Читать книгу A Knight and White Satin - Jackie Ivie - Страница 8

The lie ruled his life. Usually as an ache he barely felt. Sometimes it came as a raging belly of disgust. Sometimes it was muted, whispering through him and making him shudder with what those about him might be thinking. But always it was there, hovering in wait. That was when it was most powerful. When it was dormant…and he didn’t know for how long. That’s what he feared.

Payton took another blow and then another, until he was on his knees facing a sea of mud flecked with his own blood. Then, and only then would the lie subside and go deep into his soul where it would stir the hatred. He had to wait for the self-hate to get big enough and harsh enough. Then it turned everything into a red wash of color that would pump strength back to his limbs.

Then Payton would start to win.

It was ever this way. The battle would be lengthy, allowing the Stewart king time to flirt with his latest mistress, and his lords to wrangle and bet on the eventual winner. By then the King’s Champion would be faltering. His legs wouldn’t have much feel, his arms would be dead weight attached to his shoulders, and it became a fight simply to lift his shield to ward off yet another blow. This was when the king covered most of the wages. Because somehow the diminutive Stewart knew.

He knew it would happen. He didn’t know that the lie Payton harbored was solidifying and glowing, warming until it became hot, and then it got dangerous. It became fire—sending rage to every part of him with every pump of his heart. He gave a warning. He always gave a warning, with a yell so deep and guttural, he could hear the applause already starting before it was drowned out by drums. The king always had drummers at his side, keeping a light prancing cadence of taps throughout the evening until Payton’s yell changed it. Then, the drums became one blended thump that kept growing until it was the only thing he heard.

This time went exactly the same. They’d found him a Welshman capable of making a decent fight, sponsored by a nameless prince with a full purse. The Welshman was also covered in animal hide trews and tunic, and smelled worse than a latrine at high summer.

Payton didn’t wait until his yell died out. He couldn’t. He wasn’t in control, anymore. The lie was. It turned him into a hate-filled menace that was feeding off the drumbeat until his movements matched them. His shield felt as light as feathers, his club had the same weight of bread, and he used both to pummel; striking again and again at the man he was facing until they’d call a halt, and even then he seldom heard it at first.

King James usually stopped it with a blast from his pipes, immediately followed by the cessation of the drums. Sometimes, he had to send men onto the field to pull Payton from his opponent. On those rare occasions, it felt like the self-hate was consuming him, frightening him with the intensity of it as he waited for the woman behind it all to open her mouth, branding him a fool, a coward, and a fraud.

The Welshman looked like a mud-covered heap of dead animal. He groaned occasionally, showing his defeat. He was still breathing. He lived. Payton turned away and stalked from them. It was time to hide in his chambers, where his bath and a feast would be waiting for him, as well as a lovely wench to make sure it was all to his satisfaction. He didn’t look twice at the Welshman. He didn’t care.

They didn’t say he fought like a demon without cause.

“Dear Lord!” Dallis gave it as much emotion as she dared. There were too many serfs still about, raising a slight dusting of snow with each footstep as they swept what had once been a stately and beautiful great hall. She looked up and blinked as more snowflakes filtered down from three stories up, showing how frail the latest roof patch was.

“Leroy!” She hollered it loudly, since he was probably outside by now. Most of the Dunn-Fadden clansmen were. They had animals to secure, since the storm hadn’t waited as she’d prayed and hoped and worried for.

“I hope you dinna’ pay too much for that.”

“Of course I paid too much. When would I have grown sense?” Dallis snapped, glaring for a moment at her companion’s head before looking away.

“I dinna’ say that,” the older woman answered.

“I ken as much. I said it so you would na’ have to. I already ken that everything I pay for, and everything I do to save this keep is wasted. I’ll still do it. ’Twas my inheritance and entrusted to me. I’ll na’ shirk it.”

“Your father dinna’ entrust it to you. The king forced him to. That’s why it’s in this condition while he covers the kirks, fanning the feud with Kilchurning. It was entrusted to that man…the King’s Champion. Your husband.”

Dallis swept harder, but that was the only hint she gave of listening.

Beside her, Lady Evelyn snickered. “’Tis your fault, you know.”

“I dinna’ control the weather.”

“Nae, but you do control the fates.”

“Nonsense.”

“’Tis what happens every time you use what funds he sends to try and exact your revenge. Time and again I tell you, and yet you go against my advice.”

“Advise me something I want to hear, then.”

The older woman shook her head. “’Twas most stupid this time. The Welsh canna’ fight well enough to take him down.”

