Knight of Seduction (17 page)

Anne did those things for him, because she was kind.  Because she cared about his welfare.  Because she enjoyed tending him. 

He thought she was developing an affection for him, and he was pleased by her burgeoning sentiment.

As for himself, he was suffering from his own heightened infatuation.  He noticed himself thinking of her at the oddest times, wondering where she was and if, by chance, she might be thinking of him, too.

Was he in love with her?

It was another question that nagged at him. 

Could he fall in love?  Was he capable of such an absurd emotion?  How would he know if it had happened? 

He’d never been in love with anyone.  What were the signs?  Who could explain it?

Not Henry, certainly.  In their rough and tumble existence, Henry had spent even less time around females than Hugh had—if that was possible.  Henry was no expert on either the feminine condition or on amour, and he definitely had no perspective that Hugh would deem to be valid.   

Still, Henry was Hugh’s only relative, his only connection to his childhood in Normandy.  They’d fostered together, had served as pages, then squires.  They’d been knighted within a year of each other.  They were more like brothers than any two siblings could ever be.

Hugh yearned to confide in Henry, yearned to discuss what was eating away at him. 

Did he love Anne?  And if he did, how could he consider—even for a moment—bringing Charmaine to Morven?

“How do you suppose,” he asked, “Anne would react if she knew about Charmaine?”

“You’re not going to tell her, are you?”  Henry gave another mock shudder.  “My balls are still shriveled from that night she caught us in the bathing room with those two whores.”

“No, I’m not going to tell her, but I don’t imagine she’d be too happy about the situation.  If Charmaine showed up at Morven, and I moved her into this house, Anne would kill me.”

“She’d just have to learn to deal with it,” Henry said like the bachelor he was.  “She’s your wife, not your mother.  Rich men have paramours.  You’re rich; you have a paramour.  Anne will have to accept it, or you can send her off to that convent she was so ready to join before you arrived.”

Hugh rolled his eyes.  “If you ever marry, I pity your bride.”

“Why?  Because I won’t tolerate a woman interfering with my life or my plans?”

“No, because you’re an absolute idiot who hasn’t the faintest inkling of what a woman might want from you.”

“Well, she’d get bloody little,” Henry snapped.  “I’m a man’s man.  I wouldn’t spend my days worrying over whether I was upsetting her or not.  Unlike
some
new husbands I could name, I won’t be neutered by a mere girl.”

Hugh sighed and studied the spacious front room, trying to envision Charmaine living in it, trying to envision himself leaving the castle, riding over to be with her.  She liked to be surrounded by fine things and interesting people.  She’d invite acquaintances from London, would have actors and singers and poets to entertain and amuse.

He would have a second residence, within rock throwing distance of his main one.  Could he proceed in that fashion?  Did he
want
to proceed?  Was it worth it to wound Anne in the worst possible way? 

He had few feelings to waste on others.  He’d expended them on battlefields in many foreign lands, as he’d killed and killed and killed.  He was numb to sentiment, numb to emotion.

But Anne…

When she smiled at him, it was worth all the gold in the world.

“What’s it to be, Hugh?” Henry pressed.  “Will this be Charmaine’s home or not?” 

“I’m considering,” Hugh said, but he was terribly conflicted.

“That’s no answer, Hugh,” Henry bluntly retorted.  “Will we enjoy Charmaine’s many charms here at Morven?  Will she come from London or not?  For I have to confess, I’ve been hoping—if you grow tired of bedding her—that you would occasionally let me—“

A loud noise stopped Henry from finishing his lewd comment. 

They whipped around to see Anne standing in the door, a hand over her mouth, looking as if she might be ill.  She’d stumbled and bumped into a flowerpot, sending it crashing.

How long had she been there?  How long had she been listening?  How much had she heard?
“Anne,” he murmured, his voice like a plea, like a prayer.

She whirled and ran.

“Damn me,” he muttered and started after her.

*          *          *          *

Anne strolled down the lane. 

Hugh had asked her not to walk by herself, and to ensure her compliance, he’d instructed his guards at the gate to deny her exit unless she had a full escort.

