Wings of the Storm (11 page)

Jane started to slip out of bed, not sure whether to hide, call out, or follow the dog into the storeroom.

She was saved from having to decide by the sound of Berthild's voice whispering words Jane couldn't make out. The girl must have tucked her sleeping pallet somewhere out of the way. Berthild's question received an equally soft answer. There was a muffled giggle, then sounds of chain mail and clothes being shed. Jane waited stiffly in the dark. Melisande bolted back into the alcove as though someone had

shoved her through the curtain. It would seem that Berthild's guardsman lover had arrived. He must have waited until he thought the chatelaine deeply asleep before venturing in.

She wondered if she should throw him out or let the couple be. She valued her privacy, which was hard to come by in the communal atmosphere of the castle. She would lose it forever when she entered the convent. She supposed the pair in the storeroom val-ued privacy as well, and they got less of it than she did. She waited tensely on the edge of the bed, indeci-sive. She put the dagger away. She expected sounds of lovemaking to follow the man's undressing, but nothing but silence came from the outer room.

She crossed her arms and frowned in puzzlement. How could she throw somebody out on his ear for fooling around with her maid when he wasn't fooling around? Maybe they just wanted to cuddle up togeth-er and sleep. Rather sweet, she thought, and lay back down.

Must be nice to have someone to cuddle up with, she thought. Nice not to be alone in the dark.

Some-one warm and comforting to just be with, never mind the rest. Though the rest would be nice, her wistful, lonely thoughts ran on. She'd never really been in love. There had been too much to leam, too much to do. She had given all her energy to the excitement of research, hadn't thought about love at all.

Not the share-your-life-with-someone-forever kind of love, at least. She had thought there'd be time later. Dammit, she was getting maudlin. It was just sleep deprivation making her depressed. Life was so fleeting, though. So often wasted.

To get her mind off melancholy speculation of might-have-beens, she searched her thoughts for another subject to consider.

The cook wanted fresh eels. Bleah. Could they fish for them in the Stour? Perhaps she should point out to him that she was from the Middle East, where the trendy delicacy was sheep's eyeballs. No, it was better not to give him any ideas. She didn't want him trying to impress Lady Sibelle with his artistry. That girl did not need to be impressed with anybody's cuisine.

The girl needed a strict diet and plenty of exercise. And ...

Jane sat up straight in her bed. She could almost see the light bulb—or blazing flambeau—going on over her head. "The girl needs . . ."

She settled back down slowly, her mind suddenly buzzing with ideas. What did Sibelle need? Well, a husband, for one thing. She wanted Stephan. What girl wouldn't? He was handsome and brave and charming and nice. Well, he was nice to everybody but Sibelle. Poor kid. What could she do to change that? Jane wondered.

Should she? She wasn't supposed to change any-thing. There was nothing she could do.

Why not?

Don't give me "why not,"she argued with herself. History. She couldn't do anything to change history.

What if Sibelle and Stephan were supposed to loathe each other throughout their lives? What if they were supposed to be childless?

But, just by living here in the Middle Ages, Jane was altering history. A boy had died, because she had ordered him to fix a roof. The course of events had been changed. Well, if she could change things for the bad, maybe she could change them for the good as well. She hadn't been able to help the boy.

"Maybe I can help the girl," she whispered into her pillow. Without revealing any secrets of my great technological age. Sibelle didn't need to know how to work a computer. She needed a little help with her socialization, some skills training. Surely Jane could manage that much without making any great changes.

She rolled onto her back and laced her fingers together across her stomach. Staring into the darkness, she considered just how to deal with the situa-tion. Though not for long. Now that she'd made up her mind to do something, she finally drifted off to sleep, before she could figure out exactly what it was she was going to do.

She woke up with a cunning plan.

She also woke up because she heard Berthild moving around in the outer room. The door opened. The dogs jumped down and followed the servant out. Jane sighed happily, waiting in bed for Berthild to bring back a couple of buckets of warm water for her to bathe in. She'd asked her to do that the night before.

She was stiff all over; a bath would do her a world of good. She checked the window. The dark-ness was just barely beginning to turn to gray. She had plenty of time before she had to be up and very, very busy.

