Defiant (22 page)

The woman’s mouth drew into a flat line as if sheer stubbornness was all that had kept her alive. “Aye.”

Evidently she was not surprised by her arrival because she no longer cared.

Gwyneth pushed her hair behind her shoulders. “Kaitlyn, you must tell me what has occurred.” It made her sick to think of hearing all the details, but she must know.

“Aye,” echoed Jared. She felt his body stiffen behind her, saw his hands tighten on the reins.

The woman fisted her wrinkled hands at her sides. “Little Edward, Mary’s son, caught the ague and wheezed himself to death. We had no medicine.”

Her chest squeezed. Somehow she should have prevented this. She should have come to her keep to see how they were faring for herself. She could have protected them, helped them.

“Are you here to help us, milady? Or are you here to take the rest? We have the barest of items in the pantry, the wine has been stolen, the—”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jared’s jaw harden. She could practically feel his condemnation of her.

Gwyneth cleared her throat, stopping the woman midstream. To regain her people’s trust, she would have to show leadership. She didn’t need a list of what was missing, but what was still here. They needed food for the winter and enough firewood to keep warm. The walls and roof needed repaired. The pantries needed organized and the items counted.

“Where is the steward?” she asked, determined to get a sense of what supplies they had and what they would need, of how many servants were at the keep and how many depended on her to fill their bellies.

The woman gave her a withering glare, her face becoming even more prunelike. “The steward, ‘e ran off, milady. Took the meats and the last of the apples. Your father did not pay him.”

Curse her father! How dare he be so obsessed with his rebellion against the king that he had paid no attention to his tenants and servants.

“Has anyone been here to check on the estate?” Jared stepped forward.

The woman turned sharply toward him and Gwyneth felt herself being dismissed as a viable person to look to for leadership. “Nay, milord. Not these past months. Not even after the raids began.”

Raids. Starving children. Gwyneth’s chest ached; she wanted to bury her face in her hands and weep. How could she have allowed this to happen? She had spent so much time and energy helping women in prison and none on her people—had assumed that they had been cared for.

“The knights left and we had none to protect us,” Kaitlyn continued.

Gwyneth gritted her teeth to hold back tears. She needed to be strong and put things back together. The stench from the clogged moat wafted toward them with a puff of breeze. From here, garbage and sewage could be seen floating atop the disgusting water. She resisted the urge to cover her nose. She would breathe what her people breathed. Together they would set things aright.

“Did Montgomery offer no protection when he was given the place as overlord?” she asked. It had only been a few months, but surely enough time to do something. Her brother-in-law, ogre that he was, had done well in taking over the other lands; she had to give him credit for that.

Kaitlyn’s sharp intake of breath answered her question. “My daughters and I hide in the woods or the cellar when the marauders come. We’ve gotten quite good at hiding the food. The youngest, Abigail, wasn’t fast enough. She"—again the woman’s accusing eyes—"we found her in the woods, her body savaged. We could not stop the blood from betwixt her legs …”

Gwyneth winced, remembering the pain in her woman’s place that the terrifying violation had caused. For that to have happened to an eight-year-old was beyond evil. Vile.

“We had no priest to bury her properly—”

“When did this occur?” Jared swung off the horse, pulling Gwyneth with him.

“Two months past.”

Hand on hip, he looked sharply around at the gate and walls as if to discern who might hide behind them. “Who attacked? From whence?”

His tone, dark and strong, gave Gwyneth pause. ‘Twas as if he was remembering some evil event from the past.

Dark circles shadowed the woman’s eyes. “I know not, milord.”

“We will see to the child’s proper burial,” Gwyneth promised. “Have the rights said by a priest. I am most sorry for your loss.” Her words seemed hollow, inadequate. The blank expression on Kaitlyn’s wrinkled face echoed the thought, and Gwyneth wondered if perhaps she should have said naught, should have allowed the woman her grief instead of pretending she could wipe it away with a decent burial and a lame apology.

“The raiders will be punished,” Jared interjected. Despite his common garments, he stood like a knight.

