Love at First Sight (30 page)

White-hot rage flashed through Gavarnie, and he shot to his feet. “You went to the king!”

“’Twas necessary. I would never have returned such a lovely gift without first consulting the king. And I have it from William’s mouth that if he truly believed you guilty of Isabelle’s murder, he would never have pardoned you. He suggests you concentrate your efforts on recalling the events of that eve, rather than wasting your time on plots that do not exist.”

Gavarnie gripped the hilt of his sword, prepared to give chase, when Sperville grabbed his arm.

“Leave go!” Gavarnie snarled. “De Brionne has breathed his last.”

“Shh!” the chamberlain hissed. Clutching Gavarnie’s arm more tightly, he inclined his head at the tapestry, his eyes round with apprehension.

The lump of material jumped, and Gavarnie took an involuntary backward step.

“Unholy son of a goat!” he roared at de Brionne. “What demons have you brought into my house?”

The man turned, but he did not slow his retreat. Instead, the bastard scurried backward, waving and grinning. “No need to the thank me. Your face says all. ’Til next we—”

His words were cut off as Arnulf jerked him through the doors.

“Stop them,” Gavarnie ordered the chamberlain.

Sperville started forward, then halted as the tapestry wiggled.

Whore’s gleet, Gavarnie swore. Had de Brionne wrapped some huge serpent within the folds of material? He waited until it stilled, then sidled toward it. Drawing his blade, he took a deep breath, prepared to stab the thing.

Nay!
a voice screeched.

Gavarnie froze. The same voice from the alehouse, the same voice from the lane during the attack.

He spun about, his sword raised. “Who is speaking?” he demanded, surveying the area.

Sperville’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “You are hearing voices?”

“Did you not?”

The chamberlain’s face paled as he shook his head.

Gavarnie clamped his teeth together against a shiver. ’Od rot. He was not mad. Someone had screamed at him. And though it was much higher in pitch, it was the same voice he’d heard when . . .

The shiver finally rushed up his back to claim his body.

On both occasions when he’d heard the voice, Golde had been endangered. Indeed, the second occasion had heralded the return of his sight.

He narrowed his eyes in thought. What had Sperville said about Golde’s great-grandmother? That she had promised to heal his blindness? Was it possible that—

He blinked and jerked his gaze back to the tapestry.

Nay. ’Twas absurd to imagine that some old crone had cured him from afar. ’Twas even more fantastic that she would be aware of events she was not present to witness.

Still, he could not bring himself to stab the tapestry. Instead, he raised his foot, then shoved the thing with all his might. It flew off the dais, landing with a thud on the rush-strewn floor. To his horror, the coarse material began to flop about and unravel.

He should have killed it before kicking it from the dais. He braced his legs and raised his blade, ready to leap on the thing once it was free.

With a writhing flourish, the creature at last burst forth.

Gavarnie clamped his teeth together lest his jaw fall from his face to the floor. Joy consumed him, so fierce it near buckled his knees.

“Mistress,” Sperville whispered.

Just as quickly, fear coursed through Gavarnie’s blood. He could have killed Golde! Shuddering, he staunched the unbearable flow of his thoughts.

At the very least, de Brionne should be whipped for trussing Golde thus. Faith, she was dressed in naught but her undergarments. He jumped from the dais and hurried to her aid as she thrashed about in an attempt to sit. Though her chest heaved and she grunted mightily, the ropes that bound her from head to toe precluded the possibility.

Upon spying him, she stilled.

“Here. Let me loose this gag.”

He grimaced at her soiled state. Her hair was matted and greasy beneath the knot of the gag, her white chainse stained with grayish blotches, and her . . .

Legs. Long and sleek, they were bared to mid thigh where the chainse had rucked up. He recalled the soft, lush feel of them, underlaid with corded strength, to be sure. Had he not felt the pleasure of their power when lust held the wench in its grip?

He eyed her bottom. His
coillons
tightened as he remembered the smooth round flesh there, the way she’d strained for his touch.

The flatness of her belly, the perfect curve of her breasts, the demanding thrust of her hard nipples.

“Toad-eating dunghead,” she spat the moment he removed the gag. “If you stare a little harder at my person, mayhap the ropes that bind me will burn away.”

Gavarnie drew back. Had he heard a’right? Did the wench dare to curse him, even as he helped her?

He glanced at the gag in his hand. Swiftly he replaced the wad of material over her mouth and tied it behind her head.

Her smell wafted upward and he wrinkled his nose. “You reek worse than a buzzard’s dinner.”

A strangled noise issued from her, and it took no little effort to hide his satisfaction. “I see de Brionne had the good sense to secure your flapping mouth.”

The color drained from her face to collect in her eyes. The green one glittered and shot poison at him; the black turned hard as jet and swore vengeance upon him.

Indeed, at the moment, she appeared most capable of destroying anyone and everything that crossed her path. No wonder Sir Varin and Arnulf had beat such a hasty retreat.

He shook himself. De Brionne and his giant underlord were cowardly simpletons. No woman was going to unsettle him thus. Ignoring the hair that bristled at his nape, he bent and scooped up Golde.

“Sperville,” he called as he headed for the screens passage, “have bathwater sent up. And do not bother heating it. Methinks the lady needs cooling.”

By the time he reached the stairs, she was struggling. The feel of her warm, squirming body melted his fear. “Have a care, mistress. You are hardly a tiny burden and I would not wish to drop you on your she-goat head.”

More strangled sounds from behind the gag, though she calmed. In the semidarkness of the stairwell, he smiled. Despite her soiled state, she was the most desirable female he’d e’re laid hands on. Her bare legs felt whisper-soft. The manner in which her hands were tied arched her back so her breasts rubbed against his chest.

