used to having women—hordes of women—stare at him. It made her angry, to class herself with a legion. It made her angry, too, to be so affected by his appearance.

  Rude as her own ten-year-old daughter, she sneered, “You have big ears.”

  Startled, he blinked. A smile crept up on him, curving his sensual mouth as if he couldn’t resist it.

  Oh, God, his smile added to his beauty. The corners of his eyes tilted up and crinkled—he wasn’t as young as she’d first supposed. Dimples creased his cheeks. His lips, chapped with the cold, begged to be soothed. She found her hand clutching the cloth over her middle to appease the churning of her stomach. She’d never thought that someday, somewhere, a man would affect her this way.

  How was it possible? If all the men in the world were marching toward a cliff like lemmings into the sea, she’d throw tidbits before them to tempt them along. Her father had ranted that she was too sensitive, too easily offended when a man treated her like meat, to be sold, bartered, consumed at a lord’s leisure and for his pleasure. So why could she see the comeliness of this man, this villain who had so cruelly abducted her?

  He rose to his feet, and her words tumbled over each other. “My betrothed is here at this very moment.”

  Considering her, he asked, “Here? Where?”

  “On my lands.” A variety of expressions raced across his face, and none could she define. Flushed with her falsehood, she wiped her face and dislodged her hat. It fell to the hard dirt floor. She didn’t like the way he stared at her, so she dove for the hat.

  He restrained her with his hand, and instinctively she kicked at him. “My lady, I thought we were beyond that.”

  Bracing herself against her panic, she satisfied herself with a glare.

  He picked her braid up in his hand, weighed it, pursed his lips. “Let us hope your betrothed is as well protected from this storm as we are.”

  Did he notice how short her hair was? Did he realize that, if unbraided, it would reach only to her shoulders? And what did he surmise from that? What conclusions did he draw?

  His gaze slid down her body, stuffed like a sausage into her winter dress. “How many layers of clothes do you have on?”

  Embarrassed that she’d looked at him and even more embarrassed that he’d seen her, she flared, “That’s my business and none of yours.”

  When she’d tried to hit him with the log, his shouting had made her cringe. Now she wished he’d shout again. His face lost all expression, like that of a man whose fortune would be foretold with one roll of the knucklebones. His eyes chilled to green icicles, his quiet voice lowered until she had to strain to hear it.

  “If the lady of Lofts should freeze to death while in my care, it would soon become my business. When your men would hang me up by the neck, it would be my business. When they would tie me to four horses, one limb to each, and would whip them and tear me—”

  She covered her face, too tired and cold to deal with the images he evoked, and his indignation faded.

  “So. We are agreed. It is my business what you have on because you must remain alive for me to retain that blessed state. Shall we remove the outermost layer at least?” He held his hands back, palms out. “With the purest intentions.”

  She doubted that, but pure intentions or no, it had to be done. Already the wet of snow seeped through the first cotte to the other clothes she wore. Cautiously, she backed up and tugged at the laces closing the long gown of rough homespun she wore for outdoor winter work. Resentful of his scrutiny, she snapped, “Are you not cold?”

  “Of course.” He shrugged off his mantle, tossed it over the top of the cloaks. “But when a man’s been to hell, a blast of winter revives him.”

  She stared at her fingers, inalterably tangled in the laces. “Have you been?”
>
  “To hell? Certainly. And back.”

  It was one thing to suspect she was in the hands of the devil, quite another to have it confirmed. Her teeth began that dreadful clattering again, and he observed her through narrowed eyes. “My lady, how many years do you carry?”

  “Eight and twenty.”

  He clicked his tongue. “Still so impressionable. You’re not a child.”

  “I know. Forgive me, but I’m cold and I’m tired.”

  “And hungry, in sooth. I have only oatcakes, but—”

  “I’m not hungry.” Instinctively, she denied the animal in her belly, the one who demanded sustenance regardless of her fears. Well did she understand the significance of breaking bread with the enemy.

  “You’re not hungry?”