“Leroy!” Dallis turned her head and yelled the name again. If he didn’t answer, she was going to have to climb up and out onto the balcony of what used to be her servant’s chambers and try and put the woven thatch piece back in position. That was a daunting task. It was going to be precarious and it was going to be cold. Her shoulders sagged slightly as she started hitching her skirts into her belt, revealing a worn underdress.

“Actually…now that I think on it, I dinna’ ken if there’s anyone that fights well enough to win him.”

“Somebody will win him. I just have to find one.”

“You’d be better served using his funds on his keep, filling his larder, his woodpile, and his treasury. Like his missives instruct.”

Lady Evelyn went back to sweeping, before the snow melted and made a mess of the dried rushes. The woman was nearing sixty, and as her niece’s chaperone and companion, she should have been sitting beside a fireplace, sewing tiny little stitches into a tapestry to adorn the castle walls. Since every bit of gold that the great champion, Laird Dunn-Fadden, sent toward the upkeep of the castle was gathered up and saved until there was enough to find another warrior to pay for Dallis’s revenge, Lady Evelyn was forced to do what they all did: work in order to survive.

Dallis didn’t let it bother her. Not today. Maybe after she’d reached the thatch across the roof, seen the damage caused by the storm, and secured it again. Then, maybe she’d feel guilty. But not now. She had too much to do.

It was colder the closer she got to the roof. Dallis ran the steps past her rooms, and when she reached the battlements, she could see why. It wasn’t just a storm, it was a horrific wind-driven storm. The thatch was still intact. That was a blessing. It was waving about in the wind since one of the mooring ropes had come loose. Dallis scrambled onto the merlon, settling her buttocks into a cupped area that seemed molded for them, and pulled until her arms ached. The last repair had been the cheapest, and they’d chiseled out a slight line in each crenel for the ropes to hug into. One had itched its way loose. She breathed out the relief as she caught the line and pulled it back into position, and even managed to keep her seat at the same time.

She didn’t hear the commotion until she was finished and rounding the stair near the second story. If it was what it sounded like, she wasn’t prepared. She might never be.

“The…meaning?”

The stammering voice was Lady Evelyn Caruth. Her voice was old and feeble sounding and it hadn’t been earlier. It wasn’t hard to find the cause. A large retinue of men was filling the great hall, too numerous to count. They wore Dunn-Fadden colors, and they weren’t the faded, worn plaid all the clansmen about her wore. Theirs were newly woven, bright with dye, and embellished with pure silver thread if she wasn’t mistaken. If Dallis was in control of her own heartbeat, it probably would’ve stopped. Instead it thudded harder, making it difficult to breathe. She knew instantly who it was. Anyone would have.

It was their laird, the King’s Champion…and her husband.

“I want an accounting and I want it now. Where is the mistress?”

“I—if you’ll allow a-a moment?” Lady Evelyn began, but he interrupted her.

“A moment? The pipes have been blasting my arrival from the other side of the bailey. You’ve had more than enough time.”

He wasn’t shouting. He didn’t have to. Lady Evelyn reached his midchest and she hadn’t much stiffness in her backbone anyway. She was probably close to breaking into sobs. Dallis hadn’t much time. She pulled the skirt from her belt as she took the stairs, ignoring the shaking of her hands as she did so. If she cowed the moment she saw him, he’d win. Again. That was not going to happen.

“Here.”

He’d taken off his fur cloak and tossed it to one of his men. It didn’t mute the sensation of his size. She remembered that. Three years and she still remembered how large, how well-defined, and just how handsome he was. And then he turned his head and saw her.

He might as well have flung a bucket of snow melt on her for the blast of cold that happened. She must have forgotten the impact of his ice-blue eyes, but couldn’t imagine how it could’ve happened. They’d been in her dreams, shadowed her steps, and haunted her every waking moment. It should have prepared her for when she got his gaze again.

“You there!” He was pointing at her. Dallis knew her heart stopped then. She couldn’t prevent it. All she could do was ignore it and hope it worked. She sucked for air, lifted her chin, and tossed the loose braid of hair over her shoulder. She hadn’t donned proper attire such as a wimple, a girdle, and a dress befitting her station. She rarely did, and today was laundry day so there hadn’t been a need. She didn’t let it matter. Cowardice didn’t gain a Caruth much.

“Yes?” she answered, and was grateful her voice had no sign of the wavering every portion of her body was suffering.

“I demand an accounting!”

Dallis gulped. Now? He wasn’t even going to see they had privacy? It was going to be difficult enough showing where funds had gone without him guessing the truth. Her eyes went huge. She couldn’t prevent it.