‘Twas almost like he cared.

“Have you any food to eat?” he continued.

“We have a little, milord. Turnip broth. Three chickens. Six onions.”

“Turnip broth! That is all?” The shabby walls of the keep seemed to shake at the vehemence of his voice—as if a few more tiles would fall from the roof.

Kaitlyn shrugged, turned her face to one side inviting him to look around and see for himself what desperate state they were in. “We have two cheeses left. Three loaves. A bag of apples. ”

Jared tapped his walking stick once, twice, then pointed at the doorway the woman had emerged from. “Go fetch water. And find someone who knows about hawks,” he finished with a glance toward Aeliana, who had perched on one corner of the hearth’s chimney.

Not waiting for Gwyneth’s compliance, he turned, stalked up the stone steps to the keep’s door, and flung it open. He carried his staff like a shield. The engraved dragon on the wood could have been alive. Its red eye flashed in the sun.

She followed along behind him, tripping at his pace and frowning at his back. He did not even know these people, and had been tricked into being lord here. He was a stranger. A peasant. An unwilling bridegroom.

But he was not acting like a peasant. He said the right things, did the right things—like the lord of the keep. Gwyneth worried her lower lip. Irma had assured her that he was naught more than a falconer, but then Irma had also assured her that he was impotent and that was far from the truth. Plus there was the mystery of why he had not entered the monastery or why people were searching for him.

So much she did not know about him.

If he turned out to be a nobleman, she would be stuck with him for life. A wash of acid lurched into her throat and she fought a wave of nausea.

She determined to gain control of the situation. “Let me loose, Jared. I need to see to my people.”

“Your people need a real leader. ”

“Release me. I am mistress here.”

“And I am lord. ”

She placed her hands on her hips. He certainly was not acting like a peasant.

“Enough. We go hunting. Together. ”

“Hunting?” She crossed her arms and faced him squarely. “I have not even checked on the kitchens yet.”

“Later. “ He retrieved a thick leather glove from his pack, then instructed a servant to take the remaining items to the master’s chambers and handed the horse’s reins to a young lad.

“Your people are hungry, and we will not rest until they are fed.”

“I thank
you
for bringing food for my people, but
I
know naught about hunting,” she reasoned. “I will stay here and check on the pantries.”

“You will remain by my side at all times.”

“But I must attend my duties.”

“Your new duty is to attend me. I will not leave you here to start a rebellion.”

“But—”

“Come, wife.”

She tapped her foot, not budging. He was correct that the castlefolk needed to be fed—and she planned to do just that—by checking the pantries and kitchen and setting things in order. She would braid her hair, find a plain kirtle to wear, and work alongside the maids to get matters organized. A lady had duties!

“If we must go together, then the hunting can be done in the morning. There are things here to take care of.”

“Nay. We go now. Aeliana has been patient enough, and your people need food.”

“Kaitlyn explained that there was cheese and apples for the evening sup. We will see to the larders and tomorrow we will all get a fresh start.” Perhaps she could even have a bath.

“Come, lady wife.”

She did not move. “Nay. Go without me.”

“Absolutely not.”

When he did not move either, she realized that he intended to simply stand there and wait. For all eternity if he had to.

Obstinate man.

“Fine.” She glowered at him; the blue silk of her gown rustled as she stepped forward. Dizziness washed over her, and she reached for something to steady herself. Jared’s arm extended. The muscles danced beneath her fingers. Heavens, she was tired.

She could not remember ever feeling this exhausted or discouraged in her life. She rubbed her temples and noted that her hands were smeared with dirt.

She half expected him to curse at her as she regained her balance, but instead he waited, not restlessly as most men would, but with a sort of endless patience. That of a master falconer.

She did not speak the words aloud, but she found herself grateful that he did not shame her in front of her people by forcing her to move too quickly. ‘Twas as if her attempt at compliance was enough to satisfy him.

For certes, she would have fallen on her face.

