Читать книгу Hers To Command - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 11

CHAPTER FOUR

SINGING SNATCHES of a dirty little ditty, Sir Roald de Sayres staggered down a street poorly lit by flickering flambeaux. Fortunately, the moon was full and bright to light his way, and this was Westminster, home of the king and court, not the slums. A man like himself, well dressed, well armed and obviously noble, need not fear being set upon and robbed.

“Say what you like, I’ll like what you say,” he sang, his voice wavering and off-key.

Not that he cared what he sounded like. He was happily thinking about the brothel he’d just left. If only he could have stayed longer. If only he’d brought more money. There had been that one glorious creature with the full breasts and long legs ready to pleasure any of them. And the dark-haired lovely who would do anything if you paid enough. God’s blood, if only he were richer, he’d spend every night he could there.

Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, he remembered that he was rich. Well, almost. All he had to do was claim Ecclesford. He should go there soon. It had been, what—five…six days since he’d killed Martin? Maybe he had enough in his purse for one more night before…

Suddenly a man shrouded in a long cloak, with the hood pulled over his head, stepped out of the shadows to block Roald’s way. He seemed huge in the darkness, like an ogre or other supernatural creature.

“Sir Roald de Sayres?” a low, rough voice rasped.

Not an ogre or devil, Roald told himself as he felt for the hilt of his sword. Just a man. A very big man, but a mortal man nonetheless, and men could be killed or captured and imprisoned by the watch.

The fellow laughed, a sound more ugly than his voice. “Don’t bother calling for the watch. They can’t help you. I’d be gone before they get here.”

As he spoke, the blade of a broadsword flashed out of the man’s cloak, the tip pressing against Roald’s chest.

“My purse is empty!”

“All the worse for you, then.”

Nudging him with his sword, the man backed Roald against the nearest wall, then threw back his hood, revealing his face—and a horrible face it was, heavy and brutish, and scarred from several wounds. His nose had been broken at least twice, and he was missing most of one ear. A jagged scar ran down his cheek in a puckered, red line. “You owe a lot of money to some of the Goldsmiths’ Guild.”

“This is about a debt?”

The sword moved close to Roald’s heart. “A big one, or so they say. Big enough they’re willing to pay me to make you honor it.”

Those stinking, money-grubbing merchants. “I will repay them,” Roald said haughtily, now certain this blackguard wouldn’t kill him. “They have my word.”

Still the sword remained where it was. “They don’t seem to think your word counts for much. That’s why they sent me.”

“Haven’t they heard my uncle’s died?” Roald retorted, sounding only a little desperate. “I’ve got an estate in Kent now, so of course I can pay.”

The tip of the sword flicked upward, touching Roald’s chin. “That news reached their ears, but if the estate’s yours, why haven’t you gone there, eh?”

“Because I saw no need,” Roald replied with all the dignity he could muster, very aware of the blade so close to his face.

Suddenly, the man’s powerful left hand wrapped around Roald’s throat and he shoved him hard against the wall. “You’ve got a fortnight to come up with the money, or I’ll be taking a finger. Then a hand.” His sword moved lower, pressing against Roald’s groin. “Then something else, until your debt’s paid. Understand, my lord?”

“Yes!” Roald hissed, fighting the urge to cup himself protectively.

“Good.”

The man let go and, gasping, Roald fell to the ground on his hands and knees, the cold cobblestones cutting his palms, his knees bruising. He looked up at the figure looming over him. “Who the devil are you?”

“Can’t you guess?” the man said with a snort of a laugh. “I’m Sir Charles De Mallemaison.”

Roald felt the blood drain from his face. Charles De Mallemaison was the most notorious, vicious mercenary in England, possibly even Europe. He’d appeared in the service of a lord in Shropshire, claiming to be a knight from Anjou. The one man who’d questioned De Mallemaison’s nobility had been found hacked to small pieces on the side of the road; no one had questioned it since.

“A fortnight,” De Mallemaison repeated as he disappeared into the shadows, his cloak swirling about him. “The whole amount. Or you start losing bits.”

AS ROALD was staggering back to his lodgings, no longer drunk but shaking with the aftermath of fear, Giselle slumbered peacefully in the large bed she shared with her sister. Mathilde, however, dressed in a shift and bedrobe and, with soft leather slippers on her feet, paced anxiously by the window.

No terrible dreams troubled Giselle’s sleep, Mathilde reflected. No remorse kept her awake. No shame disturbed her rest. No lustful yearnings robbed her of peace. Giselle was good and honorable and free of sin, whereas she….

What else could she be feeling for Sir Henry but lust? That day by the river, simply seeing him with his damp hair and loose shirt unlaced to reveal his chest, had been enough for her to recall, with vivid clarity, the sight of him in that tavern bed—his back, his taut buttocks and long, muscular legs. Thinking of him swimming, gliding through the water like an otter, had kept her awake for hours.

When he’d described his mock combat with Cerdic, she’d laughed harder than she had in months. He’d been both entertaining and self-deprecating, claiming that he’d managed to defeat the other warrior only by luck and the skin of his teeth.

She’d read another reason for his victory in his animated features, seen it in his sparkling brown eyes—Sir Henry was confident of his skills, and determined to win. It was a heady combination.

