Elaine Barbieri (16 page)

“He is jealous of her obvious affection for you.”

Dagan responded, “Rosamund nursed me back to health after an attack that nearly killed me—that is the truth. I allowed the people here to believe that I
was Saxon because it allowed me a unique opportunity to gauge the truth of the rumors that abounded about de Silva. Rosamund held my life in her hands while I recuperated, and she holds it there still.”

DuPree frowned. “You told her who you are and why you are here, then?”

“She knows I am Norman and sent here by William, but I do not know if either of us is certain of the lengths to which de Silva will go to protect himself if he finds me out before I am ready.”

DuPree’s eyebrows rose at Dagan’s reply. “I suppose we shall have to wait for your final assessment, then.” Extending his hand, DuPree said, “Godspeed in that regard, Dagan. I will return to William with my report, and I will tell him to await yours.”

Dagan clasped the old man’s hand. With a final smile of farewell, he slipped back into the shadows.

De Silva watched as DuPree’s entourage slipped from sight on the narrow trail. He grunted and glanced at the morning sky impatiently as the sun made its gradual ascent. It had been a torment untold to wait while DuPree’s cavalcade slowly assembled in the shadows of early morning and made ready to depart. Through the long night past, he had planned his next moves so carefully that he had not allowed himself more than a few hours’ sleep despite his exhaustion. He was anxious to put them into effect, although he was aware of the importance of presenting a smiling exterior to DuPree before his departure.

Waiting only minutes longer to make sure DuPree’s cavalcade was gone, de Silva turned abruptly toward
Champlain, who stood beside him. He asked abruptly, “Where is Martin? His place is at your side.”

“Methinks Martin’s thoughts are presently elsewhere.” Champlain shrugged with obvious annoyance. “On a woman. But he will be easy enough to call to task if it becomes necessary.”

De Silva gritted his teeth. “Not even a temporary preoccupation is excusable at this time.”

“Do not concern yourself. I will handle the situation without him.” Champlain’s response was cold.

Still holding his gaze intently, de Silva whispered heatedly, “I will depend on that, but for now…we begin.”

Dagan glanced up at the hot morning sun and then paused to wipe the perspiration from his brow. It was unusually warm and he had slept poorly the previous night; yet had arisen before dawn so he might contact Emile before he left. Hadley had come back from the cathedral before he had returned to the hut the previous evening, forestalling any further conversation between Rosamund and Dagan. Through the night, Rosamund had lain on her mattress only inches away, but she had not spoken a word to him. He knew Hadley had sensed the discomfort between them, but he was also sure that Rosamund had not revealed his true identity to the old man. He was not certain how long her silence would last but had decided that he owed it to her to allow her to make the first move.

Owed it to her.

Dagan was inwardly amused at the phrase he had chosen. Yea, he owed Rosamund his life. That was
ironic; without conscious volition, he had decided that he wanted to spend the life that her care had granted him with her…always.

If only she still felt the same as he.

Dagan’s expression grew pained. The truth was that he could not seem to get enough of her: the taste of her lips, her sweet scent. The touch of her flesh, warm against his, sent tremors of ecstasy coursing mindlessly through him. Nothing, not even her present loathing for the man he had confessed to being, had altered his love for her. He had seen the gleam in de Silva’s eyes when he looked at Rosamund and knew now, just as he had sensed from that first moment, that de Silva and he would be at odds. Strangely enough, he had started out wanting to protect Rosamund from de Silva, a man who was one of William’s honored knights like him. Yet in his wildest dreams, he had never expected that Rosamund would come to despise them both.

Dagan pushed back the heavy dark hair that had fallen onto his forehead in the heat of the day. He needed time to convince Rosamund that she had made a mistake in maintaining communication with the remaining few men in the north who plotted against William. He needed to explain that any action they might take was doomed to failure because a man such as William would never accept defeat. He needed to make her understand that William was a good man who would right what ever inequity existed as a result of de Silva’s governing—yet in order to find out to what extent that inequity prevailed, he needed to maintain his disguise as a common man a little longer. But most of all, he needed to make Rosamund believe in his love,
and know that although the past was irrevocably gone as Saxons had known it, together they could make the future bright.

Dagan allowed his gaze to rest on Rosamund’s slender figure where she stood beside Hadley in her male attire. Even so dressed, she was beautiful. Her platinum, awkwardly cut hair gleamed in the sunlight, the graceful line of her profile as she studied the drawings in Hadley’s hands was matchless, and the heavily lashed, clear blue of her eyes as she glanced up briefly was more brilliant than the morning sky.

So entranced was he at that moment that he did not see a short fellow move cautiously out of the bushes toward him. He turned at a touch on his arm and accepted the note the man put into his hand with a furtive glance before slipping back out of sight as silently as he had come.

The note was addressed to Sir Dagan Waterford. Dagan frowned as he read:

Dagan looked up to see that the messenger had indeed not awaited his reply. So his disguise was no longer a secret from de Silva, despite Rosamund’s silence; yet considering the tone of de Silva’s note and the discretion involved, he wondered if the wily fellow was truly to be trusted.

Dagan pondered the situation silently. De Silva awaited him in his quarters. Uncertain how he had been discovered, Dagan realized that de Silva’s overture would afford him the opportunity to talk to the baron face-to-face, as his equal in the brotherhood of knighthood.

Making a quick decision, Dagan laid down the shovel he had been handed upon arriving at the construction site. There was only one way to discover what de Silva had in mind. The new foundation for the cathedral that Hadley had deemed necessary would have to wait a little longer while he settled the situation with the baron once and for all.

