Lady At Arms (25 page)

All was quiet.

Too quiet? He crept to the door of the chamber he had been informed was occupied by the lady in residence. Ear to the door, he listened. Silence.

He eased the door inward, revealing a room softly lit by the glow of a dying fire, and fixed his gaze upon the bed where the still figure of his prey lay. Quietly, he closed the door, returned his dagger to its sheath, and moved forward.

On a pallet at the foot of the bed slept the lady’s maid. He subdued her first, shoving a wad of cloth in her mouth as she stared up at him out of eyes wide with terror, then trussing her hand and foot. As she grunted and wriggled, he crept around the bed.

Suddenly, the lady beneath the coverlet sat up, snapped her chin around, and drew a breath to scream.

He launched himself across the bed and thrust her back upon the mattress. As if the breath had been knocked from her, she wheezed, giving him just enough time to fit a hand over her mouth and stop the sound that would have called others to her aid.

As she struggled beneath him where he straddled her, he listened. And heard the alarm being raised. If all had gone as planned, his men were in position and the reinforcements were riding to cross the lowered drawbridge. Soon the castle would be under his control—with or without this woman.

In the next instant, her hooked fingers clawed at his face and neck. Since he did not yet dare release her mouth, he captured hold of one hand and suffered the other, the scratches that marked his flesh nothing compared to the other injuries he had sustained throughout his life. But what did compare was the sharp thrust of her knee into his bad leg.

He clamped his mouth closed on the shout of pain that strained to be loosed from his chest and, though he’d had no intention of getting any nearer the woman, stretched his damp length out upon her to prevent her from landing another near debilitating blow.

When she finally stilled, he drew his head back and looked closer upon her dimly lit face.

Nostrils flaring with the breath she dragged in through them, the lady stared at him, dark eyes glittering with outrage. And fear.

For her age, Baron Wardieu’s mother was still a lovely woman, her skin relatively smooth and clear, the figure beneath him slender—not skeletal but softly rounded. Her long hair was nearly as light as her son’s, but interspersed with darker strands of gray. There the resemblance to the miscreant ended, for her features were delicate and refined, and she was nowhere the height or breadth of the one she had birthed.

It was difficult to believe this petite woman could have borne such a son. But her hair was testament to that unfortunate distinction.

“If you behave, you need not fear me, Lady Zara,” he reassured her, though he did not know why he bothered. “I come only to recover that which is mine. And to repay your son a very old debt.”

Her eyes widened in silent question, but he would waste no time enlightening her further.

“Now…” He released her wrist, retrieved his dagger, and touched its tip to her throat. “No screaming, hmm?”

Her eyes lowered to the weapon, and he slowly lifted his hand from her mouth.

When she did not utter a sound, he moved off her, gripped her arm, and pulled her from the bed. Keeping her tight to his side, he led her across the chamber and out into the corridor.

The other members of the household who had spilled from their rooms could only stare in horror as the great, blackened man made for the stairs with their lady.

In the main hall that had been lit by torches, the invader halted and waited for all eyes to fall upon him. Beyond, through doors thrown wide open, came the sound of thundering hooves as his men descended upon the inner bailey. There would be resistance, but his men would soon put everything in order. Fortunately, the threat to Lady Zara would mean far less bloodshed.

Once his presence was noted by all, a great hush fell over the people and they looked from him to their lady and the dagger at her throat.

“Send word to your garrison leader that I hold Lady Zara,” he shouted. “If he agrees to an unconditional surrender, no harm will befall her.”

“My son will slay you for this injury,” the lady spat.

“Not if I slay him first,” he returned.

As if having forgotten the blade at her throat, she turned sharply, drew back a hand, and struck him across the face.

He was as startled by the slap as he was by the lack of blood upon her neck. Though his reflexes were honed and he had not hesitated to adjust the position of his blade, she should not have escaped unscathed.

And as if she did not know how close she had come to a lethal injury, she began to tug and jerk to free herself. “Unhand me, villain!”

