Linda Needham (12 page)

He looked away to her bed, then back at her. “My deepest apologies, Talia. Good night.”

She watched him leave, clutching her arms against the cold he left behind.

What a horribly ironic state of affairs: the only
man she’d ever consider marrying was the only one who refused to consider it. The only man she could possibly trust to keep them safe from the war.

De Monteneau was correct, of course. He had the right to sell her to whomever he pleased, to marry her off to his cousin or the king’s chandler or to his saddlepack for that matter.

She’d gotten used to the man’s presence—that was all. To his smile and his good nature. She’d felt gratitude toward him, and a tantalizing bit of hope.

But not love. Love was for simpletons, and she was wiser than that.

Wise enough to have realized long ago that de Monteneau hadn’t been merely biding his time before marrying her himself.

That he had other plans for his life, better brides to consider, with larger coffers and consequential titles to wed.

Business.

She could hardly grudge him his motives; she was in business herself.

And she had a castle to raze.

“T
he king is coming here to Carrisford, my lord? When? Does the message say?”

“He’ll be here in two weeks, Quigley.” Alex went to the guardhouse window, wondering absurdly how long it would take to find a bridegroom for Talia. He ought to be paying attention to Dougal and the rest of his staff, which now included Talia’s old steward. “He and I will be consulting together on the plans for the spring campaign.”

“’At’s a right splendid honor, my lord,” Quigley said, whistling his appreciation as he lowered himself onto the bench beside Dougal.

Alex held back the persistent yawn that had threatened all morning. A tangible sign of his restless night, wrestling with his final image of Talia.

Her quiet, disdainful anger at him. His altogether ridiculous guilt over a business decision.

“As far as the king’s lodgings, my lord,” Dougal said, “do we make ready for his lady queen as well?”

Simon groaned and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Please God, not that useless boy of his.”

“Just Stephen,” Alex said, “and a few of his advisors. Fifty all told.” Not a crippling burden on Carrisford’s precious stores because Stephen would supply his own, madam, he said to the absent woman who would demand that very answer.

Just as she had demanded a say in the choosing of a husband. Bloody hell! He’d wrestled the lot of them all night, as well.

Thick men and tall ones.

Warriors and earls.

Young men and the elderly.

The fair and the wise.

All of them looking at Talia with lust in their eyes and vileness in their black hearts.

Damnation! He slapped his gloves against his thigh, realizing that he had been watching for her in the courtyard below. Anticipating a sighting. The graceful flow of her skirts around her ankles.

“You asked for a detailed map of the castle and its village, my lord. Are you going to be needing that before the king arrives?”

“Aye, Jasper.”

Good God, he just realized: Conrad would doubtless be with Stephen.

A reasonable man. A friend. Unmarried.

The perfect sort of bridegroom.

Then why did the thought of it drop the ground from under his feet?

“Dougal will help you with the map.”

A bargaining tool to show off Carrisford Castle in its best light.

Not that he wanted to trick Conrad or any other potential bridegroom into thinking that he would be wedding himself to a rich fortune and a flawless castle. The truth would be immediately obvious.

As obvious as the startling beauty of the lady to be wedded in the bargain.

Though he found himself searching for Talia, he didn’t see her at all that day, though he’d sensed her vanilla fragrance trailing through the bailey, and felt the lavishness of her goodwill upon the spirits of his men in the lists and her presence in the great hall during the evening meal.

Hell, he was watching for her as though he was a stripling lad waiting for a glimpse of his first love, his pulse racing, his heart crashing around inside his chest when he thought he’d caught sight of her.

But he hadn’t.

It wasn’t until late afternoon the next day that
he saw her again. He was in the gristmill, and felt her, quite suddenly, in the doorway, so businesslike with her mouth set and rosy, and her cloak and her overloaded basket, her fine face laced with curls poking from the edge of her linen cap.

“What are you doing here in the mill, Alex?” As though she believed she had any right to question him about his activities.

“I might ask the same of you, madam,” he said over the clatter of his heart, the slowing, surge of hot fluids through his veins that shook his fingers as he set the quill into the horn.

“A good afternoon to you, lass.” Quigley grinned fondly at the woman over the top of his map; Dougal looked simply besotted with her, as most of his men did.

“My thanks for the infusion after last eve’s supper,” Dougal said, climbing to his feet. “Settled my rocky stomach right away.”

