Читать книгу The Notorious Knight - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 12

WHEN THEY REACHED the chamber in the keep, Gillian splayed her hands on her hips and her whole body quivered with the rage she’d been fighting to suppress. “Just who the devil do you think you are?”

“I am Sir Bayard de Boisbaston,” he answered with aggravating calm as he removed his helmet. He set it on the table and untied the ventail, the flap of mail that protected his throat. He just as calmly shoved his coif back, baring his head and revealing his tousled hair.

“Are you the lord and master of Averette?”

“No,” he replied.

He actually had the gall to smile at her! “I have no wish to try to command you, my lady.”

“Then by what right did you stand on that dais and act the part?”

He slowly and deliberately took off his gauntleted gloves. “I have no wish to be the master of Averette,” he replied, regarding her steadily with those deep brown eyes of his. “I was doing what I was sent here to do. I was protecting you.”

“Iain and the men of my garrison can do that,” she retorted, barely resisting the urge to knock his helmet from the table and send it crashing to the floor. “I thought I’d made that very clear. But no! The bold, the mighty, the notorious Sir Bayard de Boisbaston must come and stand behind me like a one-man praetorian guard, to frighten and intimidate my tenants, or to grant his august approval of my judgments!”

“I did no such thing. I simply stood there, keeping watch.”

Still glaring, she crossed her arms over her heaving chest. “Oh, yes, keeping watch, as if I’m a little girl who needs a great big man to help me!”

His lips thinned and she could see anger in his eyes. Let him be enraged. He’d enraged her. He’d treated her like a weak and helpless child!

“I played no part at all in your decisions, nor did I try to,” he said.

“Oh, no,” she scornfully replied. “You didn’t terrify Felton into silence with your stares or make the alewife start to cry, or frighten the chandler’s daughter half to death.”

“I was on guard, my lady, but I’m not a statue, nor deaf nor blind. I’m sorry if my reactions offended you, but I was not attempting to influence the proceedings.”

“Nevertheless, you did—by your very presence and especially in your armor with your sword at your side!”

“Then that could not be helped.”

She went to stand nose-to-chin with him. “Never, ever, presume to do that again!”

He regarded her quizzically and, to her further aggravation, she saw amusement lurking in those brown eyes. “What, stand behind you?”

“You know full well what I mean!” she charged, more annoyed than ever because he didn’t appreciate the enormity of what he’d done, the humiliation he’d caused her, the embarrassment she felt. “Don’t ever try to act the lord here!”

“I assure you again, my lady, that is not in my plans.”

“Don’t smirk at me, you…you man!” she exclaimed, her hands balling into fists. “With your chain mail, and your sword, and your handsome face! Don’t think I’m like every other foolish woman who’s fallen under your spell. That I’ll simply bow down before you and let you do what you will. I will never let any man rule me—or Averette!”

“Including the king?”

He was purposefully goading her, the cur. “You know I don’t include the king. But I won’t let you tell me what to do, or order me or my men about, or try to take control of what is mine to rule! I’ve waited years for this chance, to stand in my own light and not in the shadow of Adelaide’s beauty or Lizette’s charm. To show everyone what I can do. To be seen at last. But no, you must come here and take that away from me, too.”

“I watched as Armand vied for recognition from our father,” he answered slowly, an inscrutable expression on his face. “Attention that should have been Armand’s, but that came to me instead. I won’t do that to you.”

“So you say, but words are cheap!” she retorted. “You’re just like all men. I hate what you did today! I hate you!”

She raised her hand, wanting to hit something…anything…perhaps him. He grabbed her wrist, his long, strong fingers wrapping around her arm and holding her still. His gaze held hers just as strongly, as if challenging her to try to look away.

She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She would stand there forever with his hand holding her, standing so close, his broad chest rising and falling as he breathed heavily, his face close.

His lips close, too. His whole body near, closer to her than she’d been to a man in a very long time.

Touching her. His eyes looking into hers as if seeking…what?

Her breathing quickened and grew shallow. She felt the pressure of his grasp and much more now. A desire, a need, long suppressed, almost forgotten.

Almost. Until now.

And he…what was he feeling, as he looked at her that way?

His Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow. His breathing, too, had grown shallow and fast. His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go.

He didn’t let go.

He started to draw her forward. Pulling her toward him, as if he wanted to…was going to…

She wrenched her arm free and stepped back, gasping for air as if she’d been held under water. “What are you doing?”

His surprised expression hardened. “Stopping you from striking me. I already have one scar on my face and don’t wish another.”

