Linda Needham (5 page)

Feeling that she ought to run for her chamber, Talia put herself between the man and the door. “So, if you have no questions for me, then I’ll bid you a good night, my lord.”

Alex let the woman go, let her trail her hem across the scuffed tiles and out the door, let her believe that she could spout orders to him and that he would simply comply.

Or that he would risk everything he’d built his life upon on a scrap of feminine temper.

The woman would just have to learn differently.

He dried his hair, dressed, pulled on his boots, then took the double turn of stairs to her chamber on the landing above his.

Surprise had always served him well. So he lifted the latch on her door and strode right in.

But the surprise was all his this time.

She was standing in the middle of the chamber, half-turned toward the door, her kirtle in her hand. There was nothing between him and her soft flesh, those glorious legs, but her linen shift.

All the while the brazier flared wildly behind her, silhouetting her too perfectly.

Touché, madam
.

“You should keep your door locked, my lady. With a lust-driven lord housed just a few steps away, you never know what might happen.”

She chewed on that for a moment, then arched an eyebrow. “Ah, then we’re even, my lord, aren’t we?”

“Not nearly, my lady.” He enjoyed the crimson that rose from her gaping bodice, the whetted peaks of her breasts. He shut the door behind him
and opened his mouth to begin his own list of orders, but then noticed the room.

Wilting flowers had been woven into sagging greens, draping the bed hangings and winding down the poles. Pale petals were scattered across the plank floor and the counterpane. A small cask of wine and two cups perched on a chest at the foot of the bed.

An unsettling picture, framed by a half-clothed woman glowering at him from over her pale, finely formed shoulder, her hair free of its moorings.

“What’s all this?” Although he already knew at the core of him as he lifted a branching of laurel draped over the doorway. A leaf came off in his hand.

“’Tis a bride bed, my lord. A wedding bower. Or it would have been, if you hadn’t come when you did.”

A damned disruptive thought that made his gut churn. Bloody hell, if he’d arrived two minutes later…

A marriage interrupted.

A wedding night never completed.

And it pleased him deeply.

“But I did come, didn’t I?”

She took a deep, uneven breath. “I’ll admit, my lord, that in this one matter at least, I’m very grateful that you have such perfect timing.” She
turned from him, hitching her shift back onto her shoulder. “You’ve never married?”

“No.” It was an unbalancing question. One that he bloody well shouldn’t have answered so blithely, so quickly, not with her outrageous orders still clinging to him, unchallenged. But she had an unsubtle way about her, an honesty that he could only admire, no matter the trouble it might cause between them.

Unusual in a woman. Compelling in this one, standing now with her back to him as she laced up the front of her linen shift.

“Why haven’t you, my lord? You’re certainly old enough.”

A knight without land hadn’t much choice in the matter. Though now that he had Carrisford Castle and the king’s support…

“Circumstance, madam.” She didn’t need to know anything more.

“And children?” She went to the bed and unhooked a green garland from the drape. “How many have you fathered?”

“I have no children.”

“None that you know about, at least.” She draped the garland over a chair back and returned to the bed for another.

“You presume entirely too much.” He found himself standing beside her in the next breath, outraged to the marrow at her accusation, lifting
her chin with his fingers, forcing her to look up into his eyes. “I’ve fathered no bastards.”

“But you’re a soldier, after all. It’s all a part of the plundering, isn’t it? Planting your seed—”

“Enough, madam. I’ve come here to disabuse you of the notion that you will set the rules for this matter between us. That I would obey them.”

“You are my guardian, not my lord and master. Nor will you ever be.”

“And you, Lady Talia, are about to learn
my
rules.”

He allowed her to slip out of the circle of his arms. “Oh, and what might your rules be?”

“There’s but one for you to remember.”

“And that is?”

“Simply that I make all the rules and that you will obey them.”

She laughed lightly and swept the flower petals off the counterpane. “That’s two rules, my lord. I’d be happy to lease you my chaplain. He’s very good with figures.”

“I rule Carrisford in your name, madam,” he said, following her fluttering trail of petals.

She straightened and leveled a glare at him. “In that case, you will rule with honor and compassion, my lord guardian. And due respect for the lives of my people.”

“Bloody hell, woman! For the last time, I will administer your guardianship as I see fit, without your opinion or your interference.”

“And I will never marry you. Ply me with flowers or threaten me with a hanging, I’ll refuse.”

Good Christ, if things were different, he just might….

But things weren’t different. Could never be. He had precise and intricate plans, careful strategies.