So much to do, so much to talk about. First to Switha, then to Sibelle, and the cook, and a nice, firm lecture for Marguerite and Alais. So much to do before Stephan got home. She chuckled happily and waited under the soft warmth of the fur cover. The room grew lighter as the sun climbed into the sky.

After a while she heard footsteps and Berthild's voice directing a couple of helpers she'd brought with her to empty the water in the tub. Good, Jane thought with pleasure. She could have a proper, fully naked, soaking up to her chin, hot bath. Berthild shooed the menservants out the door and left herself.

Jane got up and, keeping the cover wrapped around her for warmth, threw back the curtain.

The first thing she saw was a broad, naked, mascu-line back and small, muscular buttocks leaning over her bathwater.

The first thing she said was, "Get out of my bath-tub!"

The first thing she thought as the surprised Sir Daffyd turned to face her was.
He does take off his chain
mail.

Then she looked at him. She couldn't very well help it, since every gold-furred inch of him was on display: his soaking wet golden head and his strong throat, the brown rings of nipples nesting in the darker blond hair that veed down to the flat stom-ach, the manhood flanked
by
powerful thighs, the bare toes curled on the cold stones of the storeroom floor.

Jane went hot and cold all over, then stayed hot. She couldn't seem to make herself stop staring, though.

She was rooted in the doorway, her heart thudding frantically in her chest as the erotic dreams she'd had about this stranger chose this moment to replay through her mind in vivid, detail.

She supposed anyone who constantly carried around the weight of all that armor had to be strong; she'd felt how muscular he was when she rode with him back to the castle. It just hadn't occurred to her working mind that the hard-muscled body would be this beautiful. His flesh was so, so perfect, the lines perfectly proportioned. Her fingers began itching to trace the outline of his upper arms and pectoral

mus-cles. To follow the curve of his chest down to ...

She gave a hard swallow and cleared her throat.

He didn't seem particularly embarrassed. He was, in fact, smirking in an insufferably self-satisfied way.

He was perfectly aware he was gorgeous. It made her want to kick him.

Annoyance helped her recall her dignity. "What,"

she demanded a bit belatedly, "are you doing here?" "I was going to take a bath," he replied instantly.

"How did you get in here?"

He glanced at a pile of clothing in a comer. It sud-denly occurred to her that he'd been the soldier who'd come in during the night. Of course, it couldn't have been anyone else. She'd heard chain mail. No mere man-at-arms was equipped with such expensive armor.

"Why did Berthild let you in here?"

He shrugged. She really wished he would cover himself. She really wished she could take her eyes off him.

"I always sleep here when I visit Passfair. Actual-ly"—he put his hands on his narrow waist and looked her up and down—"I've always taken the bed in the alcove before."

Her skin went hot all over again. It was a heat that began and concentrated most fiercely in the deep core of her. The look in his eyes was enough to start a sensual prickling along her nerve endings. She gripped the fur tighter around her body. She sudden-ly felt vulnerable and far too much alone. She was a giantess to all the others, but near Daffyd ap Bleddyn she felt small and vulnerable. If he took a step toward her, she didn't know what she'd do. She didn't know what she wanted to do.

"Get out," she said, her voice ragged with tension.

The smirk turned into a full-fledged leer. "The water's nice and warm." He gestured to the tub. "Care to join me?"

"Get out!" she repeated, louder this time. "You have no business being in my quarters. Sir Daffyd."

"You didn't seem to mind a few moments ago." He took the step forward she'd been fearing. "What's wrong now?"

She stood her ground, though she wanted to duck around him and run down to the hall. She'd be safe there, surrounded by people who listened to her when she gave them an order.

"I'm not interested in any dalliance," she told him fiercely. "Not with you!"

"Who do you have in mind?" his deep, chocolate voice rumbled sarcastically. "With the lad gone there's not much else of interest available." The leer turned into a very seductive smile. "I'm available."

"I'm not," she snapped angrily. "I'm going to be a nun."

"You weren't looking at me like any nun I've known." The superior smirk returned. "At least not at first."