If he wasn’t going to acknowledge what had just passed between them, neither was she. “Do you understand your place here?”

“Better, perhaps, than you,” he had the gall to reply.

“Then stay in it!” she snapped, before she strode from the solar.

BAYARD SCOWLED AS SHE slammed the door behind her. God’s blood, what a witch! As if he wanted to stand on a dais all day and listen to the petty complaints and conflicts of merchants, tradesmen, and peasants! He’d only gone out of duty, because he’d promised Armand he’d keep his sister-in-law safe, so his brother would have one less worry at court.

He owed Armand that much, and more. If it hadn’t been for Armand’s guidance and counsel, if Armand hadn’t sought him out and told him he was garnering a reputation that would only do him harm, if his half brother hadn’t shown him, by word and deed and manner, how to be a better man, who could say where he might be now?

Bayard picked up his leather gloves and, slapping them against his palm, strode to the window. His gaze flew over Averette, and he wondered if Armand had any idea what he’d given up when he’d refused to take this estate.

Bayard had rarely seen such a prosperous, well-run estate, or a happier group of peasants and townspeople. Even the ones who’d come forth with complaints had seemed confident that justice would be done. There could be no mistaking the effect of that security.

Yet according to Armand, the late lord of Averette had been a terrible, vicious, mean man who’d abused his wife and ignored his daughters, except to chastise them for not being sons and threatening to marry them off to increase his wealth and power.

The sense of security he’d felt today must be due to Lady Gillian’s governance. Having seen her dispense justice, he could believe that. She’d listened carefully to the complaints—even the incredibly ridiculous ones—and given everyone her full attention. He was impressed with her decisions that were based not on emotion, as one would expect from a woman, but on the facts and evidence provided and, he suspected, a very deep understanding of the people involved.

Yet the fact still remained that she was a woman and while women certainly had their place, to use her words, governing an estate was not one of them, not even if the woman was intelligent and perceptive and just.

Such a woman should certainly be in charge of a noble household, though, and Lady Gillian would no doubt make some lord an excellent wife. She’d surely be a better mother to her children than his own had ever been.

But then, most women would be a better mother than his own had ever been.

And it wasn’t as if he was in need of such a wife, or any wife at all. He was in no great rush to tie himself down to domesticity and the responsibilities that adhered to it.

There would be time enough to take a wife later and when he did, she would be pretty and pleasant, merry and sweet, amenable and charming, with just a touch of spirit to make life interesting.

She wouldn’t stand before him like an enraged empress, her eyes gleaming, her whole shapely body vibrant, her full lips quivering with emotion.

Why, then, had he felt a nearly overwhelming urge to kiss Lady Gillian d’Averette?

BAYARD FOUND FREDERIC in their chamber polishing his armor and decided, once he had his mail off, that Frederic could do with some practice with a lance. He’d noticed a quintain dummy in the outer bailey, and since the wooden replica of a man with a bag of sand tied to one outstretched arm and a shield on the other wasn’t in use, Frederic might as well take a few passes. Instructing Frederic would occupy his wayward mind, too.

Surely they wouldn’t have to ask permission for that; The practice area was still within the castle walls, after all.

Whether he was supposed to or not, he wouldn’t. He was tired of feeling more like a prisoner here than he had in the Duc d’Ormonde’s castle.

He told Frederic his decision, and the lad’s eager grin stretched from ear to ear. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“It’s not too late in the day?”

“I don’t think so.”

Bayard almost regretted his suggestion as he helped the lad into his hauberk. It was like trying to get clothes on a wiggling fish.

When the lad was finally attired in his armor, surcoat, and swordbelt, and with his shield over his left arm, Bayard said, “Go to the armory and get a tipped lance. I’ll have your horse saddled and waiting in the outer bailey.”

“Yes, my lord,” Frederic said as he proudly—and unnecessarily—straightened his swordbelt.

After Frederic hurried from the chamber, Bayard followed more slowly and permitted himself a chuckle. God’s blood, to be so young and carefree again!

That red-haired serving wench whose name he could never remember passed him on the stairs leading to the yard. She squeezed against the wall, lowering her eyes and blushing as if he were about to make her a lewd offer.

Obviously rumors about his past had reached the household. Lady Gillian had likely heard them, too, although she was acting no worse than she had before. No better, either.

When he reached the stable and his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, he spotted the senior groom, a tall, broad older man. “I’d like my squire’s destrier saddled.”

The groom shuffled his feet and didn’t meet his gaze. “Where, um, where might you be off to, my lord?”