LordoftheKeep (4 page)

Chapter Three

A cold, hard knot formed in Emma’s throat. Her heart
lurched. For a brief moment the room spun and a pain flooded in, new and ripe.
Of
course, he would be wed.
“His w-w-wife?”

Meara nodded. “O’ course, Lady Margaret’s been dead these
many years. Saw less o’ ‘er than we ever did o’ Lord Gilles in the years ‘is
father were alive. ‘Ated it ‘ere she did. She loved court, the gowns, the fine
folk there,” Meara continued. “Bein’ ye might know some o’ them fine folk
yerself, Mistress.”

“Me?” Emma whipped around to stare at the serving woman.

“Oh, aye. Ye can’t hide quality. Ye might ‘ave ‘oles in yer
shift, beggin’ yer pardon, but ye’ve a certain way about ye.”

Emma forced herself to smile. Whatever she might have been
when her father and mother had lived, she had fallen far since. “I’m no better
than you, Meara.”

“As ye wish, Mistress.” Meara shrugged and then prattled on
about Lady Margaret and her silk gowns and miniver-lined mantles.

Emma did not comment, for she’d been taught by her mother
that gossiping was not ladylike.
But I may no longer call myself a lady. I
am of Meara’s station now. A free woman mayhap, but of the lowest station,
nonetheless, my stature lost through untimely death and ill luck
. The thought
further squeezed her throat. She had not yet accepted the fact that despite her
parents’ best efforts, she, their beloved daughter, lived from hand to mouth.

“Once ‘is lordship’s son Nicholas went to foster in King
‘Enry’s court, she wouldn’t stay ‘ere when Lord Gilles were off wiv the old
king. ‘Ated the old lord, she did. Couldna abide this place and bein’ alone wiv
his lordship’s father.” Meara lowered her voice and grinned slyly. “Twas said
she ‘ad a lover at court.” She sniffed. “Only deigned to grace us wiv ‘er
presence when Lord Gilles demanded she do ‘er duty. Cried at nothing, she did,
if I do say so. Quick wiv a pinch, too, deserved or not.” Meara bustled about
gathering up wet cloths and the precious block of soap, which she put into a
wooden box. “I keeps ‘er chambers clean, ye understand, God rest ‘er soul, but
empty rooms be musty—no matter ye sweep ‘em daily. Yer to lie yerself down ‘ere
‘til the beddin’s changed.”

Emma did not wish to picture the ghostly Lady Margaret. As
she gingerly sat on the edge of Lord Gilles’ bed, she turned the conversation.
“You say his lordship has a son?”

“Oh, aye. Just the one. A bonny lad. Married, ‘e did this
past spring. ‘E holds one o’ ‘is lordship’s keeps down the coast. Seaswept, by
name.” Meara shivered. “Now there’s a bitter place to be in winter!”

At the thought of winter, Emma shivered too, then snuggled
into Lord Gilles’ mattress, surely stuffed with goosedown and not common straw.
She made a place for herself and rubbed her cheek on the edge of his bed
linens.
His linens
.
His scent
. A tiny shiver coursed through her.

Emma rolled abruptly to her side to banish her thoughts. She
drew Angelique close, curling herself into a tiny ball, the child at the
center. She would not allow her mind to dwell on such a man as Lord Gilles, a
man with a married son, a wealthy baron with at least two estates. He lived in
a world now as beyond her reach as the dust motes Angelique tried to catch.

‘Twas a falsehood that her gentle father, a knight of Baron
Ramsey’s household, had wished her to wed Jacob Baker. Still fate had taken
that gentle knight before he’d penned his wishes. She’d been destined by her
uncle’s wardship to no higher than the baker, a man with one cheating hand on
the scale and the other wandering where it shouldn’t.

Tears gathered. She fought them. But as she lay in Lord
Gilles’ bed of luxury, each fiber touched her skin and teased her senses with
the reality of her situation in life. She sank into misery. Lord Gilles’ own
words, spoken two years before, had ofttimes haunted her in the lonely night
and came back to haunt her anew.

Few men of quality will have you without your virtue
intact…

In truth,
no
man of quality would have her now. Nor,
if she desired another, could she have him. She’d said her vows, plighted her
troth. ‘Twas done, acknowledged or not.