“You made a mistake in sending Dagan that note, Guilbert. He is now aware that he no longer deceives you. He will be suspicious of your motives.”

Standing beside Champlain in the silence of his quarters, de Silva replied, “Fool that you are, Champlain, you do not recognize the brilliance of my plan. Dagan will be intrigued. He will wonder how I became aware of the sham he practiced. He will meet with me
because he is obviously not yet ready to declare himself, and he wonders what I am planning.”

“You take a chance, Guilbert. You assume that the fellow trusts you.”

“Since I have proved myself one of William’s loyal supporters, there is no reason he should not.”

“What is he doing here, then? Surely William sent him because he has heard rumors regarding your allegiance. Perhaps he knows of your communications with Cnut and of your intentions to join the invasion.”

“That is foolishness! If he did, William would already have imprisoned me.”

“Perhaps he is suspicious, then.”

“Perhaps…perhaps…” His patience short, de Silva snapped, “I do not deal with possibilities. I choose to act rather than assume.”

Champlain took a step toward him and said darkly, “This all has to do with that fellow Ross, hasn’t it?”

“That
fellow
?” De Silva’s laughter was harsh. “You were deceived by her pretense also, then.”

“
Her
pretense?”

“Her name is Rosamund, not Ross. She is beautiful, desirable, and intelligent. Strangely, I admit to admiring her for her craftiness in deceiving me, and find myself more determined than ever to see that she occupies my bed for as long as my desire for her remains.”

“But how can you be sure that you will win the consent you have deemed so necessary in her case?”

“I will obtain her consent in my own way, and she will bow to me as she bowed to no other. Yet a better question would be, how I could have been fooled by her charade as long as I was?” De Silva’s lips tightened at
that admission. He continued tightly, “But that is over and done now. Some covert investigation this morning revealed two very important facts—Rosamund’s true name, and the fact that she is a virgin.”

“A virgin?” Champlain raised his heavy brows. “Even if that were once true, I venture to say it is no longer, considering her guard’s proprietary manner.”

His face flushing, de Silva ordered, “Cease your useless prattling and take your place as ordered! Dagan Waterford—or what ever his true name is—will arrive here soon because William’s mission demands it.”

“You are wrong, Guilbert.”

His jaw tightening, de Silva replied, “We shall see then, shall we not?”

A step at the door snapped the attention of both men in its direction before a small servant entered timorously to announce, “A messenger, my lord. He has come a long way. He says he brings news of great import from London.”

“I have no interest—”

Responding in his stead, Champlain ordered, “Send the man in.”

A trail-weary messenger approached de Silva to hand him a note bearing the royal seal. He opened it cautiously when he saw it came from William and was addressed to Baron Guilbert Bernard de Silva, Loyal Knight in William’s service.

Reading over de Silva’s shoulder, Champlain whispered, “Cnut did not inform you when he landed his fleet?”

“The fool obviously did not, though I suppose I will never know why.” De Silva raised his chin. “But I made the necessary provisions in the event the scheme I brokered with him failed.”

Choosing that moment to turn back to the messenger, de Silva instructed in a voice that rang in the silence of the room. “Go to the stable and see to your horse while the kitchen help prepares a repast for you. You will then return to London with a message from me to be delivered directly to William. Listen closely to me, because I want you to speak my reply to him personally and with deep conviction. Say to him simply, ‘
I am your loyal servant
.’”

Waiting only until the weary fellow had left, Champlain turned to de Silva and said, “So Cnut is not the man you had supposed him to be, and your elaborate plans goes awry.”

“My plans…” De Silva laughed unexpectedly. “I care not what news the messenger brought. All my hopes did not rest on that foreigner to our shores.
William will receive my message supporting my placement here. He will receive DuPree’s report and learn that the construction of the cathedral is underway, and he will begin doubting the rumors he heard, especially when there is no one to confirm them.”

“No one to confirm them? By that you mean—”

“I mean, I will effectively eliminate two birds with one stone.”

De Silva looked up at the sound of a second step on the staircase. He smiled when Dagan’s broad form filled the doorway.

De Silva was smiling.

Dagan stood in the doorway of de Silva’s quarters. He glanced around to see that the suite was vacant except for Franchot Champlain, de Silva’s man. True to his word, de Silva had dismissed all other knights and servants.

Hesitant, Dagan remained in the doorway until de Silva urged, “Enter, please. I ordered my servants to provide a repast before they left.”

Still uncertain, Dagan glanced around himself. He didn’t like this. De Silva’s expression was almost victorious, which did not bode well. His discomfort growing, Dagan replied, “I did not come here to eat your food. Instead, I would have some plain talk between us, as should be the course for two who have shared the rigors of victory in William’s service.”

“That is also my intention.” De Silva offered hospitably, “Enter, please. It is time to end all hard feelings between us, and we can do that in only one way.”

“Which way is that?”

A heavy blow from behind was de Silva’s unexpected response to Dagan’s question. Lurching forward, Dagan fell heavily to the floor. The last words he heard before unconsciousness took him was de Silva’s fading reply, “Your question has been answered.”

The day had turned humid and the sun was unusually hot as the noon hour approached. Aware that the workers would soon break for their meager midday meal, Rosamund glanced around her. She had been intensely aware of Dagan’s presence all morning—so aware that when she turned to find him no longer visible to her eye, she became strangely unnerved.

Rosamund muttered a few words to Hadley and started toward the spot where she had last seen Dagan. Unable to find him there, she halted, uncertain whether he had taken the opportunity to declare himself to de Silva. She was well aware that should he betray her identity, de Silva would doubtless kill her, and with her, any remaining Saxon hopes.