“You’re most welcome, Dougal, anytime. You know where to find me.”

Hell’s hoarfrost,
Alex
certainly had no luck finding her last night, he’d prowled the battlements and the family ward, the kitchen and the great hall.

“But I’m most interested in knowing what you three are doing in the mill. It’s idle.”

“Idle for months it seems, madam. Why is
that?” Alex turned away from her disarming gaze and studied the complex of gears.

“I tried to explain to His Lordship how it’s been lately, my lady.” Quigley hobbled over to her side, and she enfolded his gnarled old hand inside hers.

“Yes, I know, Quigley. You see, my lord, to be of any use, a gristmill needs grain,” she said, as though he hadn’t an intelligent thought in his head. “And we have none in the village granary. Please tell me you have found a stray cache of wheat or barley somewhere.”

“That isn’t my point, madam.” Though it was definitely a problem: He hadn’t seen any grain but the stores he’d brought himself, and the village would need a sturdy supply come winter. “Will you leave us, Dougal, Quigley?”

His seneschal was too interested in the conversation, Quigley too protective of his lady, and Alex had much more than gristmills to discuss with the woman.

“Straightaway, my lord.” Dougal rolled up the half-finished map of the village.

“Be kind to the man, my lady.” Quigley patted Talia on the shoulder, gaining only a glower from her as he hurried out with Dougal.

When she turned back to Alex, her frown was making tiny puckers of the inner edges of her brows.

“What was Dougal doing, my lord? With the parchment, all those lines and forms.”

His guilt returned full force, but he shoved it aside. “A map of the village, and an inventory. Including this mill. Which does work.”

“Aye, it does quite well, when the water’s diverted to the wheel. When we have grain.” She plunked her basket down on the table. The sun slanted into the mill through the high windows, glinting bits of gold along the strands of her hair. “But why do you need a map? And what has all this to do with the king’s visit?”

Not that she had the right to know any of his commerce, but the woman seemed to take comfort in the truth, and he could afford to dole it out to her. “The map is so that I can locate each of Carrisford’s assets.”

She perched a hip on the edge of a stack of worn millstones. “You’re very good, Alex. Creating the best possible impression of your ward and her merchandise.”

Hardly deniable. “The more I know about Carrisford, the better for both of us, Talia.”

She paused, cocked her head, and asked softly, “By the way, have you anyone in mind for me?”

“Possibly.” Alex turned from the potent clarity of her gaze, to run his hand along the edge of the thick wooden gear. But she caught his arm and turned him easily, with the sizzling, featherweight of her touch.

“Possibly, Alex?
Possibly
who do you mean? An earl, a squire, a shepherd? Who?” She was glaring up at him with fierce blue eyes, unbowed. “If you’ve decided my fate already, I’d appreciate a hint.”

His mind thick with images of Talia becoming another man’s wife, Alex raked his fingers through his hair, needing a breath of air that didn’t hold her sweetness, craving more of her than he could hold.

“Good God, Talia, I’ve only just started thinking about the matter.”

“And
I
haven’t stopped.”

“I have far more on my mind than your groom.”

“The king’s visit, I know.”

At least she’d changed the bloody subject to something he understood, something that didn’t tighten his chest and rile his stomach. “Aye, the king’s visit. As well as consulting with him on his spring campaign.”

She crossed her arms under her lovely breasts, then stuck an impatient foot out from under her hem. “Oh, and what exactly does consulting with the king on a campaign mean?”

Pride, for one. “Trust in my military skills.”

“I thought you said he was just passing through. Now you’re going to help plot his wars?”

“Yes.” Though he knew that scowl, now he was in his element. “It means planning battles, fore
casting the number of archers and cavalry, deciding who will captain the vanguard, organizing supply lines.”

“Why is the king coming all the way to Carrisford to plan this campaign, my lord, when he could do it anywhere else in the kingdom?”

“Because, Stephen is fairly certain that this is the direction…”

Hell. A trap. A sodding, silken web of a trap, and he’d walked right into it.

“So I was right.” She was tapping her foot on the planking. “Because he is certain that the war will come this way in the spring.”

“The king is a mortal man, Talia. He can’t be absolutely sure of anything.” Feeling older than the sea, Alex sat on the edge of the table. “Gloucester will doubtless rise in the west again—”

“And the sun in the east.”