Emma’s head ached, her leg throbbed. She no longer felt the
sensual surfaces, she felt only shame and regret for how she’d allowed her life
to go awry.

She said her nightly prayers, first one of thanksgiving for
Angelique and the second one a prayer to ask forgiveness for not using her
wisdom to hold herself innocent for some man who would honor her gift. Last,
she offered a lengthy prayer that Angelique and she might survive the coming
winter. She closed her eyes a moment, then whispered a quick word to God on
Lord Gilles’ behalf for saving their lives.

What seemed moments later, but was actually more than an
hour, Meara roused Emma from a deep sleep.

“I dreamt I lay upon a cloud.” Emma yawned and stretched,
letting her hand stroke over the bed furs for a final time before rising.

“‘Tis surely the closest to a cloud in this keep, although
Lord Gilles would be just as content below wiv ‘is men.” Meara smiled.

Emma scooped up Angelique and, wrapping her mantle about
them, she followed Meara to a smaller but equally luxurious chamber, just two
turns up the stone stair from Lord Gilles’. They moved slowly, Meara’s hand
under Emma’s elbow as she limped along.

The bed hangings in Lady Margaret’s chamber were the color
of a summer sky. The linens were embroidered with lilies and butterflies. The
chamber chilled her, as did the bedclothes, so she curled her toes and tucked
her feet into the hem of the borrowed shift. The glowing brazier had not yet
dispelled the dampness of a chamber long closed.

“No one lives here, Angelique,” Emma whispered, sensing no
ghosts, no remnant of the lady who had once sat at the small table across the
chamber and used the ivory comb that still lay on a silver tray. “Lady Margaret
has been gone for a long time.” Emma tucked Angelique into the crook of her arm
and, despite the throb in her head and leg, she fell into a deep sleep.

* * * * *

Gilles stripped naked and slipped into his bed. He settled
into a hollow of particular warmth where a feminine form had slept. He became
aroused by the warmth of the space. The sweet scent of lavender soap entwined
him in a seductive web. His mind conjured Emma in his bed, fresh from her bath.
He remembered the press of her full breasts against her thin shift and the
dusky hint of a nipple barely suggested. Gilles fought his arousal because he
denied his attraction to Emma, denied that bringing her to his chamber meant
anything other than Christian charity.

He reminded himself that Emma was wounded and that the most
likely place for her to rest would be in the warmest place in the keep. He
tried to convince himself that his arousal meant naught, ‘twas just a
coincidence.

Gilles lost the battle with his logic, closed his eyes, and
let his imagination roam. He stretched her out in a field of intoxicating
lavender. His imagination cupped her lush breasts, learned their shape, traced
the sweep of her hips, and stroked the smooth length of her thighs. With a
bewitching clarity, he thought he could scent her arousal. He took a shuddering
breath.

“Sweet heaven,” he whispered to the night. His chest
tightened, his whole body shivered. Turning over to his stomach, he forced
himself to think of something bland and martial. He contemplated fighting
techniques until he ruefully admitted that his contemplations were lasciviously
filled with swords being sheathed and lances being couched. At least it brought
his humor back, and his humor brought peace.

At last, he slept.

* * * * *

Long before creepers of light slipped beneath his shutters,
Gilles arose. He dressed hurriedly, pulling on what lay at hand, black wool and
black linen. With a haste to his stride that betrayed his eagerness, he flew
down the steep stone steps and into the hall. Ignoring the yawning servants who
were set to the task of assembling the many tables needed for the daily meals,
Gilles spread out a large roll of vellum on an oak table and looked over the
plans to his stable addition.

He did not make his way to the bailey when the ring of metal
on metal told him a dawn workout progressed as scheduled. Instead, he remained
standing over his plans.

Gilles knew immediately when Emma made her appearance. He
sensed her first. A flush of warmth swept through him. With a forced
nonchalance, he lifted his eyes. She hesitated on the lowest step of the stone
stairs that led to the tower chambers before coming toward him. He waited on
the raised flagstone hearth before the mammoth fireplace in which could be
roasted a full boar. With hands braced on the table, anchoring the plans, he
watched her come. Her limp made her progress slow, giving him ample time to
drink in her appearance: her compelling eyes and her honey-colored hair, now
tamed in braids that fell on her breasts. The child still slumbered at peace on
her mother’s shoulder.

