Love at First Sight (5 page)

“If you would be still.” The ogress’s tone held a forced sweetness.

“I am dwy awweady,” Nicolette rasped stubbornly, then coughed.

Take that, ogress! Gavarnie silently cheered. From whence had Nicolette acquired such mettle? Were the child not facing the throes of death, he would—

Nay. He would not allow his thoughts to run in that direction. If Nicolette lived, there would be time enough to make up for his mean treatment of her. Meanwhile, he had no intention of standing about and listening to her die, and he did not care if it was God’s punishment. He had suffered enough for Isabelle’s death.

Checking his bearings, he ran his hands along the framed doorway, then drew himself to his full height.

Ha! He had done it. He had dressed himself with no assistance. A smirk curled his lips. Nothing stood between him and the far bedchamber door, and he headed toward it. For the first time since he’d lost his sight, he would leave the room under his own power.

Then he would find his way to the great hall, by God, where he would command Nigel to see to the removal of the interlopers in his chamber. At least the steward had never failed to carry out his orders.

He’d taken no more than a dozen steps when a bundle was suddenly thrust against his chest.

“Your daughter, mi’lord,” the ogress snapped.

He stiffened and felt a corresponding tension in Nicolette’s small body where he clutched her. By the Blessed Virgin. He would not have the child die in his arms.

“A pox on you, hag. You will take this bit of stuff this instant.”

“My liege,” the chamberlain interrupted.

“Hold your tongue, Sperville,” he commanded, then continued to address the woman-beast in an icy tone. “Now that you’ve insisted upon involving yourself with the child’s welfare, you will care for her until—”

“Mi’lord!” Sperville blurted. “She is gone.”

Disbelief snatched Gavarnie’s voice. None dared walk away when he was speaking. Several moments passed before he managed to sputter, “Whe—wha—what mean you she is gone?”

“She has taken leave.”

Nicolette coughed fitfully. From near-forgotten habit, Gavarnie jounced her as he had when she was a babe, the same as he had jounced his sons, Ronces and Alory. “Fetch the hag back,” he demanded.

“I do not think she will return, sir.”

“’Tis not your duty to think. You will do as I bid or I will flay you hideless.”

“Yes, my liege, but what if she refuses to come?” Sperville’s misgivings were evident in his tone.

“Whore’s gleet, man. Bind her hands and feet, truss her like the Saxon pig she is. I care not how you go about it. But you will get her here. Now.”

Nicolette wheezed, and her tiny fingers clutched his shoulder. “Papa! She woo make you nose tuwn bwack and faw off.”

Gavarnie stilled. Despite his cruelty, despite the fact she was near death, Nicolette was still concerned for his welfare. Guilt rushed to clog his throat until he could scarce speak, though he was determined to ease her fears this once.

“No one can make my nose turn black and fall off,” he managed to choke.

But the child misread his tone, which sounded gruff even to his ears. Her fingers left his shoulder and her body again grew rigid.

He scowled. What had he expected? That Nicolette would magically comprehend his change in heart toward her? That the thought of her death made him realize how deeply he cared for her?

A pox on the cursed ogress. She’d accomplished in one day what he’d never dreamed possible. She’d made him more miserable than he already was.

The chamberlain’s voice broke into his reverie. “Mayhap ’twould be best—”

“Why are you not fetching the hag?” he demanded. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, then affected his most reasonable tone. “Truth tell, Sperville. Do you simply wish for death, or is it your mission to render me witless with rage? I can assure you the latter will not come to pass. But if you will fetch my blade and direct my hand, I will cheerfully see to the former.”

Nicolette coughed raggedly, and again he jounced her.

“I was going to suggest I take Nicolette back to her chamber,” Sperville huffed, “and then fetch the hag.” Relief washed over Gavarnie. Escape was at hand. “Now, there is an intelligent thought.” Holding his arms out, he waited to be relieved of his burden.

Several moments passed with no response. “Well? What are you about now?”

No reply.