"I'm a widow," she pointed out hastily, refusing to show just how much he was both embarrassing and infuriating her. "I know what a man's for and how to look at one. I was comparing you to my dear, late lord." She drew herself up haughtily. "And believe me. Sir Daffyd, I found you wanting."

He shrugged again. "Suit yourself, lady." He turned toward the bath. And climbed in while she stood sputtering in indignation. As he sank into the water, he added, "I thought you were the one who was wanting."

He then proceeded nonchalantly to scrub himself while she fled back into the alcove. She dressed hur-riedly, then marched through the storeroom, head held high, eyes averted. His deep laughter followed her all the way to the hall.

She was barely calm enough to face him by the

time he came sauntering down the stairs, fully clothed at last. She finished her conversation with the cook while the Welshman grabbed himself a break-fast of bread and cheese. Even though he was at the table, and she was half a room away from him at the hearth, she was far too aware of his every move. After the cook went back to his duties. Sir Daffyd approached her.

"You are leaving this morning, aren't you, Sir Daffyd?" she inquired with chilly politeness as he came to the hearth.

His hazel-green eyes were bright with wicked amusement. "After I speak with Lady Sibelle, yes."

"Lady Sibelle is indisposed. I'm afraid she won't be able to see you. In fact," she added, "Lady Sibelle is going to be too busy to see anyone for some time to come."

He crossed his arms, the amusement in his expres-sion turning to skepticism. "Busy? Doing what?"

She had to tell somebody. She was dying to tell somebody. This arrogant Welshman would just have to do. "She will be busy being turned into the sort of bride Sir Stephan wishes. It's a lady's duty to please her lord, after all," she added in justification of her plan. "My duty is to help her."

"Help her what? I hear the girl's a witless, fat lump."

"Not witless. And lumps can be rearranged. It just takes a little work."

"I doubt it can be done."

"How do you know? You've never even met the girl."

"I would if you'd give me the chance."

She discovered she and Sir Daffyd were standing nose to nose, their hands-on-hips stances mirroring each other. She took a step back. "The lady is indis-posed," she repeated.

He gave a frustrated growl, but before they could resume the argument, DeCorte and two men in black surcoats similar to Sir Daffyd's came hurrying into the hall.

"Sir Daffyd," DeCorte boomed out. "News of Sikes."

Sir Daffyd deserted the hearth to speak to the men. "Where?"

"A group of merchants were attacked on the Can-terbury road. Five miles west of the town. Two dead."

"Damn! I thought the outlaws were holed up in Blean; instead they've circled around behind us. How many men did you bring from Reculver?"

"Ten."

"Fine. Let's ride." He glanced at DeCorte. "Have someone saddle my horse."

"Lady Jehane already ordered your horse saddled."

"I see." He threw an annoyed glance over his shoulder. "Out," he ordered his men. He waited a moment after they'd gone. "Lady Jehane?" His voice dripped with honey.

"Yes?"

"I'll offer you a wager about the girl."

"Oh? What is there to wager about?" Somehow she felt up to any challenge the man could offer.

"I'll wager there's no improving the girl," he dared her. "I'll give you two months to prove to me I'm wrong. What say you?"

Jehane remembered her bags full of silks and gems and spices. They made her a very rich woman. She was thoroughly annoyed by his complacent certainty. "All right," she agreed.

He fingered the heavy gold hoop in his right ear. "This might look well on you."

As if anyone would ever see her earlobes. Still, it was very nice. More important, she'd know she'd won it from the disdainful Sir Daffyd. Fair and square. "I can match its value," she confirmed.

He shook his head slowly, his face taking on a sul-try expression as his eyes caressed her from head to foot. His voice was a seductive purr when he told her, "I don't want your gold."

He didn't want gold? "Silk or spices?" she ques-tioned.

Another negative shake of his head. His eyes caught hers, and Sir Daffyd smiled. It wasn't the smirk she'd seen before; this was a sensual curving of the lips. His gold-flecked eyes glowed heatedly. It set Jane's blood racing. "I'll have you, lady," he told her.

Jane's breath caught in her throat. For a moment she was frozen, half in surprise, half in hope. Then he laughed softly, and outrage took over from other stunned senses.