Knight's Caress (2 page)

Amberlie knew that Guy was obsessed with capturing the Saxon and ending his renegade activities. As long as Tedric roamed free, Woodrose Keep wasn’t truly safe. Guy had already begun turning the simple stone keep into a more fortified castle with their knights’ help.

“Safeguarding our prisoner?” he asked with a leer, standing extremely close to her, though there was enough room in the hallway to keep a distance. She smelled a potent wine on his breath.

“I was making certain she is safe.”

“Thanks to you she is, my dear Amberlie. Your stepping in to soundly trounce Sir Baudelaire with a candlestick was quite brave. ‘Twas very naughty of the young man to try to take liberties with a lack-witted girl. Even now, he pays for his crime by being forced to clean the stables of horse droppings—and since the stalls are covered with the smelly mess, he shall be too preoccupied to bother our little Saxon.”

“Oui.
That is all well and good, but would it have been
less
naughty for a man to take liberties with a girl who isn’t lack-witted,
mon oncle?”
Amberlie demanded, a fire growing within the depths of her dark eyes.

Guy chuckled and took her hand in his. His skin felt warm and moist and Amberlie suppressed a shiver. She disliked the way Guy looked at her most of the time, almost as if she were a morsel to be served up at a feast. He’d always shown her lusty looks, even when Henri was alive. Since her widowhood, he’d grown bolder. “You’re most charming when angered,
cherie,
but leave the discipline of the knights to me,
s’il vous plait.”

He fastened his gaze upon her lips, letting it linger there a second too long before he heard Julianne shrieking for him below stairs. Grudgingly, he moved away from Amberlie, leaving to see what his sister wanted, for no one kept Julianne de Fontaine waiting.

Amberlie felt unbearably warm suddenly, almost suffocating in her need to get away from Julianne’s condemning words, from Guy’s lecherous looks. She needed to breathe free, and headed for the one place where she might be alone and collect her thoughts. Since she knew Julianne would object, she decided not to tell her. Instead she’d sneak stealthily away.

 
“There she is, my lord. I told you ‘twas her, and now I’m certain.” A shaggy dark-haired young man nudged his tall companion and pointed to where the object of his attention stood in a crystal-clear pond, innocently washing her stockings. His low whisper had an immediate effect on the other man, whose shoulder-length blond hair was ruffled by a slight breeze. He nodded, and both men dropped to their knees and onto their bellies. The grass stained their coarsely woven leggings and the short cloaks over the tunics each wore, but neither minded. For some time they watched the young woman, hidden from view as they were by undergrowth and bushes that grew wild along the shoreline.

“Are you certain she is the one we seek, Wulfgar?” The blond man spoke quietly, a worried frown deepening the furrows of his brows. “I see no soldiers, no knights offering protection. Mayhaps ‘tis a serving wench.”

Wulfgar shook his head. “Nay, my lord, ‘tis the Lady Amberlie. I sneaked near the keep one day and old Magda pointed her out to me. Look at the black chemise she wears for proof that she is de Fontaine’s widow and is still in mourning.”

Tedric of Woodrose Keep looked. He couldn’t help himself. He’d been unable to tear his gaze from the beautiful woman in the pond since he’d first laid eyes upon her minutes ago, or was it hours? Time seemed to stand still as he watched the voluptuous beauty bathing in the pond. Despite the ugly, black chemise she wore, Lady Amberlie de Fontaine was incredibly beautiful. He hadn’t realized a Norman like her would be so captivatingly lovely.

Long hair, the color of black sable, spilled to her small waist in a riot of soft curls. The afternoon sunshine coated her skin in a peach hue, and somehow, though he was too far away to see, he guessed her eyes were a dusky shade of brown. She was surely possessed of the sort of perfect figure that could drive a man mad with lust. Even now, as she bent to rinse out the stockings, her full breasts strained against the wet chemise, her pouting nipples seeming to beckon for his touch. Tedric imagined how soft her breasts would feel clasped in the palms of his hands, how the nipples would swell against his flesh like dewy rosebuds…

“My lord, did you hear me?”