Wondering at his patience and too tired to fight, she followed, annoyed that she had to cling to his arm for balance. Her legs and back ached; shooting pain ran up her spine in a line from her ankles to her neck. It was madness for him to insist they go back out when they had barely arrived and the keep was in such a state of despair.

Hours passed. Dark shadows shifted on the walls of the bedchamber as Gwyneth listened carefully to the sound of Jared’s breathing and wondered if she could make it to the door before he awoke.

Stomach churning, she debated on a course of action.

How had she gotten into the bed? She had no recollection.

They had returned late from the hunt—she mostly stumbling—and fallen directly to sleep in one of the chairs by the hearth. She stared at one of the corner posts on the large four-poster bed of the master’s chambers, wondering how she had gotten from the chair to the bed. She still wore her blue silk gown—now even more wrinkled than it had been. She had not braided her hair for sleeping as was her habit, and it tangled around her.

But at least her people had been fed fresh meat.

For that she had, despite her annoyance at Jared’s high-handedness, been grateful.

Jared’s back was turned toward her—how odd to be sharing space with a man!—and his hand tucked beneath his cheek, his glossy hair falling over his forehead. His hair was slightly damp as if he had bathed and the ends skimmed his wide, tanned shoulders. He looked … beautiful and her fingers itched to touch him, to trace a nail down his shoulder blade. Beautiful? What a miserable thought. No doubt as soon as he awoke he would be ordering her about.

For the rest of her life.

The ghastly thought spurred her into action.

Slowly she circled one of her ankles. He did not know his way around the castle, so surely if she was able to get out the chamber door she could work her way through the labyrinth of hallways to the back exit of the keep. Then she could make her way through the woods to the city, and make it to the brothel.

She must talk to Irma and come up with a plan. Together they would defeat him.

Jared’s chest rose and fell in a deep, even rhythm.

Heart pounding, she sat up carefully. A thin ray of moonlight slipped around the oiled-hide window covers and illuminated portions of the chamber. The curtains of the bed swung like heavy ghosts.

Silently, easily, she slid her legs around to the side of the bed. Jared did not move.

A shiver caressed her spine as her toes reached the cold floor. She bumped her elbow on the small table that sat near the bed and still he did not awaken.

She smiled. Mayhap this would be easier than she thought.

From the tales she had heard, most warriors slept lightly like herself. Only soft breathing came from the bed.

Fumbling in the dark, she found a candle and flint on the table, but did not strike it.

With quiet steps she tiptoed across the floor, holding her hands out in front of her to maneuver around any furniture or other items. Her hand touched her cape, which was folded on top of one of the trunks against the wall.

Aeliana let out a loud cry.

Blast! Gwyneth twisted toward the bed, straining her ears to hear Jared’s breathing. No snores sounded this time.

The hawk ruffled and cried out again.

“Shh. Shh,” she soothed.

“Aeliana? Gwyneth?”

Jared was awake!

She snatched her hand away from the cape and licked her dry lips. “Here, my lord.”

“What are you doing?”

Her heart pounded and she glided a step away from her cloak, the damning evidence that she was trying to escape.

“I head to the garderobe.”

Aeliana cried out again as if the hawk understood every word and was protesting her lie.

“'Tis okay, pretty bird,” he cooed softly. “All is well.”

Pretty bird? She’d like to stuff it with apples and roast it over the fire.

Clutching her hand to her chest, she willed her heart to calm.

“Why are you over there when the garderobe is that direction?”

She wished she could see his face, but she could only make out a thin outline of him on the bed.

“If you attempt escape I will lock you in our chamber.”

Think, girl, think,
she instructed herself, her mind racing for a plausible excuse. “I did not wish to disturb your sleep and lit no candle. I jumped when your hawk frightened me.”
Blasted bird.

Jared rose from the bed and she could see him slightly better. His outline was as magnificent as a Greek god. His head swiveled toward the door and back to her, evidently debating if she spoke truth or not.

A beam of moonlight illuminated his bare hip. The tight muscles of his buttocks flexed and released as he moved forward.