Julie Garwood - [3 Book Box Set] (6 page)

The child looked relieved. The lord watched him run to the door, wishing the boy to smile instead of frown and wondering why he felt this way. The fever must have left him weak in spirit as well as body, he decided.

“My lord?” the boy asked from the doorway, his back facing the leader so that his expression was hidden.

“Yes?” the lord answered impatiently.

“Are you my father?” He turned then, and Geoffrey had a clear view of the torment and confusion on the boy’s face.

“No.”

His answer brought tears to the youngster’s eyes. Lord Geoffrey glanced at Roger with an expression that clearly stated, “Now what?” Roger cleared his throat and muttered to the boy, “He is not your father, lad. He is your lord. Your father was his vassal.”

“My father is dead?”

“Aye,” Geoffrey answered. “And you are in my care now.”

“To train to be a knight?” the boy asked with a frown.

“Yes, to train to be a knight.”

“You are not my father, but you are my lord,” the boy stated very matter-of-factly. “ ’Tis almost the same thing,” he announced, challenging Lord Geoffrey with an unwavering stare. “Is it not?”

“Yes,” the warrior answered with exasperation. “ ’Tis the same.”

Neither the lord nor Roger said another word until the door was closed behind the child. They could hear him boasting to the guards posted at the door, and Roger was the first to smile. “Thomas surely had his hands full with that one,” he chuckled. “And he was not a young man when the boy came along, if my mind serves me well.”

“How could I have forgotten?” the leader asked. “Thomas had several children, all female, and fully grown before his wife gave him a son. His pride reached London,” Geoffrey added.

“And the girl?” Roger asked.

“She is his sister. You have only to look at the boy’s eyes, Roger, to see the truth. They are replicas of hers.” Geoffrey swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. His legs felt weak but he braced them against the side of the bed and took a deep breath, willing himself strength. “She hides from me, Roger, and I will know the reason.”

“We were told that the entire family was killed,” Roger said. “And the boy was dressed as a peasant . . .”

“Obviously for his protection, for he is heir to Montwright. . . . ”

“The servant who tried to take the lad, perhaps he can tell you the answers to this riddle,” Roger advised.

“Yes. I am sure he knows where his mistress hides,” Geoffrey agreed. “He will tell me why she is afraid.”

“Afraid?” Roger laughed. “I doubt she is afraid of anyone or anything. Why, she had all of us doing her bidding. Horace tells all who will listen how the golden one walked into the great hall and enchanted all who were present. All but me,” Roger added.

“You were not enchanted?” the leader inquired with one raised eyebrow.

“Humbled,” Roger admitted with a sheepish grin. “I am too old to be enchanted.”

Geoffrey chuckled and walked over to look out the window. He stared out at the forest while he listened to Roger.

“When I first saw her, I was filled with anger. I did not expect a slip of a girl to tend you and I was convinced that you were dying. But she knew what she was about. Her lack of fear intrigued me. She was a contradiction,” Roger admitted, “but I noticed the vulnerability in her when she asked me about the boy. I was too exhausted at the time to put two and two together. I see the connection now.”

“Why did she leave, knowing that her home was once again secure? To chance the outside when she could be well protected here . . . ” Geoffrey turned from the window and added, “I
will
find her.”

“And when you do?” Roger asked.

“I will make her mine,” the warrior answered in a hard, determined voice. “She will be mine.”

The vow was made.

It took less than an hour to conduct the necessary business of righting Montwright. Roger had been most efficient, and the men were all hard at work reinforcing the walls. Lord Geoffrey dressed—all in black, as was his mood—and waited impatiently in the great hall for the servant to be brought before him.

He was becoming wild with anger, frustration, and worry. Finding the girl before harm befell her was becoming an obsession. He admitted as much but could not explain it. He only knew that seeing her in the forest before the battle to regain Montwright Manor was indeed an omen, and the omen had become reality, had it not, when he awakened to find her caring for him? His reasoning reeked of superstition, yet he was powerless to control it, and for the first time in his twenty-seven years, he found himself ruled by emotion. It was a chilling admission. Emotion had no place in his
life. It clouded reason. Discipline and logic, as cold and sharp as the blade he swung for power’s sake, ruled his every action. And it would be so again, he pledged, just as soon as the girl was found. Found and claimed.