It was such a foolish order.  In her lifetime, there had never been any threat in the immediate vicinity of the castle.  And if there might have been any prior chance of peril, there was none now that Hugh was in residence.

She’d sneaked out the rear gate, the one for milkmaids and others who carried supplies down to the village.  Apparently, it had never occurred to Hugh that there was a back gate or that she would use it.

The weather was simply too balmy, and the atmosphere in the castle too oppressive, so she’d had to flee. 

Blodwin and Rosamunde had cornered her, demanding to know what information she possessed regarding Rosamunde’s betrothal.  Anne had shared the news Hugh had provided—that he was mulling a wealthy knight from a good family—but they didn’t believe her.

Weary of their harangue, she’d left before they could harass her further.

She skirted the village and continued on to her mother’s cottage.  The quiet spot always calmed her, and if she lingered in the overgrown gardens, smelling her mother’s flowers, her distress would ease.  She’d return to the castle, fortified with the energy necessary to swim against the tide of bitterness Blodwin and Rosamunde threw at her.

As she approached the house, two horses—that she recognized as those of Hugh and Henry—were tethered in the grass.  To her delight, the door was open, as it never was, and the two men inside.  She would be able to enter the place that had been barred to her for so long.

She crept up and peeked in.  Her mother’s furniture was still there, but the colorful tapestries that had lined the walls had been pulled down and used to cover it.  The room looked abandoned and forlorn, underscoring her mother’s death and all the sad years that had followed. 

The gloomy vista had her wishing she hadn’t seen it in its dilapidated condition.   She’d have been much happier with only her memories, and she hoped she could eventually block the dismal scene from her mind.

Hugh and Henry had their backs to her, and she almost announced her presence, when Hugh stunned her by saying, “Marriage makes everything so complicated.”

“It certainly does,” Henry concurred.  “A man takes vows and swears to be true, but there are so many beautiful women in the world.  How can a fellow settle for just one?”

They were discussing her!  They were discussing her marriage to Hugh!  They were talking about…adultery?

Her ears began to ring, her pulse to pound. 

While in many ways, she remained a stranger to Hugh, he knew the most important fact about her:  She would tolerate no infidelity. 

Better than anyone, she understood the hurt it caused.  Never to the man involved.  A man could do whatever he wanted and get away with it.

No, it was the wife who suffered.  The family.  The children.  Shame.  Anguish.  Feelings of being inferior, of not being good enough.

She’d told Hugh she couldn’t bear it if he was unfaithful.  He was aware of how it would wound her, and he’d insisted he wouldn’t.

Yet she was watching them laugh and jest about it.

To her dismay, it dawned on her that, on the night in the bathing room when she’d caught them with the two whores, Hugh hadn’t agreed to refrain from philandering.  He’d never begged her pardon or pledged to behave.  She’d accused him of being a liar, and he’d admitted it was his worst fault. 

She’d carried on with their marriage as if they’d never quarreled over the issue, as if he had promised to be faithful when he hadn’t promised, at all. 

Apparently, he
couldn’t
promise.  He had no intention of honoring his vows.

“How do you suppose,” Hugh asked Henry, “Anne would react if she knew about Charmaine?”

“You’re not going to tell her, are you?”

Charmaine…Charmaine…Charmaine…

The woman’s name hammered in Anne’s veins, wedging itself into her head so she would never forget it.

Her heart was breaking.  Couldn’t they hear it cracking in half?

Every moment since Hugh had arrived at Morven, she had arranged her life to accommodate his.  She’d given up her dream of entering the convent.  She was learning to manage the castle for him.  She’d been trained to her wifely duties in the bedchamber and performed them to the best of her ability. 

Through it all, she’d tried to remain cheerful, to remain optimistic and loyal.

And for what?  So that he could bring his paramour to live in her mother’s house?  So that he could humiliate her as her father had humiliated Blodwin?

A vision flashed—of herself many years in the future—bitter, hardened, beaten down by his betrayals and calculated disinterest.  Rosamunde might be Blodwin’s daughter, but Anne was the one who would end up just like her.

 Cynical.  Cruel.  Spiteful.  Vindictive. 

Anne would not become that woman.  Anne would not allow Hugh to turn her into that woman. 