A pink blush stained Emma’s cheeks. Gilles thought of roses,
full-blown summer roses, petals spread, offering their fragrance to the warm
air.

He sensed no fear as she approached him. The lack of
apprehension made a tightness in his chest uncoil. So many shied from him, gave
him respect tinged with a healthy dose of fear for his position and his power
over their lives. A sudden desire to grin swept through him and he gave in to
it.

Emma came eagerly now, smiling back, not watching the floor
as servants were wont to do. She met his eyes with a vibrant joy as if they had
some secret between them.

“Good day, my lord,” she greeted him, shifting Angelique to
her uninjured side and dropping into a lopsided curtsy.

“Mistress Emma.” He savored the feel of her name on his
tongue.

“Lord Gilles, I wish to thank you for saving our lives.”

“‘Twas nothing.” Could she hear the seduction in his tone?
He prayed his voice did not betray him, for it sounded hoarse to him, plagued
with lust for her sweetness, an elusive scent on his mind. How ridiculous he
felt—beguiled by the scent of a woman lingering on his bedding.

Their eyes met. “You are mistaken, my lord. ‘Twas
everything.”

“What do you call your babe?” He moved to her and because
‘twould be unseemly to touch her, he placed his hand a moment on the child’s
head. Aware even that small gesture betrayed him, he turned and resumed his
place of power on the dais.

“I have named her Angelique, my lord.”

“Why does your husband allow you to wander unprotected?” Gilles
could not prevent his voice from growing cold and abrupt. Her face registered
the change in his tone. Her smile died, her marvelous eyes dropped, and her
hands plucked at the child’s woolen wrap.

“I have no husband who acknowledges me, my lord.”

Her choice of words puzzled him. “Explain yourself.”

She took a breath and drew the child closer to her. “The man
with whom I exchanged vows chooses to deny them—and us.”

“It does not trouble you to tell me this?”

She lifted her head, her chin rose. “I have learned that to
shrink from truth is to face it later in a more difficult guise.”

“I see… Then who looks to your care?” A sudden heat rose on
his cheeks.

“I look to my own care, my lord,” Emma said softly. “Should
you check your ledgers, you will see that I paid my sixpence fine.”

“I have no memory of your coming before me.”

“You were in York then, my lord. Your steward saw to the
matter.”

A thrill of excitement clutched at him.

She was, for all intents and purposes, unprotected.

He could not speak. Her seductive presence left him
speechless like Hubert was when in the presence of Beatrice, a buxom serving
wench with saucy blonde curls and a wide smile. With difficulty, Gilles cleared
his throat. “I had thought you smitten with love after your last appearance before
me.”

He waited. Her eyes did not avoid his, but a sweetness fled
them as the sun flees before a black storm cloud. “I no longer believe in love,
my lord.”

“I see.”
Abandoned
. He stroked his hand over his
close-cropped black beard. A curious sympathy made him gentle with her. Love
was a jongleur’s game. He’d never felt its snare, nor believed in its lure. Yet
he felt a curious sadness that this lovely young woman should feel as he did,
he who was a generation older in wisdom and hard living. “I am sorry for it.”

She did not respond. She shifted her child and he watched
the soft tint of color on her cheeks become large blotches of unbecoming red.
“If I may go, my lord? I have need to return to my weaving. I’ve a piece
promised that needs finishing.”

Nothing could have prepared him for the hammer of his blood
in his veins. He wanted to reach out and seize her, hold her, keep her—slake
his lust in her. Her tall stance, her brave look, her lithe figure drew him. He
wanted to hold her before him, drink her in, trace the shape of her face with
his fingertips, know again the warmth of her breast beneath his hand. ‘Twas a
madness. He’d gone too long without a woman ‘twas all.

Emma still wore her gentian mantle although the color had
faded and the hem was worn. Gilles thought the color perfect on her. It had
lodged in his mind, never to be forgotten. He thought her hair like gold spun
from a magic distaff. Unbound, he imagined it would fall over her shoulders and
down to her waist in ripples of silk; he yearned to bury his hands in it. His
blood boiled to possess her. He searched for some way to hold her before him.

“You speak well for a weaver.”
Jesu
. He sounded like
a mewling page, and condescending to boot.

A curious smile, at once rueful and self-mocking, touched
her mouth. “My father did not realize my mother’s lessons would one day be
needed to stave off starvation.”