Aware of her own weakness, she kept reminding herself that this merry knight, whose very appearance could excite her, would not always be there—unless he won Giselle’s heart. So, determined to keep him at a distance, she’d made certain he had activities with which to amuse himself and that kept him away from both her and her sister for the past few days, such as hunting and riding about the estate. She’d insisted that he take a guard whenever he rode out. As she’d told him, he was vulnerable to attack, too.

He’d taken no offense, but simply laughed in that appealing way of his. Then he’d said he was pleased she had so much concern for his person.

And she did—too much. He was so handsome and well built, she could hardly stop from staring at him as he sauntered through the hall, or spoke to Giselle or Father Thomas.

Now every night she lay awake, restless and uneasy, and prayed to forget the memory of his body and his smiling face. She prayed for the strength to ignore the lust she couldn’t control, the feelings she thought forever destroyed by her past mistake, only to discover that they rose, strong and almost overwhelming, when she was with Sir Henry, and away from him, too. How could she be tempted when she knew where giving in to desire might lead?

Yet she was tempted. She’d nearly kissed Sir Henry that first night, until the fear and panic had come, overpowering her and making her act like a frightened child.

Sighing, Mathilde went to the arched window and looked into the quiet courtyard. The sentries’ torches burned on the wall walk, little flickers of light in the darkness—darkness that even now might cloak Roald’s progress toward Ecclesford.

Had she done enough to prepare for his eventual arrival?

They had as many soldiers as they could afford and Cerdic had to be a better commander than Martin, who she would have sent away even if he hadn’t immediately declared he wouldn’t take orders from a woman. If her father had been stronger this past year, she would have asked him to select a new garrison commander months ago, but he’d been ill, and she’d thought to spare him any more trouble.

If only he had lived! If only she’d been stronger. If only Roald had not come last year and brought disaster with him.

Rubbing her hands up and down her arms for warmth, she tried not to think about Roald or Sir Henry anymore as she went to pour herself some water in which to bathe her face.

The ewer was empty. No matter. She would get more water from the kitchen.

Opening the door, she peered down the corridor toward her father’s bedchamber, temporarily Sir Henry’s. A torch burned in a sconce on the wall, providing some light, although it was dark near the door to her father’s chamber. To her surprise, a shaft of light spread out from below the door.

Sir Henry was still awake? Or had he fallen asleep with the candle lit? A guest had once set his bedding aflame by leaving a lit candle too close to the bed curtains.

Even so, she was not about to enter that room now, in the dead of night, and with him abed and perhaps… naked. Commanding herself not to think about that, she headed for the stairs leading to the hall.

When she passed the door to the lord’s chamber, a low moan came from within. God help her, did he have a woman with him? Was he as lustful as Roald? Was it Faiga?

As long as he helped them as he’d promised, did it matter if he bedded a servant? Faiga would have gone to him willingly; she’d seen the way the serving woman had looked at Sir Henry. There would be no force or coercion.

Mathilde prepared to continue on her way, until she heard a groan from inside the chamber, as if Sir Henry was in pain.

What if he was sick? What if he had brought some illness to Ecclesford?

What if he had knocked the candle over and the bedclothes had caught fire and the room was filling with smoke—

She put her hand on the latch and opened the door. There was no smoke, and a single lit candle stood upon the table beside the bed, its weak flame wavering. Sir Henry was alone, the sheets twisted around his lower body, his hair damp on his forehead and his naked chest beaded with sweat.

Moaning again, he rolled onto his back, one arm flung across his eyes.

Perhaps he had the ague, with its chills and fever that came and went. Maybe he’d traveled to the south of Europe and contracted it there. She’d heard that sickness could come and go for years.

Or perhaps he was only having troubling dreams. How many times had she awakened from a nightmare to find her shift clinging to her sweat-soaked body?

For the sake of the household, she should find out if he was feverish or not. She would be risking more illness if she didn’t.

She crept slowly, carefully closer. He didn’t make any noise, or move again, so with the same cautious deliberation, she took hold of his wrist and eased his arm away from his forehead before placing her palm lightly there.

No fever, thank God.

Sir Henry’s eyes flew open. He grabbed her wrist in a vicelike grip and sat up abruptly. “Constance!” he cried, staring at her. “Is she safe?”

Mathilde’s heart seemed to stop, then began beating rapidly when she realized that this was not a true awakening. He was still in the hold of his dreams.

“Yes, she’s safe,” Mathilde whispered, wondering who Constance might be as she tried to extricate her wrist from his grasp and push him back down. “Rest now, Sir Henry.”

Instead of relaxing, his grip tightened. He blinked, his eyes coming into focus and she realized he was waking.

She yanked her hand free and turned to run to the door before he found her there.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Henry cried, grabbing her bedrobe to tug her back, nearly pulling it from her body as he tugged her down onto the bed atop him.

Panic seized her, giving her strength as she struggled to get away.

He threw his leg over hers and grabbed hold of her hands, so that they were lying face-to-face on their sides. “I’m not going to hurt you!” he said softly, but firmly. “My lady, I’m not going to hurt you!”

Sir Henry’s words finally penetrated through the grip of her fear. Panting, she stilled, and his face came into focus.

“I assure you, I won’t hurt you,” he said, his gaze intently searching her face.

“Then let me go!”

“Gladly,” he said, releasing her hands and moving his leg.