Feline. An intense ache spread through his groin until he feared he might split his braies.

He caught himself as he reached his chambers. What was he thinking? The wench likely hated him.

He halted before the tub and all but threw her in. Ignoring her grunt, he turned his back on her thrashing form. Most wenches would be grateful that a lord of the realm displayed such interest in their persons.

Not Golde.

He stomped to the drawing point and hauled on the rope.

Nay. Not only did she disdain him, she had had the gall to lecture him on his lack of self-restraint, as if his temper were responsible for all the ills that had befallen him.

He snatched at the bucket of water to release it from its hook.

What did she know of being blind? Of being incapacitated and unable to control her own destiny . . .

A slow grin spread over his lips as the bucket came loose. Ha! Was she not incapacitated at present? Had she any control over what befell her? ’Twas time and past the little wasp took a sting from her own tail.

Wiping the smile from his face, he turned and strolled to the tub. He clenched his jaws to keep from chortling at the vicious look she gave him.

Then he stilled. She’d managed to work herself to a half-sit, using the side of the tub for purchase. And what a chore it must have been. She’d near unclothed herself in the process.

Against his will, his gaze traveled to her legs. She was bent at the knees where she’d pushed herself up, and her movements had caused the chainse to bunch about her hips. Her underdrawers, too, had ridden upward, baring her thighs. He eyed the juncture where they met.

She straightened her legs and wiggled about, trying to scrape the material downward.

He arched a brow and gave her shoulder a pointed look. Turning her head, her gaze followed his and her eyes widened. Where she’d levered herself against the side of the bath, the chainse had slipped halfway to her elbow. The delicate line of her collarbone was exposed, as was the upper swell of one breast.

Her enraged snarl distracted him and he blinked innocently. “You must learn to control that foul temper, mistress. All this writhing about makes you appear most unwholesome.”

Her nostrils flared and he took the opportunity to dump the water over her head. Her body went stiff as ebony hair cascaded over her face, covering her eyes and shoulders. A terrible noise, something between a bleating goat and a bull in rut, erupted from behind the gag. Without another glance, he strode back to the drawing point, clamping his teeth together at the guffaw that threatened to choke him.

Latching the pail on the rope, he spoke over his shoulder lest the sight of her destroy his composure. “I had nothing to do with your current predicament, just as you had nothing to do with my blindness.”

He lowered the bucket. “Indeed, my only wish is to give you aid, much as you wished to restore my sight when you first arrived here. But I now understand the difficulty of dealing with one whose rage precludes all reason. I confess, you have inspired no little fear in me.”

He retrieved the pail and returned to the tub. Bending, he pulled dripping strands of hair aside to peer at her face, then clucked his tongue. “There, you see? You have turned a most unbecoming shade of red. And the way your eyes are rolling in your head makes me think some demon inhabits your person.”

Releasing the curtain of thick hair, he poured the full pail over her head and sauntered back to the drawing point. “I could scarce be persuaded to release you under such circumstances. There is no telling what injury you might do yourself, not to mention my person.”

The bucket full, he again moved to the tub. “You shall remain bound until you exhibit some modicum of control. Only then will I loose you.”

He drenched her a third time, noting the gooseflesh that had risen on her legs. His fist clenched around the bucket’s handle as she shuddered.

Nay. He would feel no sympathy.

Marching to the drawing point, he refilled the pail. She deserved much more than this small amount of discomfort, which was naught in comparison to the misery she’d wrought upon him.

Approaching the bath, his steps slowed. The rhythm of Golde’s breathing rapidly increased until great strangled gasps filled his ears.

He hurried forward. The black hair that draped over her face jerked eerily each time she sucked air. Her legs were tinted purple. In contrast to her upper body, they appeared immovable. Hard and lifeless as marble.

The pail thumped to the floor as he dropped to his knees. Dear God! Had he drowned her?

He flung the hair back from her face. Glazed and unblinking, her eyes stared past him with all the disinterest of the dead.

Like Isabelle’s eyes.

“Prithee, Golde,” he whispered frantically, “do not do this to me.”

He snatched at the knot that held the gag. “’Twas but a jest. I meant no harm.”

If she heard him, she gave no indication.

He yanked the wad of material from her mouth. “By all that is holy, Golde, you are more dear to me than life.” She did not speak, but only continued with the hoarse choking sounds.

Nay!
he wanted to scream. What had he done?

G
OLDE FLINCHED
. The cursed light was growing ferocious. She narrowed her gaze at the shadowed shape that wavered in the midst of the glare. Shades of purple, near black at the heart of the figure, faded to pastel hues at its extremities.

’Twas the person who’d murdered Gavarnie’s wife.

Blue-white shafts of brilliance pierced Golde’s eyes like red-hot needles. Still, she did not look away. If she could capture some small detail, something that would give her a clue to the figure’s identity.

A whiff of . . . was it lavender?

Nay, ’twas blood. Sickly sweet.

She shuddered as all was obliterated by the searing flash. ’Twas as if a hell-borne gale blew through her soul. Her eyelids squeezed shut, despite her command for them to remain open. Hissing her frustration, she gulped air. She’d been so close.

Then blessed darkness settled about her, dragging at her limbs. As her breathing eased, so did the ache that throbbed behind her eyes.

Abruptly she realized someone was patting her cheek. And with more force than necessary.

“Mule-headed hag,” Gavarnie ground. “If you dare to die, I will follow your demon hide to hell and hound you for eternity.”

She cracked an eye to see him leaning over her, his swarthy features grim. Could the simpleton not see she was exhausted? She opened her other eye to discover she lay in his bed. How had she come to be here?

For a moment the answer glimmered before her. But she was too tired to pursue it. Besides, the only thing that mattered was Gavarnie’s irritating treatment of her.