“Why is everyone mute the moment I speak with them? Fetch the mistress. Perhaps she’ll not cower in fear from me. Go! Now!”

Dallis’s mouth fell open as what had to be shock raced through her, turning everything numb. It started at her throat, and it slithered until it reached her toes. He didn’t recognize her? Her eyes narrowed before her mouth closed. She had to look away in order to answer. This time her voice did warble. “I’ll see her fetched for you, immediate-like, my lord.”

“See that you do. Redmond! Find my steward, Leroy. Have him brought before me as well. And stoke this fire!”

Dallis didn’t hear the rest. She was running back up the stairs.

His belly was burning and it transferred to his eyes as Payton looked over his keep. He’d sent a large portion of the gold he’d won and this was the result? His eyes ran over the sparse furnishing, the hangings that didn’t look to have been repaired or replaced since that fateful day, and he had to swallow the sourness back down so it could keep the lie he always harbored company. He’d expected anger, maybe hatred, but an impoverished keep and nothing in the way of a welcome? His wife had much to answer for.

“Sir?”

The hesitant voice belonged to the elderly woman he’d first met. Payton made her wait. And he made it a long wait. He was doing a visual inspection of his hall. From the looks of it, his wife hadn’t even seen to a repair on his roof, nor the large crack across the floor. There wasn’t even leaded glass in the window openings. There were shutters. He narrowed his eyes in consideration. The Dunn-Fadden clan he’d left here had seen to the fitting of those shutters. They fit well. Kept the drafts out…but allowed very little light in.

The woman cleared her throat again. Payton lowered his chin and glared at her. She backed two paces from him. It didn’t give him any satisfaction.

“What?” he finally asked.

“That—that…was the mistress.” She waved her hand in the direction of the spiral stair.

Payton closed his eyes, knew the sickness in his belly was due to the lie he harbored as it roved about, weakening him and making him feel like a lad again. He had no choice but to hide it. Again. “Well,” he replied finally. “My luck with women is accursed bad. As always.”

“How so?” His vassal, Redmond, asked.

“My keep is a ruin and my wife dresses in sackcloth. Added to that is her visage, and that she’s as plain as the day is long. What would you call it?”

Redmond’s lips didn’t even twitch. Payton liked that about the man. Vast sense of humor. “I call it a waste of good fund. Perhaps with a good cleaning and the proper cloth?”

“Order it, and oversee it.”

The elderly woman gasped. Payton looked back at her. “We speak of the hall, old one. Not the wife. I’ll gird her alone. In my chamber.” His boots made little sound on the spread of rushes in the hall. That was a good sign. This Dallis knew the value of fresh sweet rushes. Good for insulation and for disguising stench. That was one mark in her favor.

He had his foot on the first step before Redmond spoke again. “Make a scan of the woman’s sewing basket first, my laird.”

Payton’s lips twisted as he turned back. He couldn’t help it. “I intend as much. Send a contingency of guards back to Edinburgh. I’ve decided to take His Majesty up on his offer of stonemasons and carpenters. See to that, as well.”

“Such gifts come with strings.”

Payton nodded. “I ken as much. Don’t come up. No matter how much screaming you hear.”

“I’ve na’ heard you scream a-fore,” Redmond returned. “’Tis shaping into a vastly more entertaining eve than I’d foreseen.”

Payton grinned, and turned to take the steps two at a time. They’d fashioned a tight wheel staircase. He had his left hand against the stone as he climbed. He didn’t recollect that and he’d been carrying her at the time. It wasn’t surprising. He’d been stewed, and rarely tried to remember any of it.

She had the door locked. He discovered as much when he tried to twist the heavy metal handle. She might even have it barred from within. That was going to be difficult. Payton sucked in on both cheeks as he looked at it. He was called the King’s Champion. He wasn’t letting a door be the thing that exposed him for the fraud he was.

He leaned forward and pushed and felt the wood give just slightly. That was a good sign. The keep had suffered moisture damage and that would give him just the edge he needed. The hall’s width accommodated four steps. Payton lowered his shoulder and heaved at her door.

She didn’t have it barred.

His blow shook the jamb, but it held. It groaned with the attack, however. The door wasn’t far behind, as a heavy thunderous cracking noise accompanied the split that opened right in the center of it, sending large chunks of wood, a cloud of dust, and a blizzard of little slivers into her room with him at the midst of the destruction. Payton was actually amazed he kept his feet, although he had to spin fully and that left him open the entire time to any attack.

