“Nay.” But she stared, fascinated, as he traced the long crease curving around her thumb.
“They would tell you your life line betrays how hard you work.” His half smile brought a dimple straying to his cheek. “Actually, of course, they would be looking at the evidence of the work. You have blisters on your fingertips. What causes those?”
“Weaving,” she answered, hypnotized by the slow dance of his fingers across her palm.
“Weaving,” he repeated. “The slow intertwining of thread to form one cloth. Like you and me, becoming one through the blessing of wedlock. I told Hugh you were mine. My woman, my heiress, my bride.”
Her attention snapped away from his compelling touch and back to the conversation. What was he trying to accomplish with this intimate tête-à-tête? She should stay alert, aware, on guard. She had only to remember she’d outshouted her beloved father, outsmarted the men who would barter her. She could outmanuever this sham castle-builder, for what weapon had he that the others did not? On a sour note, she said, “I suspect my role of heiress is the one that appeals to you.”
He lifted her hand to his mouth, kissed each fingertip, warmed them with his breath, and her discontent slipped away. With his tongue, he touched them, soothed them, and she stirred in a sudden onset of uneasy craving. It was a craving she’d not felt for many years. A dangerous craving, a craving, in any case, never fulfilled, but it made her realize the sham castle-builder did indeed carry another weapon no other man could wield.
“Originally, before I knew you, it was the only part of you that appealed to me,” he said. His subtle torture of tongue and mouth halted. “But with the broad side of a log, you knocked sense into me.”
She would be on her guard, she resolved. The castle builder was attempting seduction. “I only hit your shoulder,” she replied.
“Aye, and as the wind from its passing whistled in my ear, I heard my destiny call me.”
She shouldn’t ask. She knew she shouldn’t, but his expression, both puckish and resolute, piqued her curiosity. “Destiny?”
“The people of the desert believe in destiny. They believe whatever happens was meant to happen and a man should pursue his destiny with vigor.”
Curiosity woke in her, distracted her from his able enticement. She had forgotten his escape from the Saracens. The tale had been sung by a minstrel, and Raymond of Avraché had been hailed as a hero, larger than life. She disputed the existence of heroes. In her experience, men strutted about in a glut of masculine vanity quite out of proportion to their deeds. But of all the men she’d met, only of Raymond could she believe such tales of bravery and daring. “What else did you learn on Crusade?”
He hesitated so briefly no other person would have noticed. She did and wondered what it signified, but he drove inquisitiveness from her with a cheerful declaration. “That as my destiny, I shall pursue you with vigor.”
She tried to close her hand against him.
He wouldn’t allow it. Following one of the lines that ran sideways across her palm, he said, “Valeska would say you’re passionate, for the line of your heart is deep and strong. I’ll be the man to tap that passion, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t look forward to it.”
“Passion.” She gave a fair imitation of Sir Joseph’s snort. “There’s no passion in me. I’d just as soon visit a surgeon.”
He threw back his head and laughed, a great ringing laughter that brought the activity in the great hall to a standstill.
She shushed him indignantly. “It’s true. The pleasure’s all for the man, and, in my case, I’m paying the cost for it.”
That stopped his laughter, and he inhaled sharply as if he’d been struck.
He stroked his cheek; she heard the rough sound of stubble against skin, and wanted to stroke it, too. She wanted to tell him not to fret, that she’d marry him and keep him safe, but the next moment she realized her sentiment was absurd.
As if the beaten boy had never existed, Raymond grinned to display all his fine white teeth and became again the handsome, overly confident seducer of women. “That’s true,” he acknowledged. “So if I’m the noble equivalent of a harlot, I must assure your continued patronage.”
Color burned her cheeks, although whether from her misplaced sympathy or his outrageous sentiments, she didn’t know. The man confused and bemused her. She wished she’d never met him. And she wished she believed her own rantings.
“How old was your husband when you married?”