“Here he is, my lord,” Roger said from the doorway. He shoved the trembling servant to the floor in front of the lord.

Lord Geoffrey turned from his position in front of the hearth and gave the servant a hard look. “Your name?”

“I am called Joseph, my lord. Loyal servant to Thomas,” he added. The servant knelt and bowed his head, showing his respect.

“You have a strange way of proving your loyalty to Thomas,” Geoffrey said in a hard voice. “Trying to take his heir to the outside could well cost you your life.”

“I meant him no harm, my lord,” Joseph whispered. “I was trying to protect him.”

“Protect him from me?” Geoffrey’s bellow fairly unnerved the servant.

He shook his head and tried to find his voice. “Nay, my lord! We only thought to keep little Thomas safe until you were recovered.”

“And you thought him unsafe here?” Geoffrey asked.

“It was overheard that Belwain, uncle to little Thomas, had been sent for. My mistress believes that Belwain was behind the murders of her family. She did not want Thomas here when her uncle arrived.”

“And that is why she has left?” Geoffrey asked, rubbing his chin in a thoughtful gesture.

“Aye, my lord.” Joseph sagged his shoulders and chanced a look at the fiercesome man before him.

“And are you loyal to me?” Geoffrey asked.

“Aye, my lord,” Joseph answered, placing a hand on his chest where his heart beat a wild pace.

“Stand and prove your loyalty,” Geoffrey demanded in a harsh voice.

Joseph immediately obeyed. He stood with his head slightly bowed and waited for the next order. It was not long in coming.

“Tell me where your mistress hides.”

“Near the waterfall, about an hour’s ride from here, my lord,” Joseph answered without hesitation. “When she learns that you are awake, she will return to talk with you,” he predicted.

“Her name?” Geoffrey demanded, though his tone was not as forceful now that he knew the servant would cooperate.

“She is Elizabeth, and she is youngest daughter to Thomas,” Joseph answered. His hands began to ache, and he only then realized he was gripping them. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he tried to calm himself.

“Was she here when the attack began?”

“Yes, my lord,” Joseph replied, shivering with the memory. “All but Lady Elizabeth and her little brother were killed. I was able to help them escape but not before they both witnessed their mother—”

“I know,” Geoffrey interrupted. “I was given the body count. . . and the way of their deaths was recounted to me.” His mouth settled into a grim line at the memory of Roger’s recent description of the mutilated bodies. “And you say she witnessed this?”

“Both she and the boy. The little lad has not spoken a word since, until today,” he amended. “And he seems to have no memory of the event.”

“Do you know who was behind the attack?” he asked the servant.

“I did not recognize any of them, for several wore black hoods, but my mistress believes Belwain responsible. With your permission, my lord, I will bring her to you.”

“No,” Geoffrey answered. “
I
will bring her back.”

Roger’s voice interrupted the discussion. “My lord? The priest has arrived.”

Geoffrey nodded, inwardly sighing with relief. Though the dead had been buried, they had not been blessed. “See-to his comforts, Roger. He is to stay here until I return.”

“May I show you the way to the waterfall, my lord?” Joseph’s timid voice turned Lord Geoffrey’s attention back to him.

“No,” Geoffrey answered. “I go alone. Her father was a loyal vassal. It is my duty. You have done your mistress a disservice by keeping silent, but I will not fault you, for I have heard of her stubborn inclination. And you did save her life. I will not forget that! Still, the responsibility for her well-being now rests with me. Your job is done.”

Joseph felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He watched Lord Geoffrey as he strode out of the hall, thinking that Elizabeth would indeed be well protected. Lord Geoffrey appeared to be a man of steel, Joseph gauged, and his strength would be Elizabeth’s shield against all who would try to harm her. One question remained, nagging Joseph from the recesses of his mind: who would protect Lady Elizabeth from Lord Geoffrey?

Not a cloud marred the horizon as Geoffrey made his way through the forest in search of the waterfall. He had ridden hard for over an hour when the sound of rushing water, echoing through the lush green foliage, drew his attention. He quickly dismounted and secured the reins to the nearest tree branch and then began to make his way through the denseness. The mist from the cascading water mixed with the heat from the afternoon sun and formed a blanket of steam that covered his boots.