Tedric started, unwillingly drawn from his reverie by Wulfgar, who stared at him with a knowing expression on his face. Tedric flushed, aware that the man had read his thoughts. “Nay, what did you say?” he snapped disagreeably.

“I asked you if we … take her now,” Wulfgar whispered with some hesitation at his lord’s gruff reply. “Our horses are in the glade. Kidnapping her will be a simple feat, as long as the Normans don’t realize she’s gone. But we don’t know for how much longer that will be. If you hope for Edytha’s return, then we must act in haste.”

Edytha. Aye, Edytha was the reason he was here, the reason he’d prowled the area of the keep since his poor sister’s kidnapping by the Normans some two weeks past. Hope filled him that somehow his sister would be freed—and now here was the solution to his problem, thrust into his lap as if by a kind fate. He mustn’t allow anything or anyone to distract him. Edytha’s return was of the utmost importance, not a Norman wench, no matter how beautiful. Stealing another glance at the lovely Amberlie de Fontaine, Tedric hardened his heart.

His eyes deepened to a cold shade of blue, and he faced Wulfgar with an uncompromising stare. The scar on his left cheek, a reminder of his last skirmish with the Norman knight Guy de Bayonne, looked extremely white. “Aye, Wulfgar, ‘tis time we strike at these Norman dogs.”

Silently, the two men rose to their feet and headed for the horses.

Lady Amberlie de Fontaine knew she shouldn’t have come to the pond alone. She now wished she’d heeded her mother-in-law’s earlier warning about leaving Woodrose Keep unescorted. Times were uncertain and perilous —especially now that Tedric the Saxon might be prowling the area.

Amberlie hadn’t intended to be long absent from Woodrose Keep. She’d  grown tired of spending all of her time indoors, cloistered like a nun from the glorious autumnal hues of gold and orange that blazed in the treetops like small sunbursts. She’d been eager to remove the itchy black mourning garb and allow warm sunshine to clothe her flesh.

At first, she’d reveled in the feel of the pond’s cleansing water as the droplets slithered like satin across her skin. It had been so long since she’d committed an openly defiant act, except for helping Edytha, that sneaking away had seemed the greatest of sins, one she’d confess to Father Ambrose at eventide. If her mother-in-law discovered she’d disappeared, she would suffer at her hands as well. But her need to be alone, and away from Guy’s lecherous smiles, had won out over her reluctance to challenge Julianne de Fontaine’s domineering ways.

More than anything Amberlie needed to pretend that she was still in her native Normandy, that she’d not yet sailed across the Channel to join Henri in England—home to barbarians and their pagan customs, a land filled with murderous renegades—and that she’d not yet found herself newly widowed.

But as she stood in the shallow pond, Amberlie swallowed hard, suddenly sorry that she’d willfully stolen away from the keep and her Norman knights’ protection. A cool breeze chilled her black-chemise-clad frame, her earlier pleasure waning as she noticed that the sun had already sunk lower in the western sky and no longer warmed her. Goose flesh rose warningly on her body, for suddenly she sensed she wasn’t alone.

She ceased rinsing her woolen stockings. Her dark brown eyes covertly surveyed the densely forested shoreline. Lengthening shadows blended into the dapples of sunshine, somewhat obscuring her view of a solitary fawn, contentedly munching on a bit of shrub.

Listening for a few moments, she heard the guttural cadence of a frog nearby and the melodious song of a meadowlark coming from inside the forest. Instinctively she glanced to her right and left, and twisted around, but no one peered at her from any direction. Still, an uneasiness nagged at her and she knew it was time to return to the keep. Clutching her stockings against the bodice of her wet chemise, she hastily waded to the edge of the pond, to the spot where she’d earlier placed her clothes.

Quickly donning her black bliaut, she sat upon the grass to put on her wet stockings and shoes. In a tight little voice she chided herself in French.
“Mon Dieu,
there’s nothing to fear out here, nothing at all. Our knights are nearby for protection. All I must do is scream and surely someone will hear me.” But her own reassuring words didn’t dispel her fear for she knew that, at this time of day, most of the men would be supping inside the great hall.