Vulnerable. She made him that. And frightened, and defamed, and weak. Always. Just her. He had his breath held until he finished a full circle and spotted her. Where she was had him raising his brows and lowering his head. She’d leapt onto her mattress and was well above him, holding a large swath of white material against the front of her, and she was wet. At least, her hair was wet. It was sticking to her flesh and showing the length of it as it caressed the curve of her hip. She had a rather shapely hip, too. He hadn’t noted that before.

He tipped his head a fraction and craned his neck in order to see it more fully. She made a half-turn away, to shield herself. White material moved with it. Payton took three steps to his left and craned his neck again. She swiveled with the movement and the satin moved with that motion as well. He had his lips pursed before he moved his gaze to hers.

She didn’t look cowed. Far from it. She looked determined. She also wasn’t as plain as he’d assigned her. That was a pleasant thought. Payton stood to his full height, crossed his arms and regarded her. The dust from his entrance was almost settled, and the remnants wavered in the air with flecks of glint.

“What do you want?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. It was to cover any nervousness. “The same thing I wanted three years past,” he replied finally. He had his heartbeat under control as well, for nothing about his voice gave him away. The satisfaction went deep. He had control of his fraud even in her presence. He felt the cooling sensation in the depth of his gut. He didn’t give any outward sign to any of it.

She gasped.

“And mayhap…more,” he finished.

She was going a nice rose shade, and it suffused her skin, until the material had the same pink shading where it got to caress her skin. Payton licked his lower lip as she pulled the material tighter.

“Nae,” she replied.

“Strange, but I’m na’ at all surprised to hear you say that,” he said.

“Dinna’ you understand the word nae?”

He nodded slightly. “Verra well actually. I just doona’ accept it.”

“You’re na’ welcome in here.”

“I was never welcome. What of it?” he shrugged.

“You dinna’ even knock!”

“You barred me and yon door was na’ crafted well. It dinna’ withstand the slight touch of my knock.”

She looked skeptical, and not much else. “I’m na’ ready,” she said finally.

Payton looked her over. She was watching for his gaze when he’d finished. “You look ready,” he replied.

“You dinna’ even recognize me!” She put the slightest emphasis on the words, and then she colored. If Payton wasn’t mistaken, it bothered her greatly.

“There are parts of you that I definitely recognize, my lady. Definitely.” He knew she had his meaning as she pulled the material even closer to her body. Which wasn’t doing much to mute the fact that she had a spectacular form: large round hips, slender waist…. He hadn’t known that.

“Doona’ come one step closer!”

Payton had moved his right foot. He halted at her command. There was a shrill sound behind her words. He’d heard it before. He actually recognized it. It sounded like actual fear. He shook it off and moved his other foot. She backed to the wall and gave a gasp as her nakedness came into contact with the stone. It also made certain things happen behind the sheet she had held to her so tightly that it defined more than it covered.

That was visual, he decided. She had twin crests at her breasts, and they were a healthy size. He remembered her bosom. Payton had to turn his head to hide the expression. He couldn’t do anything about the rest of his body. He was only grateful he was wearing woolen trews beneath his feile-breacan. Scratchy and warm. And thick. All of which was a good thing at the moment.

“Three years ago you stopped me with a slip of a skean. You verra nearly did what nae man has. I still bear the scar.”

“You were forcing me!”

“What of it? Women get forced. Especially women that have been taken in battle.” He took another step. She pushed farther back into the wall. Her movement made him stop. He didn’t want her cowed and beaten and he didn’t know why.

“But I never accepted you!”

Payton blew the snort through his lips, making a sound like the neigh of his horse. “You did more than agree, lady. By keeping silent, you’ve more than accepted me as husband. And then you added to it by taking my gold, abusing my keep, and doing naught a good wife should.”

“Perhaps you should have been a good husband, then,” she retorted.

“My thoughts exactly. We’ve reached accord. Already. This bodes well.” He was teasing as he hooked his thumbs under the fastening of his belt. He had a heavy, real silver buckle that the Stewart had crafted especially for his champion. It had a weight and rigidity to it that any other belt wouldn’t have achieved. He watched her eyes flit there and then back to his face.

“What…are you going to do?” she asked.

“Whatever I want.” The rush of power hit the region about his nose and flared there, making a sting for a moment. Payton shook his head slightly. All these years he’d dreaded being face-to-face with her, and having her reduce him to boyish incompetence—and it was for this? Strangely, he didn’t like the sensation. He didn’t want her beaten, and he didn’t want her submissive. But he did want her.