Rubbing her fingers over her forehead, she answered absently, “My husband was in the summer of his fifteenth year.” In her own mind, she’d gained respect for the way she handled Raymond—and herself—in the snowy hut. Something about her had convinced him to abandon his plot to force their marriage and to assume a false identity. There’d been no profit in it for him, although he seemed to revel in the manufacture of tools and the endless digging.
He pointed to a tiny line on her palm. “See, there is your first marriage. And he died?”
Absently, she answered. “In the winter of his eighteenth year.” Even before she’d known Raymond’s true identity, his unspoken support had endowed her with the strength to dismiss Sir Joseph. He’d given her back something she’d been missing for these three years. Her backbone, her father would say, but it was more than that. A healing had begun.
Passing his hand over hers, Raymond pondered the evidence of her palm. “There’s the scar of your grief. No woman finds pleasure with a boy. They’re quick and selfish. How many years ago was that?”
Challenging him, she leaned back. “You tell me.”
He examined her hand, front and back and said, “It’s about ten years.”
Remembering, she said, “I told you.” She thought he watched her closely, but when she inspected him his gaze was fixed on her palm.
“Surely your father wished you to wed again.”
Her newfound confidence failed her. “Nay.”
“Hugh would have wed you.”
“Nay.”
“Felix—”
“Nay!” She jerked her hand out of his with such force she hit herself in the chin. Graceless, she supposed, but symbolic. “I don’t want to marry. Until my father died, the king was satisfied with my widowed state. Would God he’d never heard of my father’s death.”
She would have said more, but he watched her with such interest that speech failed her. She wondered when this man would tire of her tantrums and hit her. Or was his punishment more subtle? Was he, even now, punishing her with these endless questions? Did he know the truth?
Raymond cupped her chin. Beguiling her like the dark prince, he whispered, “You didn’t come to court, even when I so ordered you. Even when the king so ordered you. What did you think to gain by postponing our wedding?”
Dazed and unthinking, she told him, “Things happen. A disease might have killed you, or you might have died in battle or tournament.…” What had sounded so logical before she knew him now sounded cold, murderous.
His hand tightened slightly. “And if that had happened, do you think the king would have allowed you with your prime lands to go unwed?”
“They aren’t prime,” she insisted. She didn’t like the way his eyes narrowed, she didn’t like the way he held her, but she knew he wouldn’t hurt her. “They’re small.”
“They’re important, as you well know. Any lands close to the border of the Welsh are important to keep back the tide of barbarians.”
“Some women are allowed to remain single,” she retorted.
He smiled without mirth. “If they petition the king with a payment for his pocket, and if he believes those lands aren’t at risk for invasion. Do you have the gold to offer the king?”
She stared at him mutinously.
“If I had died—if I died even yet—think you the king wouldn’t betroth you to yet another man?” He moved closer, and she tried to scramble back, but he placed his knee on her legs to keep her in place. “Pray for me,�
� he recommended. “Pray for my good health. The next man might not be so timid in his quest to gain your bed nor so kind when he hears the rumors of your past.”
He rose above her, set on intimidating her with his size, his nobility, his male aggression.
“Did you think I would welcome you with open arms?” she whispered.
He made no attempt to lower his voice. “I had hoped you would be reasonable, but if you will not, I have weapons you barely understand or know how to use. If it comes to war, my lady, I am a veteran of battle and you are only a soft and pliant flower, easily trampled.”
“You tricked me.”
“You tricked me. You made me a laughingstock of Henry’s court with your feeble excuses.”
“You don’t understand,” she cried, frustrated. “What weapon does a woman have against the man she takes to husband? I was protecting myself and my children.”
“Your children?”
“Children of a previous marriage are effortlessly disposed of, if the new husband so chooses. Daughters can be dismissed into a convent, or even found dead of an accident.”
“I wouldn’t do that to your children!” he said.
