LordoftheKeep (27 page)

Whatever she might think of Nicholas’ angry words, Emma knew
she must remember that he, too, must fear for Gilles’ safety. “If you are so
concerned for him, then help me solve William’s murder. Can we not determine
who is at fault if we put our heads together?”

“Excellent idea.” Catherine clapped her hands. “We could
each question William’s men as to their whereabouts that day.”

Before Nicholas could open his mouth to protest, Emma threw
open the shutters and let the icy fog creep into the room. “He is cold. He will
grow colder.”

“Aye,” Roland said, coming to her side, looking out over the
mist-enshrouded land. “His back pains him when he sleeps too long on the
ground.”

Catherine lifted a skin from a hook on the mantelpiece. “I
sent these oils with Nicholas for Lord Gilles’ ease. Take them to him.”

“Nay,” Nicholas said. “She must not look for him. None of us
must.”

“I think Gilles should have someone to keep an eye on him.
In case he needs anything,” Catherine said.

She offered the skin to Emma whose face heated as she
remembered the night Gilles had hung it by the fire, the night Nicholas had
found her kneeling between his father’s thighs.

“Thank you.” She clasped the warm skin to her chest. “But
though this may ease his discomfort, it will not clear his name and restore him
to honor. That will take all our efforts. I spoke to Big Robbie today. He
showed me that ‘tis most likely a man who killed William. Let us draw up a list
of William’s companions—”

“Few of them could have killed him,” Roland said. “A goodly
number remained at Selsey whilst William shirked his duties and returned here.
More were with Gilles—”

“We must look into those who remained. And what of his
women? Had they not fathers, brother’s, lovers who might object to his
trespass?” Sarah interrupted, coming to Emma’s side.

“Aye,” Nicholas said. “I would kill any man who stole what
was mine. I would slice off his jewels and feed them to him for supper.”

Roland sat in Gilles’ chair. He unrolled a parchment and
studied it. “This is a useless document. Gilles’ betrothal contract with
Michelle d’Ambray. We can conceal the list of names among the words so no one
learns of what we are doing. Who will make the list?”

“I write a fair hand.” Sarah drew the parchment to her. “Let
me. You men will better know who belongs on the list than I.”

An hour later, they had exhausted their ideas. The
formidable list was divided equally among them. An uneasy truce stood between
Emma and Nicholas, forged with delicate links by the common goal of bringing
Gilles home.

Roland escorted Emma to supper that night and sat at her
side. “Separate him from his companions.” He had no need to explain who
he
was. “You cannot talk to him in their presence, and he must be apprised of what
we are doing. ‘Twould be a waste for him to cover the same ground. Mayhap you
can force him to set a limit on his folly, too, have him decide on a day to
call a halt to this quest.”

Beatrice placed a platter of boiled eels before them. Roland
served her. Emma’s stomach lurched. She waved off the generous portion he
extended to her and took a slow sip of her wine. “I know just the argument to
persuade him to end his quest. I shall simply ask him if he wishes to see his
babe grow to manhood.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Emma marched directly to the well and began to harangue the
beggars for sitting idly by whilst others cleared the lanes and helped rebuild
the village. Those with their wits about them hung their heads and shuffled
off. Two who dwelled in their imaginations muttered and gestured wildly; Emma
paid them no heed. One stayed where he was, leaning on his stick, a twisted
smile on his grimy face.

“Well. Can you not help?” She fisted her hands on her hips.

He shrugged and lifted his stick to indicate his status as a
cripple.

“Humpf. You use your infirmity to support idleness. Come.”

She heard the stump of his stick following her as she strode
east along the castle wall. Despite the lack of good housing, her hut stood
empty. “This place looks in need of cleaning. Sweep it out. Gather fresh straw.
Make it habitable.”

“Why? No one will dwell here. ‘Tis a haunted place,” he said
and spit in the dirt.

“Haunted!” she scoffed. “Who put about such nonsense?”

A few men who were replacing a nearby thatched roof paused
to listen. They eyed Emma in a way that made her skin crawl. She recognized
them as alehouse companions of Ivo.

She could tell Gilles had to strain his voice to make sure
his words reached the workmen. “‘Tis said some murdered man’s ghost haunts this
place. He has no face they say.”

“Why here? The man you speak of was a knight. This is no
knight’s dwelling.”

“His whore lived here.”

Emma slapped his face. He reeled back and staggered, falling
to one knee.

Her voice shook as she stood over him. “Watch your tongue,
you vile man, else I’ll see it removed. Do you not know who I am?”

He bowed and scraped before her. “Nay, I am new here. I came
with a party of pilgrims but a sennight ago.”

“‘Tis a weak excuse. I am the late lord’s widow. Lord
Gilles’ widow. Now clean this place—ghost or not—and do a fine job of it, you
lazy man, or I’ll see the reeve sets you on the road from whence you came.”

He touched his forelock to her, an obeisance he’d received
so many times in the past from peasants and never thought to deliver to anyone
himself.

She concealed her smile as she walked away. Her step felt
light. She had separated him from his companions and found a place to meet him.

