Anita Mills (21 page)

“His lordship’s temper is improved,” Helewise remarked as she worked to even the cuffs.

“Alas, but I cannot take credit for that,” Elizabeth murmured in answer.

Moving to a low bench, she sat for the woman to do her hair and stared unseeing across the dim room, her thoughts still on Giles of Moray. Unlike those others who paid her lavish compliments to gain her hand, he’d been straightforward. And he wanted her—as much as that frightened her, she could see it in his eyes. It was as it had been when she was but a child too small to remember much else, but she could recall the fascination, mixed with fear, she’d had with fire. Aye, so it was with her fear of him. It was odd that he’d said he would give her fire, for he could not have known what that meant to her.

She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and leaned forward as Helewise worked the comb through the tangled mane. What she feared most, she admitted to herself, was that she was not as other females, for had not Ivo turned away from her in disgust? Aye, that and the fact that she could not let any man humiliate her again. She’d not see pity in the eyes of her own servants again. Nay, if she went to a man, she’d go on her terms.

Suddenly, it was as though the answer came to her with astonishing clarity. And if Moray accepted the impossible plan that she would propose, she need not cease to be her father’s daughter, she need not fail her oath, and yet she would know what it was to lie with a man. And she would use her rank to save her from humiliation.

Abruptly, Elizabeth pulled away. “Nay, ‘tis all right. I’d finish the combing myself, for ‘tis so tangled you give me tears. I’d have you find the one called Willie and ask that his lord attend me. Later, when all else is settled, I’d have you plait my hair ere we ride.”

“I don’t—” the woman began nervously.

“Aye, he’ll come.” Elizabeth moved restlessly to the closed arrow slit, but did not unlatch the shutter that covered it. Her body and mind were both so taut that she feared to break into pieces. “Go on,” she urged Helewise, knowing that if the woman did not hurry, she could well lose her resolve.

“What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him I have his answer.”

When she was alone, she wondered what she was doing. To hide her agitation even from herself she crossed her arms, sliding her hands into the wide sleeves to hold herself, and paced the rush-strewn floor. She hoped he would come quickly—ere she found herself unable to do it.

And when at last she heard his footsteps on the stone stairs, her hands and feet went cold. Her palms were damp, her mouth dry as he came through the arched doorway. He stopped, watching her almost warily. The thought crossed her mind that he would not make this easier for her.

“My lord,” she began in a voice that sounded alien to her own, “in the absence of my father, I’d negotiate my marriage.” Then, before he could speak, she hastened on. “There is much to what you have said to me, and I accept it for the truth. I will take you for my husband, Giles of Moray—on condition.”

He stood, rooted to the floor, scarce able to believe what he’d heard. But she faced him, her head held high, her green eyes fixed on his face, waiting. And he knew there was none to compare with her, not in Scotland nor in England—nor anywhere else on earth, he was certain of that. And whatever she cost him, he’d pay it gladly to have her for his wife. He breathed deeply to clear his head before walking across the room to her, hoping her words were more than a ruse to effect her escape.

“Name your conditions.”

He’d stopped but two English feet from her, and there was nothing lover-like in his voice or his mien to encourage her. Her heart pounded loudly in her breast, its beat reverberating in the pulse at her temple so loudly that she scarce could think. She sucked in her breath, then plunged ahead with her preposterous offer.

“I will wed with you if you will allow me to return to Harlowe.”

“ ’Tis a trick,” he retorted harshly. “Nay.”

“My lord, I am sworn—”

“ ‘My
lord, I am sworn,’
” he mimicked. “Jesu, but you must take me for a fool, Elizabeth! What do you think to do? Would you plead you were forced?” he gibed. “Nay, but you will stay with me. I’d not let you go to hear you have appealed to Holy Church to set your vows aside.”

Her chin came up. “If I conceive, I’d bear my babe there, my lord—I’d be with my grandmother then.”

“Why?”

“Because he will be born of the blood of Harlowe and Brione, of Rivaux and the Condes,” she answered proudly.

“But he will rule Dunashie, Elizabeth. Where he is born cannot change that.”

“Aye, but he will be of Harlowe at least—I can give him that.”

“ ’Tis the only reason?”

“Nay,” she admitted, “I’d keep my oath to my father.”

“Jesu!”