She silently blamed Julianne for upsetting her with loose, bitter talk about Saxon barbarians. Guy referred to them as renegades, traitors against the king, men who by their very defiance of Norman law begged to be hung. However, none had been spotted for months, none at all—not even Tedric the Barbarian, an odd occurrence in itself since Edytha was Tedric’s sister.

Guy had ordered Woodrose Keep to be constantly guarded. The knights had been restless for battle, expecting Tedric and his renegade force to besiege the keep and rescue the girl. But days and nights had passed without incident. And as the soldiers had finally grown lax in their watch, Amberlie had sneaked away, eager for a bit of freedom. If only Guy and the knights would discover Tedric’s hiding place, then she wouldn’t have to be afraid to leave her home to bathe in the pond. Another reason to hate the loathsome Tedric.

During the last six months, he’d roamed the area with his renegade army and infuriated Guy, who’d controlled the keep’s defenses even when Henri was alive. Guy was obsessed with Tedric’s capture, an event to which even Amberlie eagerly looked forward. She longed to see Tedric of Woodrose, the former owner of the keep which now belonged to her, brought to her in chains like the murdering swine he was. She felt certain that Guy and Julianne would devise some sort of torture for him, something so hideous that he’d beg to die. But instead he’d die slowly as they watched—unlike the way Henri had died. But before he closed his eyes in death, Amberlie would make certain that he knew she was the widow of Henri de Fontaine, one of King William’s noblest knights, the man he’d murdered in a failed attempt to regain the keep. Tedric would know how much she hated him and what he’d taken from her when he killed her husband.

The sky darkened with the first purple glaze of evening. Amberlie had finished dressing and pulled her mantle about her shoulders. Pushing her dark hair away from her face, she turned in the direction of the keep, her thoughts centered on the unpleasant confrontation with Julianne which she feared would follow upon her return home.

Treading down the forest path which led to the keep, Amberlie startled when suddenly she heard a horse snort, and glancing up, she found her way blocked by the largest black gelding she’d ever laid eyes upon. And upon the horse’s back sat a man with shaggy blond locks that hung in disarray to his broad and powerfully built shoulders.

He appeared to be made of stone as he stared at her from his perch above her. Even in the dim twilight she discerned his eyes were hard like twin blue agates. She’d never seen this man before now, but instinctively she knew him. The servants told tales of Tedric the Barbarian, the golden Saxon who refused to surrender. He was known to be fierce and strong, a titan of a man who wasn’t easily cowed by Norman authority—as Guy could clearly attest.

The scar on his left cheek stood out upon his bronzed complexion like a pale crescent and caused him to appear fearsome. A cold sweat broke out upon her forehead for all she’d heard was true. And now here he was, no doubt looking for a way to rescue his sister.

Her gaze traced the distance from the path to the keep, which lay beyond the forest. Not a great distance, but right now it seemed as if safety were an eternity away.

Be brave, she told herself, and prayed he didn’t sense her fear. Her courage rose a bit when she realized that he probably didn’t know who she was. Perhaps she could convince him she was a serving woman and meant him no harm. She looked at him again with a thumping heart, and was surprised when he inclined his head in a mock bow. He haltingly spoke to her in her native language. “Lady Amberlie, I’m pleased to finally meet you.”

Her courage failed her, as she’d not expected him to know her identity. Maybe he was only guessing, she decided, and licked her lips. If only he’d move his damned horse out of her path so she could run to the keep! She needed time to persuade him that he was wrong.

“You are mistaken,
monsieur
. I am not the Lady Amberlie.”

“No?” He didn’t seem to believe her.

“Only a serving woman at the keep,
monsieur.”
Her breath came in tiny gasps her fear was so great.

“Ah, I see. You’re a washwoman then?” His eyes glinted with devilish amusement.

For the moment Amberlie forgot her fear in her outrage. How dare this barbarian confuse her with one of the washwomen, who always smelled of lye and would spread their legs for any of the serfs and knights! “I am not a washwoman,” was her cold and haughty reply.