* * * * *

In the darkness of her hut, he pulled off his clothing.
She’d been here first. A brazier glowed red and the air was filled with some
spice he couldn’t name. He drew back the blankets and found heated rocks
between the layers. Setting them to the side of the pallet, he slipped into the
warm bedding. He drifted in and out of sleep, anticipating her arrival. The
scrape of the brazier being refilled startled him awake. He propped himself up
on one elbow. “I feared I had misunderstood you and that you might not come.”

“How is your jaw?” Emma asked.

“Sore. You are strong for a woman.”

She laughed softly and checked the rags that blocked light
from escaping the chinks in the walls and door and then knelt at his side.
“Roland sent me. But first, lie on your belly. I’ve brought an oil to ease your
back.”

“Why would my back need ease?” he asked, but did as she bid
and pillowed his head on his arms.

“According to Roland, you do not do well on a cold, hard
bed.”

“Without you, any bed is cold and hard.”

She kissed his shoulder, then drew down the blanket to his
waist. He frowned when the chilly air slipped over his skin, but forgot it when
she dribbled warm oil along the furrow of his spine. An immediate jolt of
arousal swept through him. His breath caught.

Gently, she spread the oil out from his spine in slow
sweeping glides of her hands. Her hands floated over him, gilding him in a
sheen of warm oil. He buried his face deeper in the blankets and held his
breath. Heat flooded through him.

The cadence of her motions changed. Her strong weaver’s
hands kneaded the knots from his muscles, starting at his nape, moving with
infinite slowness down each bone of his spine, along each rib, to the center of
his back. Then she stopped. He felt more drops of the potion. The air filled
with its scent. Musk. The scent of lovemaking. Her hands started anew,
spreading the oil first, then working it in, one muscle at a time, from neck
to…lower. A hand’s breadth further along. He groaned.

“Am I hurting you?” She snatched her hands away.

“Nay,” he said, his words muffled in his folded arms. “Nay,
‘tis so…good, I cannot bear it.”

A subtle change occurred in her ministrations after his
words. Her fingers still stroked and eased his muscles, but the sweeps of his
spine were more caress than healing. He reveled in the myriad textures of her
skin on his, from smooth to calloused. He no longer noticed the cool air. His
body was on fire.

She lingered over his shoulders. Every knot, every bit of
fatigue disappeared. He arched off the blanket, a mute begging for her hands to
return to his back. A dribble of oil again slipped down his spine, some running
warm over his sides. His breath grew short; his heart thudded in his chest.

Her fingers swept up and down, in longer and longer sweeps.
Cold air kissed his skin as she drew the blanket completely off him.

His body shuddered when her hands ran from his back over his
buttocks to his thighs. The essence of him gathered hot and ready.

“Emma,” Gilles gasped and whipped over onto his side. He
clasped her into his arms and pulled her down against him. “‘Tis not the oil
that heals, but your touch.”

The taste of her mouth on his chased all thought from his
mind. The scent of the seductive oils, the feel of her hands as she spread them
on his chest and down, cupping his warmth, brought another moan from his
throat.

“Come to me,” she whispered. “Come to me as you were wont to
do.”

He claimed her in a whirlwind of motion, possessed her with
the fierce intensity of his need and desire.

When their passions had cooled, she drew the blanket close
about their shoulders again and snuggled against his body, now hot and shiny
with sweat in the small brazier’s glow.

She traced tantalizing patterns in the hair of his chest.
“Roland and Nicholas have drawn up a list of those who might have killed
William.” She sat up for a moment and dug about in their discarded clothing.
“You kept this with you?” She drew out the belt she’d woven for him.

Gilles took it from her hands. He slipped his fingers along
the pattern. “You wove this for me, these hawks, these symbols that link
endlessly, one to the other. Did you mean something more than thanks for it?”

She bent and kissed the hands that held her work. “Aye, I
did. I wove in my endless need for you, but did not know it at the time. We are
joined, are we not?”

“Aye.” His emotion was so thick in his throat he could
barely speak. “I wear it against my skin to have something of you near.”

His words reminded her that she was not there to offer him
passion, but to give him his list of names. She carefully folded the belt and
searched her pack. “They sent you this.” She handed him a tiny scrap of
parchment severed from Roland’s list of names. “They will ascertain the
whereabouts of any other suspects. These are for your attentions.”

Gilles propped himself on an elbow and peered at the list of
names squeezed between some dowry figures. He gave a soft laugh. “I see
Michelle d’Ambray’s betrothal papers are finally serving a purpose.” He glanced
down the list. “I have determined the whereabouts of most of these men
already—men love a gossip over a pot of ale, I’ve found. Few evade a direct
question. Hmm. The miller. He spends all his time bragging of his role in
discovering William’s body, but when challenged by others, admits that earlier
in the day he was hauling a new millstone home from Lynn. I cannot go to Lynn
to determine when he left there. Mayhap Nicholas could—”

“I will ask him. The others?”