He dragged her closer. “You mistake me, Lady. I am no villain. I am Baron Balmaine of Penforke.”

She dropped her head back, slid her narrowed gaze over his face, and sneered. “I know who you are, though I would not deign to bestow so esteemed a title upon one such as you.”

Gilbert laughed—or something like it. “Then you
were
forewarned. I thought it possible, but considering how easy it was to breach your walls…” He shrugged. “I do not think much of the defenses of this holding.”

“You are vile! Had you come a day earlier, ‘twould be a far different ending to your attack.”

“Then it was foolish of you to let your guard down so quickly.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Ah, but one would not expect a seasoned warrior to dally so long. You are seasoned, are you not? Or did you obtain that limp chasing about your mother’s skirts?”

She could have no way of knowing how close to the edge she pushed him—so close he had to reach deep to find the strength necessary to pull back from the precipice.

Ranulf laid a palm on the stonework framing the window and looked out at the starry night. It was hours since Lizanne had collapsed in the hall, but still she slept.

He was angry with himself for having let the king persuade him to leave her side. He had known better. She had been in no state to fend for herself among those people.

He had been disturbed—and jealous—when he had seen her conversing with Charwyck, their bodies so close as to nearly touch. The other man’s swift retreat and Lizanne’s subsequent faint raised questions that, as yet, remained unanswered.

His men had been unable to locate Charwyck, but word had finally come that the man had left the palace forthwith, taking his small retinue with him. Though Ranulf had longed to go after him, he had chosen instead to stay with Lizanne.

He looked over his shoulder to the bed. Candlelight flickered over a face made even more pale by the tumble of black hair spread around her. Listening intently, he heard her slow, even breathing.

Queen Eleanor’s personal physician had shrugged off Ranulf’s concerns. He had said that when she was ready to awaken, she would, and it was merely a matter of exhaustion, excitement, and a disregard for proper nourishment.

That last had bothered Ranulf. Although he’d had a tray sent to her the night before, the chambermaid had reported to the physician that nothing had been touched. Knowing the state Lizanne had been in when he had left her yestereve, Ranulf upbraided himself for not making certain she ate—especially after the way she had picked at her midday meal.

Still, he knew there was more to it than the physician’s diagnosis, that the exchange he had witnessed between her and Charwyck had played a part.

He rubbed a hand over his face, crossed to the bed, and lowered into the chair he had earlier dragged beside it. Leaning forward, he brushed the hair from Lizanne’s face.

Her lids flickered, and she made a sound low in her throat.

He bent nearer, ran his knuckles over her jaw, and brushed his thumb across her softly parted lips.

Her lashes lifted, revealing the sparkling slits of her eyes. “Ran…” She sighed, then reached up and touched his face.

As relief flooded him, he turned his mouth into her palm and kissed her cool skin. “How do you feel?”
 

“Tired,” she breathed, her lids beginning to lower. “Why am I so…?” Her eyes opened wide. “I fainted.”

He lifted her hand in his, rubbed a thumb across her pulse. “You did.”

Emotions shifted across her face, while beneath his thumb, he felt her blood course faster. Doubtless, she remembered her meeting with Charwyck. “Tell me, Lizanne.”

She startled as if unexpectedly returning from some other place. “Forgive me for embarrassing you.”
 

 
“Forgive me for not being there to keep that knave from your side.”

Still her pulse raced.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I…am not sure.”

She lied. Was this to be yet another battle? “Are you not?” Ranulf said, struggling to keep irritation from his tone.

“I suppose I should have eaten more,” she lamely confessed, “and I did not sleep well yestereve.”

Inwardly, he sighed.

“And then the wedding.” Her brow furrowed. “For which I am also terribly sorry.”

Though it was Charwyck he wished to discuss, he momentarily set the man aside and asked, “You are?” only to recall she had preferred entering a convent over marriage to either of those presented to her.

“Aye,” she said and struggled to rise.

He assisted her, placing pillows behind her back and lifting her to sitting. As she leaned back, the covers down around her waist revealed how thin her shift was.

Determinedly, Ranulf raised his gaze to hers.