“What’s it to be, Hugh?” Henry said.  “Will this be Charmaine’s home or not?” 

“I’m considering,” Hugh casually replied.

Anne actually thought she might swoon.  There wasn’t enough air in the sky, and she couldn’t breathe.  Blindly, she staggered away, in the process bumping into a flowerpot and toppling it over. 

Hugh and Henry whirled to see who was in the doorway, and Anne was delighted to note that Hugh’s cheeks flushed with chagrin.  Not over his dastardly plan, she was sure, but at the realization that he’d been caught as he was implementing it.

She’d convinced herself that happiness might be possible for her and Hugh.  She’d convinced herself that she could grow to love him, that he could grow to love her, too.  Stupidly, pathetically, she’d begun to believe that they could have the companionship and joy others never found in their marriages.

Oh, how wrong she had been!

She spun and ran.  Hugh shouted her name, but she kept on.

Why heed him?  What could he have to say that she would want to hear?

His paramour was coming to Morven.  She would live in Bedelia’s house, the house Ranulf had built for her, because he’d adored her beyond all reason.

The perfidy of it, the
gall
of it, was more than Anne could bear.

She reached the village and raced through.  Vaguely, she sensed people gaping and pointing.  In her mad dash, her veil had fallen off and her braid come undone, her red hair flying out behind her like a witch’s cloak.  She knew she must look a sight, but she didn’t care. 

A horse’s hooves pounded in her direction, and she supposed it was Hugh.  She ignored him, which was futile.  He was bigger and stronger and faster.  He could do what he liked to her, and she couldn’t prevent him, couldn’t protect herself.

He trotted up so that his horse was beside her.  The animal nudged her, and she stumbled, but retained her balance and increased her speed.

“Anne!  Stop!” Hugh commanded, but she didn’t listen.  “Anne!”

He leaned down to grab her, but missed and clasped only fabric.  Her sleeve ripped, exposing her shoulder so that it appeared they’d been fighting, as if he’d been beating her, and she felt as if he had.  As she had just discovered, a husband could pummel his wife into the ground without laying a finger on her.

He extended his hand, but she simply glared at it.

“Get up on the horse with me,” he quietly ordered.  “We’ll return to the castle.”

“No.”

He might have reached for her again, might have yanked her up onto the saddle against her will, but they were next to the blacksmith’s barn.  The blacksmith and several other men had come outside to watch what was happening.

They studied Anne’s torn sleeve, studied Hugh’s angry expression, but didn’t dare intervene.  How could they have assisted her anyway?  No one could help her.  No one could save her.

She was all alone in the world—as she had always been.

“If you won’t ride with me,” he murmured, “I’ll follow you to see you safely there.”

“Yes, my lord Hugh,” she furiously retorted.

She whipped away and continued on through the village, then up the road to the castle.  He hulked after her, his presence like a dark cloud of menace.  Along the way, they passed dozens of people, and they silently stepped aside to let her by.  They all frowned and stared, their concerned scowls cutting into her back.

She walked through the gates, across the bailey and into the keep.  Hugh dismounted and stomped in after her. 

The great hall was busy, the midday meal about to be served.  Servants were rushing around, readying the tables, while hungry onlookers loitered in anticipation of the moment when they could sit down and dig in.

Dorag noticed her and hurried over.  “Lady Anne,” she started, “I must ask you about…”

Her voice trailed off, and she scrutinized Anne’s disheveled clothes, her unbound hair, Hugh lurking behind her.

“What is it?” she inquired.  “What’s happened?”

“I have been to my mother’s house,” Anne coldly explained.  “Lord Hugh has decided to open it for his paramour.”

She hadn’t thought she’d spoken at an elevated volume, but there was a lull in the conversation so her words echoed off the ceiling.  Dorag gasped, as did many others.

“Her name is Charmaine,” Anne said.  “She’ll be disappointed with its current condition, so please send a group of maids down to prepare it for her arrival.  Have it washed and polished to a shine.  Let’s impress her with our hospitality.”

The crowd glowered at Hugh, their gazes shocked and condemning as Anne went to the stairs and climbed.   

“Anne,” Dorag called to her, “may I help you?  What do you need?”