“It’s my job, Talia. My duty to advise the king, to do my utmost to see that he wins the war.” He understood her helplessness. He felt it, too. The empty places, and the days stretching out before him.

“Well, then, Alex,” she said, flicking him an impatient frown after a long, heated study of his face, “I suggest that we get to work. Time is short for both of us.”

She picked up her basket and stalked out of the mill without a backward glance at him.

Summarily dismissed as only Talia could do.
He’d have called her back, but he couldn’t think of a single thing to say that would soothe her.

And she was just too tempting.

“Bloody kings and their bloody wars.”

And thieving lords.

And Alex de Monteneau, with his false promises.

Weary of digging at the endless joints of mortar, Talia stowed the hammer and chisel, rolled up Jasper’s mason’s chart for the night, and stuck it behind a barrel. She threw her cloak over her shoulders, then climbed the stairs out of the east tower cellar only to find herself face-to-face with Alex on the landing.

Dear God, he knew! He was coming to accuse her of high crimes against him! Her heart took off like a hare, still she managed to say, “Good evening, Alex.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, though there was a lilt to his voice. “I warn you, madam, that planning a coup against me or the king won’t gain you anything but trouble.”

“What exactly would a coup involve?” She started across the bailey, hoping he’d follow her far away from the cellar. “If I had the resources to start my own kingdom, I might give it a try.”

He laughed long, and she liked the deeply rich sound of it, liked the feel of him striding beside her. “I do believe you would, madam.”

He thought she was joking, that she had decided that it was all right just to stand by and let them murder her people.

“Tell me, what sort of castle are you looking for, Alex? Very large, I suppose.” His frown pleased her, egged her on. “For that matter, what kind of an heiress are you looking for? Beautiful, of course.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Well endowered?”

“She would have to be.”

“Bearing a hefty title from a powerful father who died in service to the king?”

He cleared his throat. Or was that a growl? “I prefer not to talk about it.”

“I can probably advise you on both points, Alex. After all, I do have a castle. And I am an heiress.”

“You’ve grown remarkably reasonable since last night, Talia,” he said, opening the door to the keep and holding it open for her.

“Resigned to my fate,” she said, feeling his gaze follow her as she walked past him, a light, lifting sensation that grazed her nape.

“You’re not the resigning sort.”

She’d done a fine job of distracting him from the excavation site; now if she could just keep him off-balance until the castle was ready to fall.

Dangerous business, but it might be fun to wield so much power.

“What I mean, Alex, is that I no longer have to worry that you’re going to grab me by the hair and drag me off to the altar.”

He caught her elbow, stopped her, forcing her to look up at him. “I would never have. You know that.”

Pleased at the turn of his mood, she leaned back against the door to the solar, feeling loose-moraled and liking it a little too much. “Though you would sell me to just anyone.”

“Damn it, Talia, I’m not selling you—”

“Bartering me, then.” She lifted a shoulder in a rueful shrug and wound her finger around his cloak cords. “Perhaps you should post a sign out on the road, ‘One bride available. Make offer.’”

“Talia—”

“Though I suppose it would take an educated man to read such a sign.” She made a great show of considering the meaning of this, watching the frown deepening in his eyes. “A civilized man, one of accomplishment and learning. Which, I suppose, is better than some lowborn brute who has slaughtered his way into his fortune.”

The man’s nostrils actually flared. “Are you finished?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suppose it’s time to tell you that I…do have someone in mind for you.”

Alex saw the chord that he struck in her; she came to a complete stop for the briefest moment, a
flaw in the forward motion of time. Then she went back to brazenly fingering his cloak, her knee brushing his, driving him ever so mad.

“A hairy old ogre I expect,” she said, fingers idling between the cords.

“A friend, actually. A good man.” The best he could find. Because he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her with anything less.

Her brow fretted as she straightened, and sighed, a saucy courage in it. “Do I trust your definition of a good man, Alex? Because you have me entirely at your mercy. My future is only as safe as the breadth of your honor.”

He was painfully aware of that. Another criterion to use in measuring his search for a buyer—

Hell, not a
buyer
, a marriage partner for his ward.

For the woman with the liquid blue eyes and the wide-open invitation for him to stay.

“Come.” Fearing that he’d do something untoward here in the vestibule, Alex opened the door to his chamber and pulled her inside. “Believe what you will of me; Talia, I do have a few scruples.”