“I should not have forced the marriage upon you,” she continued, “and I would not have had there been another way. You understand, do you not?”

He did not, but he intended to. “There was another way, Lizanne. The king gave you a choice—Charwyck or me.”

She shook her head. “That was no choice. Never would I marry Philip, even if there had not been you. Methinks I would have died first.”

“Why?”

She opened her mouth, closed it, drew her arms nearer her sides.

Ranulf leaned close. “I am your husband now. You must share these things with me. You must trust me.”

She was silent a long moment, but just when he was certain she would say no more, she nodded. “If there was anyone I hated as much as you, Ranulf, it was Philip. I grew up loving him. I idolized him, followed him everywhere. In my eyes, he was perfect and so handsome.” She dropped her head back and stared at the canopy.

Ranulf waited, his insides twisting at the emotion in her voice and the jealousy that surged through him over her admission of love for another man.

“He was never very kind to me, though. I was tall for my age—awkward—and cursed with this black horse’s tail for hair. Doubtless, he found me less than appealing.” She sighed. “Beneath my nose, and that of my father’s, he trysted with the women servants of our castle. Though it hurt to see him behave as he did, I told myself it did not matter since, in the end, he would belong to me. As arranged by our parents, one day I would become his wife and bear him children.”

She returned her gaze to Ranulf. “For two years, I had not seen him but had thought of him every day. I was on my way to the wedding, escorted by Gilbert and our father’s men when our camp was attacked.” She exhaled deeply, inhaled deeply. “Blood was everywhere, and though I did not wish to believe it, I feared Gilbert was dead.”

“But he lived.”

“Aye. He is strong-willed, even more than I.” A faint smile touched her mouth, then was gone. “When Philip refused to wed me, it killed my father.”

“Still you think ’twas I who maimed your brother and tried to take your virtue?” Ranulf asked, his voice harsh as he did not intend it to be.

She averted her gaze, pulled her hands from his, and covered her face. “I do not know anymore,” she choked. “I was certain ’twas you, but now…”

Hope surged through Ranulf.

She let her hands fall to her lap. “Trust is not easy for me. I have lived too long with these memories to so quickly discard them, though I want to. More than ever.”

 
She did not offer as much as he wanted, but he told himself to be content in that it was more than she had previously allowed.

Ranulf stood and strode across the chamber to the hearth. He returned moments later and placed a tray of viands on the mattress beside her. “You are to eat everything,” he said and lowered into the chair.

Lizanne reached for a meat pie.

Not until she had consumed a good portion of it did he return to the question uppermost in his mind. “I would know what Charwyck said to upset you.”

She stiffened.

“Lizanne, do not think to tell me he said naught, for I will not believe you.”

She so roughly pulled her bottom lip between her teeth that he winced. “’Tis not important.”

Ranulf sat forward. “I will judge whether or not it is important. Now tell me.”

She stared at her fingers as she worked them over the edge of the coverlet. “He was angry, said it mattered not that I was wed to you, that he would…have me.” She looked up.

“And?”

“That he would dispose of you.”

Ranulf nearly laughed. “He intends to kill me?”

“I am sure of it.”

“What else?”

Lizanne stared at Ranulf—her husband, the man to whom she ought to be able to tell anything. And there
was
more to tell.

Your husband, does he not remind you of someone? A common villein…

She had been shocked by Philip’s parting words, so deeply that everything had gone black. But though she knew she should not withhold this last piece from Ranulf, the implications of which so terribly frightened her, she was reluctant to speak of it. She would have to think on it some more.

“’Tis all,” she said and slipped down beneath the covers.

Ranulf sat unmoving some moments, then stood, bent, and briefly touched his lips to hers. “Sleep, then.” He turned to leave.

Lizanne caught his hand. “You are not staying?” It was, after all, their wedding night, and he had every right to claim it.

He looked back at her. “Were you well, Wife, I would be pleased to take what your eyes offer, but ’tis better you not suffer my attentions. We will have our wedding night when we reach Chesne.”