  His amazement seemed forced to her, and she wondered crazily if this man knew her mind. She didn’t want the devil’s cakes, no matter how tempting. Without a doubt, she knew that if she ate them, she would never return to her world again. Her fingers were still caught, her brain still muddled, but she insisted, “I have said so.”

  “Sit at the table.” His hand was gentle on her arm. He led her to the bench and pushed her down. “I left wine warming.” He touched his finger to her nose. “And don’t tell me you won’t partake of that.”

  Her refusal withered on her lips. When he ordered, she obeyed. Not because she doubted herself, but because he displayed a natural assurance that withered defiance before it could flower. Very well, she would take the wine and simply hold it, not drink it, just to appease him. Petulant about even that concession, she asked, “Who are you? Why have you taken me?”

  Moving back to the fire, he lifted the lid of a pot. The scent of red wine rose through the air, and while he ladled it into a cup, he said, “You had no chance of reaching your home. Didn’t you realize that?”

  He sounded inexplicably concerned, indefatigably honest, and she searched his face, seeking the truth there, knowing she’d not recognize it if she found it. She sighed, jerked her hands free of the lacing, and found her palms wrapped around a cup of mulled wine. The heat seeped through to her fingers, cramped with cold, and a painful recovery began.

  “Drink.” He urged the cup toward her face.

  She closed her eyes to better savor the aroma, and found the seduction greater than she had imagined. Native herbs and a savor quite unlike any other ascended on the steam. Opening her eyes, she found him before her, his face level with hers, his gaze compelling. “Drink,” he said again, and, mesmerized, she swallowed the steaming brew.

  No matter how good the wine tasted, no matter how it warmed her, she had to know her fate. “Why—?”

  “Drink it all.”

  One look at his expression, and she gulped the wine to the dregs and thumped the cup on the plank table. The way he spoke irritated her. Slowly, as if he considered every word before it crossed his lips. Raspingly, as if the words whispered up from deep inside him, from where his thoughts resided. And that place was deeper than a wind-directed whirlpool.

  It lured her, tried to suck her down, used her weariness against her. That deep place in him tried to communicate with her. It used the strength of his large body. Rest on me, it whispered, I will protect you. It used his eyes, green like the sea during a lightning storm. Trust me, it whispered, I won’t hurt you. More than the wine or the food, he beguiled her. Her eyes pricked with tears, and her sigh wavered most awkwardly. Three years, and some stranger imagined she could trust him.

  Before she could question him again, he asked, “Are your men-at-arms so unruly they won’t escort you?”

  “What? Where?” She spread the laces wide and fought her shoulders out of her brown homespun cotte, revealing another gown beneath it.

  He grasped the rough wool at each of her wrists, tugging until her arms were loose. “To the village. That is where you’d been, was it not?”

  “To see my old nurse. She’s not expected to live through the winter, you see, and she was asking for me.” Angry for justifying herself, she stood, pushing the cotte over her waist, and found his hands over hers. She jerked her hands away, glaring up at him. In his face, she could see nothing but impatience and a good measure of anger.

  “Where were your men-at-arms?”

  “Sir Joseph escorted me himself. He is my chief man, a crony of my father’s.”

  “Where is he now?” Raymond enunciated the words clearly, wanting the explanation faster than she wanted to give it.

  This man, with all his sensibility, would think her a dolt for her terror, just as Sir Joseph did, just as her father had. But they were her terrors, emotions she couldn’t control, and defiantly she said, “He refused to come back with me, saying the storm was too intense and we would freeze ere we returned to the castle.”

  Raymond seemed to be thinking. “Did you doubt him?”

  “Nay.”

  “Is there a reason you had to return? A sick child, perhaps, or a dying mother?”

  “My children are well. My mother is dead.”

  He slid down the cloth, his hands too firm on her hips for her comfort, but he didn’t linger and she didn’t dare complain. “But regardless of his warning, you determined to go home?”

  “Aye.” She waited for the explosion, the rain of contempt from the logical man. Instead she heard his incredulity.

  “And this Sir Joseph refused to accompany you? He let you go, knowing you would perhaps die as you made your way home? Knowing you might wander away from the path under the influence of wind and snow? Knowing he could lose his mistress?”