“Shiew Spewville—” Nicolette choked.

When the child said no more, he prodded, “Sir Sperville?”

“Gone,” Nicolette wheezed, then convulsed in a coughing spasm.

Rage boiled his blood anew. He jerked Nicolette to his chest and bounced her. He would murder the chamberlain. Yea, and he would do it by his own hand. He would have the spineless worm bound and staked to the whipping post in the bailey and carve his mean flesh to ribbons, then gut him while he yet drew breath.

“Sightless I may be,” he bellowed, “but I will have the pleasure of hearing your agony when I cut your heart from your spindly chest.”

“Pwease, Shiew Bawon,” Nicolette whimpered. “You awe shaking up my bewwy.”

Gavarnie froze. “You are going to be sick?”

He felt her nod against his chest and swallowed hard. What was he thinking with his bluster and blather? Nicolette could die any moment. The thought turned his limbs to mush until he feared he might collapse. Turning, he shuffled toward the bed where he could sit and hold her.

“ ’Tis not Shiew Spewville’s fawt,” the child whispered as he maneuvered along. “That witch took his wits.”

Was she frightened? Could she feel his terror at her impending death? “Witches are naught but the imaginings of simpletons,” he whispered back, though whether he said so to soothe Nicolette or himself, he wasn’t certain.

“She is a witch,” the child insisted. “Her hair is bwack and so is one of her eyes. The other eye is gween.”

Nicolette drew a shuddering breath. “She is skinny and taw as Shiew Spewville. And you could faw in a fit fwom her just looking at you.”

“Shh,” he coaxed gently. Faith, but it hurt to listen to Nicolette’s strangled voice.

He inhaled her little-girl smell, the scent reminding him of the joy he’d experienced at her birth.
God bwess Papa.
The words of her overheard prayer tore at his heart with the sharpness of a well-honed blade.

If given a choice at this moment, he would kill Isabelle all over again. Only this time he would not do it for her infidelity.

Nay. She deserved to die for allowing him to love Nicolette those first three years of her life, a crime far greater than adultery, because it was doubly painful to then find out she wasn’t his.

Why had the realization been so long in coming?

Despite the fact that Nicolette wasn’t his daughter, he loved her as if she were. He’d been a fool to fight his feelings for her these two years past. He’d brought naught but misery upon himself, and the child.

God bwess Papa.
He grimaced as his eyes stung. When was the last time he’d cried?

Isabelle was doubtless laughing at him from the bowels of hell.

N
ICOLETTE’S CRAMPED
bedchamber sweltered from heated stones that had been dropped in pails of water. Golde swiped sweat from her brow and scraped sticky hair from her temples. Faith, she needed to bathe. Her best blue tunic looked as if it had been used to muck the sheep pen, and her gray chainse felt like a scratchy second layer of skin.

“’Tis important you continue steaming the room,” she instructed the matronly servant, Hesper. “Once the child tolerates honey-water, then you may begin feeding her broth.”

Golde snatched up her medicine jars and fair threw them into her chest. How could she, the mistress of deception, have been so duped by the blunderheaded chamberlain? Oh, but his eyes had appeared so properly heartsick when he’d wakened her in the undercroft. “I have need of your aid,” he’d whispered urgently.

She slammed the lid on the chest. What had become of her vow to not involve herself in the affairs of her culls?

But nay. She’d had to await the morn to begin her journey home. And Spindleshanks had taken full advantage of the delay, pleading with her in the middle of the night to save Delamaure’s daughter from death.

As if her thoughts had conjured the wheedling snake, Sperville hurried into the child’s bedchamber. “Mistress, let us get you gone.”

Before Golde could reply, Hesper cried, “She cannot leave.” The older woman wrung the folds of her tunic while her second chin quivered pinkly above the red coals in the brazier. “Ye must convince her to stay, at least until Nicolette is healed.”