“I didn’t know who you were!” she flared back. “I’ve given you charge of my children, and you admirably fulfilled that charge, but that doesn’t wipe clean your deception. Had I taken like advantage of you, you would have exacted a terrible revenge.”
He looked thoughtful. “Perhaps.”
Encouraged, she added, “I had no reason to distrust before, but now I do.”
“Are you saying you trust me with your children but not yourself?”
Why was he amused? Defiantly, she said, “Aye.”
He moved until his body almost touched hers. “What kind of mother would give her children into the hands of a man she didn’t trust to care for herself?”
She leaned back until her neck strained. “It’s not like that.”
“I think you fool yourself. I think you’ve surrendered all to me, and you wait only my desire to present it.”
His pleasure was some kind of trick, she thought resentfully, an illusion produced by this charlatan to touch her tender heart. In a flurry to defend herself, she said, “My trust is my own to bestow. My hand is the King’s to bestow. Be satisfied with what you’re given by your sovereign, and never think of what I offered you.”
For an answer, he bent his head over her palm. He brushed his fingers over it until it tingled, then rubbed the center back and forth, back and forth until she demanded, “What are you doing?”
“I was observing your line of destiny.”
“There’s no line of destiny. You’re making that up.”
“Not at all. Not everyone has a line of destiny, but you do. See the line that cuts right up the middle.”
She peered past his finger. “Aye.”
“That’s your line of destiny.”
“And what does my line of destiny say?”
“It says only one thing.” He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes. “Raymond and again, Raymond, all your life long.”
9
Raymond stomped through the frozen puddles in the bailey, breaking the thin layer of ice with his boots and exalting in the crunch as each perfectly smooth surface shattered.
Juliana wouldn’t come to marry the unknown lord called Raymond because she’d hoped he would die, eh? He’d made his displeasure clear to her all through the morning, all through the dinner, and even until she sharply invited him to go outside and do battle with a warrior more worthy than she.
As if there were such a warrior. She had him by the ballocks, and they ached until he could only snarl and wonder how she could wish death on the man whom the king, in all his regal wisdom, had bestowed on her. Of course, if a scaly monster had brought that merchant ship from Algiers to Normandy, Henry would have awarded Juliana to him. The king was first a statesman and diplomat, second a humanitarian. And Raymond did know of men who would dispose of girl-children with no more conscience than tomcats.
Yet the thought that Juliana had, all unknowing, wished his death made Raymond sore and angry. And the way she’d acted when Cuthbert measured for the solar! As if she were the only one with the right to make decisions about her castle. He’d thought she would be thrilled about a place where she could keep her trunks, speak with her children—and a chance to consummate her marriage in privacy. Instead she’d quoted her father to him.
Raymond had heard little to admire about her father. In fact, he had begun to suspect her father was to blame for much of her distrust of men.
He kicked at a frozen chunk of mud and cursed when it failed to yield, then scowled fiercely enough to guarantee privacy in the midst of a teaming castle crew. Layamon walked toward him, then swerved away. Sir Joseph stood in the door of the stable speaking with Felix, but at Raymond’s appearance he ducked inside. After one panicked glance, Felix scurried toward the keep. Keir never flinched, so Raymond scowled twice at him.
Keir seemed unfazed, and in fact he hailed Raymond. “’Tis a gray day,” he greeted Raymond. “I believe there will be snow before nightfall.”
Raymond grunted.
Keir hefted a pickax, its head new and shiny, its handle smoothed by a patient workman. “Carry these picks to the men below. With this hard freeze, they’ll need them.”
“Can’t some serf do your bidding?” Raymond asked in irritation.
“But you are going to the diggings,” Keir pointed out, piling picks into Raymond’s arms.
“I am?”
Keir glanced around the bailey. “You were going elsewhere?”
“I could have been,” Raymond said righteously. “I could be visiting the men-at-arms or the stables.”