  “Well.” She opened the lacing on her next cotte. “You must understand, he’s an old man.”

  “He’s a man who has outlived his usefulness.”

  He pronounced judgment as if he had the right. Filling her cup again, he noticed her trepidation. Unsmiling, he said, “Don’t fret. I’ll tend to it.”

  “Tend to what?” He only handed her the cup, and in her distress, the liquid sloshed dangerously close to the edge. “Oh, please don’t say anything to Sir Joseph about this. He would say I’d been complaining about him, and—” The way he watched her gave her pause.

  “Pray continue.”

  “—and Sir Joseph can be very unpleasant,” she mumbled. Not for the first time, she wished Sir Joseph roasted in hell. But that was a wicked, ungrateful thought. Once more, she touched the scar on her cheek, then her hand slid around into her hair behind her ear. Another scar puckered the skin there, long and jagged.

  “Climb into bed and finish your wine.”

  “You jest.”

  He lifted the covers and held them in silent command.

  “I will not.” He’d never told her who he was or even why he’d brought her here. His concern for her safety masked a greater goal, and she’d be a fool to forget it.

  He looked impatient, but she had wine courage running in her veins. “I will not lie down for you or with you. Kidnapping an heiress is a time-honored way to win a bride and a fortune, but others have tried to force me to marry them and I refused. Just as I refuse you, you scurrilious maggot.”

  He suddenly loomed over her, a tall, strong, furious man, and she flung her arms up to protect her head.

  But no blow struck her.

  “Sit,” he said in a tone that belied the fury in his eyes.

  Lowering her arms slowly, suspecting a trick, she eyed him. He still looked tall and strong, but disgust had replaced anger. Her cowardice sickened him, and she shrivelled inside. Obedient now, she sat atop the musty straw pad.

  A profound silence settled over them as he tucked the furs around her ankles and tight around her waist, and placed a cloth over the smooth log that served as pillow.

  She didn’t know what drove her, even out of the depths of her terror, to defy him still. Perhaps it was her fear of the man. Perhaps it was her fear of herself, of the care he pretended to take for her, of this strange attraction she felt for him. Perhaps she’d just been forced to the brink of end
urance. But she stared into his cold eyes and whispered, “I will not bed you. Better to fling myself on the flames or chain myself to the life of a serf.”

  The frost in his gaze dissolved into emerald fire. With his hands on her shoulders, he pushed her back. “Never say such a thing again. Never think it, never wish it on yourself. The chains of a serf are not for you, my lady.”

  “Nay, but they would fit well around the neck of the scum who dreams of bettering his station with my title.”

  He released her as if she had burned him. “If ever I have the good fortune to meet Geoffroi Jean Louis Raymond, Count of Avraché, I would advise him to shackle you to the marriage bed until you learn a better use for your tongue than speech.”

  2

  Geoffroi Jean Louis Raymond, Count of Avraché, reflected gloomily on the debacle he’d made of one simple abduction.

  Juliana was an heiress, with two attractive castles and accompanying rich demesnes. She had been given to him by King Henry, had refused, for the most specious of reasons, to come to wed, had made Raymond of Avraché a laughingstock of the court.

  Why, then, had his fury abated when faced with the panic of this one disobedient woman? He’d wanted vengeance on Lady Juliana for her reluctance to be wed, yet when he saw her, so frightened, so brave, he was unable to wreak retribution. And she was only a weak woman—even if she did pack a ferocious wallop with a log.

  But after he knocked her down and subdued her, he became aware of her delicacy. Although her clothes wrapped her in a disguise of pudginess, the body beneath was fine boned. He found himself awaiting the removal of every garment with the anticipation of a pasha previewing his latest concubine. The innermost cotte had been just as ugly as the outermost, but it couldn’t completely conceal the slender waist, the curves at bust and hip. Her face lacked the narrow beauty popular at court, yet her sweet mouth, her shadowed eyes, tempted him to hold, to caress, to comfort until her resistance melted into passion.