“My lord, I can do no less.” Her eyes met his steadily. “I knelt and swore to be my father’s man in this.”

“And what am I to do? Wait for this accursed war to end?” he demanded. “Do you come back to me then?”

“Aye.”

“This is your condition?”

“One of them.”

“And the others?”

She passed her tongue over her dry lips, wetting them. “I’d be treated as my rank demands, my lord— I’d be treated as befits Rivaux’s daughter.”

“I said I would treat you well,” he reminded her. “There will be none at Dunashie to deny my lady her due—and none to forget that you are born of the blood of Rivaux. Nay, but they will honor you for it.”

“Aye, but I would have an agreement between us. I’d have a marriage contract written. ’Tis not a mere knight’s daughter you would wed, my lord. I’d have my rights—I’d sit in your house according to my birth rather than my marriage.”

His jaw worked as he sought to hold his temper. “You would have me write that you may leave me—aye, and that you will sit above me ere you do? Jesu, but you overvalue yourself, Lady Elizabeth! Do you also mean to have it written when I may come to your bed?” he asked sarcastically.

“Nay,” she answered soberly. “I will lie with you at your will, but when ’tis determined I have conceived I’d go to do my duty to Harlowe.” She moved closer, so close she could discern the pupils in his black eyes. “And when Stephen loses his crown, I will return to you. I will write that also.”

“You take me for a fool!”

“If I ask Holy Church to dissolve the marriage, I make my own child a bastard. Nay, but I will return. Or if you wish, you may come to me there.”

“I have mine own lands to defend,” he reminded her. “And if you prove to be barren?”

“I give you two months to discover it—two months to get a babe of me. And whether I conceive or not, when this war is done, I will still return if you wish it.”

“Anything else?”

“Aye. I’d have bride clothes, for I am given no time to prepare for my wedding. I’d ask that you provide them in my father’s absence.”

Despite his anger at her, he realized what it had taken her to make the offer. And he did not want to force her to his bed without the marriage. “And if I agree, you come willing to me?” he said finally.

“Aye.”

“You will lie willing for me?”

“ ’Tis the same, is it not?”

“Nay. In the one, you take my name, and in the other, you take me. Aveline would have one without the other.”

“I am not Aveline, my lord.”

“Say it then.”

“Sweet Mary, but I know not the difference! If I have said I will bear your sons, I—” The intensity in his black eyes stopped her. She nodded, and despite the rush of blood to her face, she answered as he asked. “I will lie with you willingly, my lord. Now, do you accept my terms or not?”

“Aye.”

“Then naught’s to be done but to send for parchment and pen, is there?” she asked, feeling both relieved and yet afraid at what she’d done.

“There are the words to be spoken.” He held out his hand, scarred palm up. “And I’d hear them ere I sign.”

Drawing in a deep breath, she exhaled slowly in an attempt to calm her pounding heart, then laid her palm across his. Looking away, speaking with a strength she did not feel, she gave him her betrothal vow: “I, Elizabeth of Rivaux, plight my troth to you, Giles of Moray, lord of Dunashie, so help me God.”

“And I, Giles of Moray of Dunashie, promise to wed you, Elizabeth of Rivaux, as God is my witness.”

It was done then. As surely as if she’d stood in the cathedral at Rouen and exchanged her vows before the archbishop, she was tied to this man by a betrothal bond that could not be broken in this life. The marriage words that would follow would merely confirm this pledge. In the eyes of God, Church, and King, she was now as good as wed. She looked down selfconsciously, feeling the warmth of his hand as he squeezed hers.

“ ’Tis over,” she murmured, pulling away to hide the sudden shyness she felt.

“Nay. There is the matter of the betrothal kiss.”

The way he said it made her mouth go dry and her heart pause. She clenched her hands until her nails dug into her palms to still the rising panic she felt for what she had done.

“You said you’d come willing to me,” he reminded her. “I’d have you kiss me.”

“Aye.”

The word was little more than a whispered croak. Slowly, as though she were in a trance, she raised her lips to his, feeling the softness of his breath as she touched him. And that was the only softness in him.