“If you’re not a washwoman, then what is your position at the keep?”

Amberlie thought quickly. “I serve in the great hall.”

“Ah, a most highly sought-after post, but do you know what,
demoiselle?”
The barbarian leaned forward, his blue gaze running over her and causing fear to sweep anew through her like a sudden squall. “Never have I known a serving wench to speak such pretty, refined French or to wear linen of such rare quality. I think you’re Lady Amberlie de Fontaine.”

“No, no, I am not she.” Any further words died in her throat as she quickly understood that he didn’t believe her and had known all along who she was. After his dark and dangerous assessment of her, she knew she must escape. She backed away and made a mental inventory of the landscape. To her left was the forest and to her right were brambles, but if she could make it through them, the horse would be unable to follow. Somehow she would stumble onto the path again and would rush to the keep. “I’m —not—she,” she squeaked out again.

The golden giant smirked and spoke in his own savage tongue, the whole time moving the horse toward her. “You are Lady Amberlie, and you know who I am too, I think.”

Hot anger surged through her for him to appear so sure, so arrogant. This was the man who’d murdered Henri and caused her such grief. Hate contorted her face. “I know who you are, Tedric the Barbarian! Murderer! Savage!” she screamed up at him, and was shocked when he laughed at her. Her hatred turned to numbing fear when he made a swiping gesture and succeeded in grabbing her around the waist. “No, let me go! Let me go!” She kicked out and hit the horse instead, startling the animal. Tedric retained masterful control of the beast and of Amberlie.

“Wulfgar!” Tedric shouted. His cohort appeared from the shadowy woods, and was instantly beside the struggling Amberlie. “Quiet her, man!”

“Aye, my lord.” Wulfgar pulled a rag from his waistband and thrust it into Amberlie’s mouth. Swiftly, he tied her hands behind her back with a rope, suffering a painful kick to his shin from Amberlie before Tedric hauled her onto the horse to place her in front of him. Wulfgar groaned and grabbed his leg. “‘Tis an ornery witch you’ve got, my lord.”

“Lace her ankles too,” Tedric ordered. “Be quick about it. Her screaming may have alerted the soldiers.”

“Aye, my lord.” Wulfgar quickly tied Amberlie’s ankles together, but, not without some difficulty. A number of times he was forced to duck or be brained by her feet. When he’d finished, Wulfgar climbed onto his own horse, a small brown mare.

By the time they’d traveled around the pond, night had fallen. Amberlie could see nothing in the gloomy darkness as the horse carried them deeper and deeper into the dense forest. She was aware only of the man who sat behind her and whose right arm encircled her waist like an iron tether. His breath fanned her cheek, and his chest felt like a stone wall behind her. The rag in her mouth made her feel like retching, but he didn’t seem to care.

The stories about Tedric were true, she decided, and was unable to stop the shiver of terror which swept through her. He was a barbarian, a savage man who no doubt would beat and torture her—or make her submit to him in ways she cared not to dwell upon. Her body trembled from fear and an anguish unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

He forced her to make eye contact with him when he touched her chin and turned her face to his.

“I’m sorry for the rag, my lady, and that I must keep you bound. But you will obey me. Our time together will pass much more pleasantly if you do everything I demand of you. Do you understand?”

Amberlie glared at him, but her fear dissipated somewhat with his touch. The man had the audacity to believe she’d behave herself when she was a prisoner. But he left her no choice in the matter, having made the decision for her when he’d kidnapped her. Her life depended upon him, and dependence was something she related to very well. All of her life she’d depended upon someone else, first her parents and then later Henri and his family. She’d been raised to be dependent, though she longed to be free and do whatever she liked. But defying the barbarian Saxon at such a time as this would be very unwise. And most certainly, she wasn’t stupid.

She made some sort of sound of acquiescence behind her gag, and was only too relieved when he stared away from her, for there was something in his heated gaze which unnerved her more than her fear.

He chuckled mirthlessly. “I think you understand only too well, my lady.”