He knew from Joseph’s description that the hut was
well hidden within a cluster of trees just beyond the gathering pool. He was headed in that direction when a splash, followed by a faint cough, stopped his advance. Geoffrey automatically drew his sword and turned, waiting for another sound that would give him advantage over his enemy, when he caught a glimmer of gold reflected through the branches. He moved slightly to get a better look. His breath caught in his throat at the sight before him. His vision—the golden one, as his men had so aptly named her—rose out of the water like the goddess Aphrodite. He watched, hypnotized, as she moved to the shallow end of the pool and stood. Her legs were braced apart and she stretched her arms high over her head in a lazy, unhurried motion. Streamers of sunlight poured through the canopy of branches and bathed his goddess in gold.

With a slow, graceful motion, Elizabeth brushed the hair back from her forehead. She sighed, content for the moment, enjoying the feel of the sun’s warmth upon her shoulders and the contrasting cold of the clear water slapping against her legs. She forced herself to block all thoughts, all worries. In her heart she knew that her trusted servant would move heaven and earth to hide Thomas from Belwain’s eyes, until Geoffrey could be made to listen. But the waiting . . . it was becoming unbearable. Perhaps the fever had returned, and the warrior was dead. Perhaps Belwain had arrived at Montwright and convinced everyone that he had nothing to do with the murders. Stop, she demanded. There is nothing to be done but wait, she told herself. Wait and pray. A woman’s lot in life, Elizabeth decided with despair.

Scooping water into her cupped hands, she poured the liquid down her neck. Geoffrey was close enough to see her shiver, to watch the drops of water slip down between her full breasts, past the narrow waist he was sure he could span with but one hand, and farther down, into the blond, curly triangle at the junction of
her legs. Her nipples grew hard from the chill but it was Geoffrey who shivered in reaction. Innocent sensuality radiated with her every motion and Geoffrey was hard-pressed to control his emotions, to suppress the primitive desire raging inside of him.

The gentle sway of her hips as she walked from the pool and gathered her clothes nearly made him wild with need. He took a deep breath, gaining control. He was Baron Geoffrey, overlord of all William had bequeathed! He would not take her now, though he thought he would go mad if he didn’t taste her soon. Yes, he would have her. Of that there wasn’t any question. She would belong to him. It was a simple fact of life. The law. What the lord wanted, he took.

The dogs Geoffrey remembered suddenly appeared at their mistress’s side, hovering while she completed her dress. The animals were huge creatures, but from the way they both nudged her as she turned and disappeared into the forest, Geoffrey knew they would protect her well.

He was about to replace his sword and follow Elizabeth to the hut when an abrupt scream penetrated the stillness. It was a woman’s scream. Geoffrey raced toward the sound, his sword at the ready. He could hear the dogs’ ferocious growls, screams and shouts from men . . . at least three, judging from the different guttural sounds. Geoffrey crashed into the clearing in front of the hut and took in the tableau in one second’s breath of time. There were three of them. Two were struggling with the dogs while the third half-carried, half-dragged the resisting girl toward the hut. The sight of such filth holding such beauty, his beauty, completed the transformation. The fair and noble ruler of the manor was gone, replaced by the Herculean warrior intent on a single action: to kill. There would be no hearing, no fairness, no understanding. The enemy had dared to touch what was his, and whether they realized
that fact or not bore no significance. The price for their lust, for their stupidity, would be death.

The warrior’s bellow of outrage stilled Elizabeth’s attacker. Terror washed the lust from his eyes as he flung Elizabeth from his arms and turned to face the challenge. The look of fury on the warrior’s face changed the attacker’s mind. He turned to look for a means of escape from the intent he read in those cold black eyes. His hesitation was his death sentence. Geoffrey’s blade whistled as it sliced through the air, guided by the warrior’s strong arm, until it plunged down through the man’s shoulder, cutting bone and muscle as easily as if they were sheep’s fur, in its quest to find and pierce the heart. With one additional jerk of his wrist, Geoffrey completed the kill, removed the sword, and turned to deal with the two men behind him. “Call your animals,” he ordered over his shoulder, and Elizabeth, stumbling to her feet, obeyed without question.