This time when his arms closed around her there was no possibility of drawing back from him, of stopping him from doing what he would. She stood very still, letting his lips move on hers, parting her lips for his kiss. But again there was no gentleness in him. He tasted freely, plundering with his tongue, taking, until her senses reeled. She had to clasp his arms to keep her knees from buckling beneath the force of his embrace. And those arms were as hard and solid as if he wore his mail.

When he released her she steadied herself against him, before she dared to meet the unmistakable passion in his eyes. “Sweet Mary,” she whispered.

“I’d wed as soon as we reach Dunashie,” he told her. “I’d not wait.”

“Aye,” she managed despite her thudding heart.

His eyes traveled over his robe appreciatively. “ ’Twould seem it fits you better than me.” Then, realizing she shivered, he added, “At least the sun comes out, so ‘twill not be so cold to ride. How soon can you be ready to leave?”

“I have but to plait my hair, my lord.”

“Then we ride within the hour—you’d best break your fast ere we go, for ‘tis as hard a journey as the last.”

“But surely now—”

A harsh laugh escaped him. “I’d make you a wife ere you become again a widow, Elizabeth. Nay, but I’d still take no chances lest we are followed.” He turned to leave, saying over his shoulder, “Send word through your woman when you are ready.”

Even as he walked away from her he still seemed to fill the room. At the doorway to the stairwell he stopped and swung around to face her, a faint, sardonic smile curving his mouth. “Let us hope you breed, for you come dear to me, Elizabeth of Rivaux.”

“Nay, I will not beggar you for my bride clothes.”

“The bride clothes matter not—’tis my pride I’d hoped to keep.” Shrugging his shoulders, he turned again away, murmuring as much to himself as to her, “But then I am not a gentle man, so we are deserving of each other.”

As his footsteps faded on the stairs she stood listening, waiting for Helewise to return. Then, moving to the narrow slit, she unhooked the shutters to watch him cross the small, brown, grassy yard. It had ceased raining, and his black hair gleamed in the early morning sun. Her eyes traveled upward, over the rough-hewn stones of the old-fashioned square tower, to where the golden bear stood on black silk, its teeth still bared in defiance.

Involuntarily she touched her swollen lips, feeling again the demand of his mouth on hers. Sweet Mary, but what had she done? “
I am a hard man”
echoed in her mind. She hugged her arms against her and closed her eyes for a moment to still the qualms that rose in her breast. Aye, he was a hard man, but he was no Ivo, she consoled herself. He would give her sons and daughters of her body.

Owing to the rain-swollen burns they were a day late in arriving at Dunashie, and already the keep teemed with vassals come to witness Giles of Moray’s third wedding. That his bride was Guy of Rivaux’s eldest daughter heightened the curiosity of those who waited. Ragtag peasants lined the road between the wattle and daub houses of the small village and the castle that rose above, and visitors and household alike gathered above the gaily festooned gate to watch them ride in.

It was not nearly so mean a place as she’d imagined it, for the keep itself rose in stone, centered on a mound above a thick curtain wall. The barmekin, Willie called it. And the hillside was divided into two baileys, one sloping gently to the outer wall, its greening grass dotted with ewes nearly ready to lamb, the other terraced and ready for planting between the second wall and the keep. Heavy iron gates placed within the walls themselves were protected from above by murder holes, and as she rode beneath Elizabeth could look up and see the pitch vats. The only complaint she could make from the outside was that Dunashie lacked the natural defenses of Harlowe, Rivaux, or the Condes. It could be taken, if an enemy were willing to risk a great loss of men.

It was as though he knew her thoughts, for he leaned over his saddle to murmur, “Dunashie sits on an ancient site—’twas said to have been a pagan mound, and from what I have seen in the digging, it lays much as a Viking stronghold. But mayhap the Danes built on what they found, for the ground is not filled beneath. ’Twill take more than one siege machine to breach the wall. And we are not overgiven to sieges here—enemies raid and leave.”

“ ’tis larger than I expected,” she admitted.

“And stone,” he pointed out proudly. “When it came to me, .’twas naught but the peel tower and a charred ruin.”

“ ’Tis not your patrimony then?”

“Aye, ‘twas, but Harmon was slow to surrender it. A boy with a weak guardian was thought powerless to hold his inheritance.” His mouth drew into a bitter, hard line for a moment, then his expression cleared. “ ‘Twas folly on his part, Elizabeth, for a boy will grow to be a man.”