“The real master castle-builder has gone down to view the destruction.” At Raymond’s glare, Keir corrected himself. “The construction.”
“I’ll take the picks,” Raymond said, his arms already loaded.
As matter-of-fact as if he discussed the weather, Keir asked, “Have you got your apples caught in Lady Juliana’s press?” He studied the frustration twisting Raymond’s expression. “It’s true, I see. In my opinion, you expect too much of that proud lady.”
“Damn your opinion,” Raymond snarled.
In no way did Keir indicate he’d heard. “Lady Juliana wouldn’t wish to bed a man who made a fool of her, yet if I may offer some suggestions—”
“You may not,” Raymond answered.
“Although you’ve humiliated her, still there is evidence she trusts you. That’s a big concession from a woman as wary of men as she seems to be. As I noted in Tunis, you project an aura of reassurance that should prove an asset in this instance.” Raymond grumbled, but Keir continued, “If you would woo her as gently as a maid, and treat her with respect, her mistrust will wane.”
Raymond leaned forward until his nose almost touched Keir’s. “I don’t need advice on how to handle a mere woman.”
“Please be careful,” Keir advised. “The load of picks will shift, and if one should strike your foot, you’ll be most unhappy.”
“I am careful, I’m just telling you—”
One of the picks tumbled off the load in his arms, and Keir caught it. “One hopes you can handle your mere woman with more success,” he said, straight-faced.
Raymond sucked in a gulp of cold air to retort and coughed with the shock to his lungs. When his eyes cleared, Keir had retreated into the smithy and shut the door in his face.
Damn Keir. Damn his expressionless, all-knowing face. Damn him for always being right. Raymond’s very bones ached with desire. He didn’t want to woo Juliana like a maid, he wanted to handle her like a woman. He’d dreamed of a passionate woman, a woman who would be giving and kind and love him unconditionally.
Juliana had fulfilled almost all his dreams, and her generosity made him all the more eager. She’d given him so much, but like a greedy boy he wanted it all. He wanted to taste her, pet her, let her envelop him in
the body that had disturbed his sleep for too long.
And when he tried to righteously claim he would be gifting her with himself, his own humbled conceit made him ashamed. Perhaps he would be good for her: shoulder the defenses, remove Sir Joseph, keep her daughters safe. But always he taunted himself. Was he really man enough, was he really skilled enough to cure Juliana of her fears? And when they were joined, would he be able to keep the gaping darkness of his own soul from her?
The load of picks shifted, and he swayed with the changing weight. He didn’t lose his balance. He never lost his balance, except with that sweet-faced widow.
Aye, damn Keir for his clearsightedness. And damn him, for he’d loaded Raymond with twice as many picks as he’d give any other man. Damn Keir and damn this real castle-builder.
“Lord Raymond? Lord Raymond!”
With a start, Raymond responded to the call. “What?” he barked. He found himself standing on the drawbridge, arms full of pickaxes, glaring at the frozen trench and the workers who clustered around the fire. The king’s castle-builder—the real castle-builder, Raymond thought spitefully—was screaming instructions and imprecations in French. Not surprisingly, the men, all of whom spoke English, stared with open mouths at—what was his name? Oh, aye. Papiol.
“Lord Raymond!” Tosti hailed him, gesturing wildly. “What’s this strange fellow talkin’ about? We can’t understand a word.”
No work was getting done, so Raymond slid down the slope until he reached the fire.
“Let me take those fer ye,” Tosti said, soothing Raymond’s pride. “Our new lord shouldn’t be carryin’ such things.”
As the men removed pickaxes from Raymond’s arms, he asked in English, “How did you know I was your new lord?”
“Well, ye weren’t no castle builder, that’s certain.” Tosti nodded.
Raymond pointed at Papiol. “He’s the king’s castle-builder.”
“May th’ Madonna save us,” Tosti said piously. “Is that what he’s been ahowlin’ about?”
Castles in the Air Page 13