Convince her to stay, indeed, Golde thought. There was not enough gold in all England to make her do so. She opened her mouth to say just that, but Spindleshanks spoke first. “Nay, Hesper. She has done enough. I would not repay her kindness by subjecting her to the baron’s foul temper any longer.”

Golde curled her lip. “’Tis a bit late—”

“I know not how to care for sick folk,” Hesper interrupted. “What if Nicolette should worsen again?”

“I have told you—” Golde began.

Hesper allowed her no chance to finish. “What if the baron forbids me to care for her? I dare not gainsay him.”

“There is naught we can do about the matter, should it come to pass,” Sperville intoned gravely.

Golde frowned. The evil baron had seemed most willing to allow his daughter to die. And but moments ago, just before Spindleshanks had appeared, the lord’s blustering threat to cut out someone’s heart had fair rattled the castle timbers.

“’Tis no concern of this great lady’s,” Sperville was saying. “She has worked a miracle this night and we must pray for the best.”

Golde raised a black brow. “Seek you to convince me to stay with sweet words of praise?”

Sir Sperville’s features hardened, lending his visage a strength she would never have imagined. “I would not allow you to remain, even were it your greatest desire. Despite your skill and knowledge, you are . . .” A sheepish look overcame the chamberlain.

Golde inclined her head and stared pointedly.

“It matters not. You must away.” He beckoned her with his hand.

Golde crossed her arms over her chest. “I am what?”

“Truly, you are everything I have said.” Spindleshanks was clearly hedging. “Now let us get you gone.”

Golde narrowed her eyes. “I will hear this great lack you have discovered in my nature. Why, of a sudden, must you spirit me off where before you did all in your power to keep me here?”

Spindleshanks glanced over his shoulder, then lowered his voice and stammered, “I had hoped . . . You appeared to be most—”

“By Saint Cuthbert! Cease your spluttering and speak.”

The chamberlain’s gaze darted away from her face and he bowed his head. “You lack naught. Few, if any, have the courage to betake themselves unto dealing with the baron’s personal affairs. I had hoped to secure your great-grandmother’s services, for I had heard of her wisdom and strength. When she refused, I grew desperate. His lordship will never know peace until he recovers his sight.”

He cast her a penitent look, then lowered his gaze again. “Though I am certain you could heal him, you are far too young and inexperienced to deal with the baron’s temper. I can do naught but ask your forgiveness.”

Golde sneered. “You tell me I have worked miracles, then speak of me as if I were a cowering, snot-nosed whelp too thickwitted to come in from the rain.”

Sir Sperville’s head snapped up. “I meant no insult.” He fixed his attention on Hesper, defending himself to her, as if he feared looking at Golde. “Truly, you would not credit all mistress has accomplished. Not only did she compel Sir Gavarnie to dress himself, when I left him just now, he was holding Nicolette with a father’s tenderness. And talking to her.”

“Saints be praised,” Hesper breathed.

The woman crossed herself, and curiosity near overwhelmed Golde. The baron had forbade her to bathe Nicolette earlier. And though the child’s very life was dependent upon Golde’s knowledge, Delamaure had attempted to force her from his chamber. At the time, she’d thought it was only
her
person that he objected to. But after listening to Sperville and Hesper, it sounded as if the baron also objected to his daughter.

Nay. Golde caught herself as silence descended over the chamber. ’Twas none of her affair. Indeed, if she’d learned aught in her youth, ’twas that children were cruel little beasts. Ever demanding and willful, they never spared a thought for the feelings of others. They were peculiar of habit, not the least of which was their penchant for mischief and destruction, and they required such . . .
devotion
was the only word she could think of.

Still, her feet refused to budge at her command.

Worse, an image of the baron’s naked body wiggled its way into her thoughts.

She flapped the neck of her chainse. Imposing. Delamaure’s body bespoke strength, hostility, and arrogance. They were present in tightly coiled muscles, in his powerful broad frame, in his regal stance. Legs braced, fists on hips . . . despite its dormancy, his sex when she’d grabbed him had felt—