He snuggled her into the crook of his arm and rested his
chin on her head. “The alehouse keeper. Cross him off. He was serving drink
before three men at the time. The baker. His wife and he were in near mortal
combat all that day over her slattern ways—or so a gaggle of gossips claim. Big
Robbie. Nay. Not possible—too gentle a soul. But I will see to his whereabouts
if it would please you. These other two were with my party.” He sighed, folded
the scrap, and tucked it into his beggar’s coat.

“Roland and Big Robbie think ‘twas a man who killed William.
If none of these men did it, and it is discovered that none of those on
Roland’s list did either, could it have been a woman?”

“Women do not kill.”

Emma stifled a laugh. “You are jesting. Women have terrible
passions, too. And this crime was passionate. If done in the heat of the
moment, would not a man draw his sword or dagger?”

“So Roland says, too, but I think William angered a man
enough to fight him with fists. When William died during the fight, the killer
concealed the fact with a stoning.”

“A woman might wish to do it, but mayhap not have the
strength.”

“Women loved William.”

“Passionately. Mayhap he scorned the wrong woman. The court
did not think a woman too weak to kill a man of his size.”

Gilles’ embrace was fierce, bone-cracking. “Do not speak of
it. Put it aside.”

She waited until he relaxed against her. He needed to put it
aside as much as she. “I want to believe a man did it, but it doesn’t feel
right.”

Gilles slipped a hand from her waist and cupped her buttock.
“It feels just right to me.” He nuzzled her neck. “When I see you in the
village, I cannot believe our time together is but a tempting dream.”

He pulled her hips against his. “When summer arrives, I will
take you out into a field of flowers and love you beneath the blue sky.”

“We’ll have no summer if you don’t give this up. Please, I
beg of you again, come away with me. Choose life, not death. Forget William.
God will see to the judging of this crime.”

“You asked me before to give this up, and I thought I’d
never see you again. Yet, I cannot. I failed with William by denying him.
Daily, I learn more of his perfidy. He left debts at the alehouse. He rode his
horse carelessly through crops, laying them to waste and mayhap causing a
family to starve this winter. It—”

“Is not your fault!”

“Hush!” He pressed his fingers to her mouth. “Do you want someone
to know we meet?”

Suitably chastised, or deliberately silenced, she lowered
her voice until only he could hear her. “Give this up. Now. For the sake of our
child.”

He fell back and searched her face. As she leaned over him,
he cupped her face in his hands. “Our child?”

“Aye.” She clasped his hand and drew it down to the warmth
of her stomach. “You will scoff, but I know ‘tis true. We made a child that
night in the stable. I have never burned so fiercely or felt your passion so
deeply.”

His throat ached, not from the indignity of the noose this
time, but from the power of his emotion. He pressed his palm against the
softness of her. “I cannot scoff. I love you too much, know how you found me
with but your love for me to guide you.” They embraced each other. He kissed
her shoulder, her throat, her breasts. Finally, he pressed his lips to her
belly, her hands kneading his shoulders. Her heat mesmerized him; her words
gave him hope for the future.

Later, he held her in his arms and stared unseeing at the thatch
over head.

She spoke softly. He had not changed his mind, not even
knowing of their child. “Men care of naught but bed and blood.”

He sat up. “That is a cold assessment.”

“And a true one. If it were not so, you would think first of
this new life I nurture, instead of vengeance.”

“Enough. It is not revenge I seek, but justice. I will not
change my mind. We will have a lifetime together after William’s killer is made
to pay, a lifetime to raise Angelique and this child—in peace!”

She bit her lip at the pain of his words. Her hands covered
her stomach. “We have talked of how William died and who might have killed him,
but we have not talked of what is more important. Why?”

The rocks in the bedding and their passions had cooled. She
shivered and he held her closer before answering. “Why? You mean why would
someone kill William? ‘Tis simple. He made someone murderously angry. Or
jealous.”

She studied his face. The hard lines were harshly delineated
in the brazier’s glow. Without his beard there was nothing to soften his
expression. “I mean why at that time, that place? Who would be so angry William
was forcing me? Oh, I would hope a good person would have tried to stop him,
but to be angry enough to kill him? Nay. I cannot think of any man save Roland
who would care so much about my fate. And he rode with you.”

“Hmm.” Her words, coupled with the news of the child,
pitched his mind into a turmoil. He no longer knew if what he did was right. He
knew only he could not forego his oath to avenge William.

“What man would kill William for attacking me? Who would
care for my fate?”

“I would,” he growled. “I cannot bear the thought of him
hurting you…”

She closed her eyes. “Don’t think of it.”

He pressed his forehead to hers. “Did he only have what is
the worst in me?”

“Don’t say that. Don’t, please. What of his mother? The man
who was husband to her? Had they no part in what he was?”

“You don’t understand. He came to me for training at nine.
There was no other place to foster him. I am responsible for what he was—no
other.”

Gilles moved over her, his body propped on his elbows to
spare her his weight, and kissed her. She twisted her head aside. “What am I to
you save this?” She cupped his buttocks and arched her hips against him.

“My heart. My soul.”