And he was exhausted.

Too tempted to tarry here with her beneath the counterpane. To tangle himself in that curtain of hair.

He drew in a long breath, doing his best not to take in too much of her meadowy scent. “Make no mistake, madam, we’ll finish this tomorrow. Sleep well.”

Talia watched the man leave, felt him go, like stealing the heat from the sun. But she called after him anyway through the closed door.

“And may you be visited by bedbugs, my lord.”

Mother Mary, she wouldn’t have dared speak to Rufus this way, or with any of the others.

Where the devil had all this brazen courage come from and where would it take her? She’d learned the hard way to keep her opinions to herself and her actions secret from the men who ruled her life with their edicts and their wars.

But this one was different.

The scented heat of him. Clean. Male. Powerful.

And, oh, so very provoking.

“W
hat do you think His Lordship means, my lady? Havin’ me separate out all the horses that Rufus left behind and lead them into the village?”

Talia looked beyond Jasper to the line of householders that trailed along the trestle table in the hall. She was trying to catalog the most egregious incidents, trying to make sense of them.

He was a clever devil, this de Monteneau, hiding his sins against her so well.

She’d managed to stay clear of him this morning, though his men were gathering to break their fast, each of them looking clean and jolly and…well…almost civilized.

Aye, that was what had been missing from Car
risford for all these years. Order. Organization. Control.

Her own, most of all. She felt that palpably this morning. For despite last night’s raid, despite the changing of her prison guard yet again and having to put her larger plans on hold for the moment, she felt more in control than she had since her father was killed. Her guardian’s equal.

“I don’t know what de Monteneau means, Jasper, but do as he says with Rufus’s horses. We’ll sort it out later.”

“The man’s a bloody marvel in the smithy.” An unusual show of admiration from Leod.

“He is that, my lady!” Jasper added. “Forged an iron shoe his very self, then shod that great snortin’ beast of a horse of his.”

Wouldn’t he just. “I suppose he cooks and weaves as well? How many horses did Rufus leave, Jasper?”

“Well over a dozen, my lady. Maybe two.”

No doubt the leavings, the lame, the wormy and the foundering. Hopefully better than nothing.

“For the moment, put the horses in the common pasture and keep watch over them until you hear from me.”

Jasper leaned in to her and whispered loudly enough out of the corner of his mouth so that all around them could hear. “He’s a fine-looking fellow, he is.”

She had to ask, “Who is?”

“His Lordship.”

Great Mother of God. “Meaning?” Though Talia was more than certain what Jasper meant even before he raised one of his shaggy eyebrows.

“Seems a right kind of bloke for a husband, don’t you think?”

Leod smacked Jasper’s shoulder. “Bite your tongue, you old goat!”

Talia caught the end of Jasper’s beard and tugged him close by. “I think you’d better go move those horses, Jasper, before His Lordship changes his mind.”

Jasper’s ready smile sagged, the old man’s soft heart forever broidered on his sleeve. “Ya know I’m only askin’ after you, my lady.”

Talia would have grabbed him back for a hug, but he was swallowed up by three other men who took his place.

“We’re frightfully low on barley, my lady,” Alroy said. “And none in the village.”

“And the quay’s lost its east shoring.”

Ha! Finally, something to report to de Monteneau. “How did it happen, Leod?”

“Blind Philip’s wife saw it ripped out by Rufus’s men trying to escape in a currack.”

Blast it. Not de Monteneau at all. “And the fulling mill, Matthew?” Always a prime target.

“It’s fine, my lady. Though we’re still in dire need of wool, what with our sheep gone.”

“Aye, Matthew, if only a flock of sheep would
wander by, or a caravan of the king’s woolens for the winter.” A quarter hour later, she was left with Leod, the rest of the problems having apparently taken care of themselves.

“Leod, have you seen Quigley this morning?”

“Not since last night, my lady. We left him in the village and come home.”

Quigley often took chances where he shouldn’t. “He didn’t say anything about—”

“Holding court, madam?”

She ought to have known that de Monteneau was nearby; the air around her eddied and crackled, lifting the hair on her nape, sending Leod hobbling off.

And blast it all, if that wasn’t a telltale blush blooming right out of her chemise.

Talia spared de Monteneau a brief glance but was met with the distracting memory of the man standing naked in the light of the fire—an unwelcome artifact of the night before.

“Good morning, my lord.”

He took a possessive moment and cast his arrogant gaze around the growing crowd in the hall. “It will be, madam, after I talk to your steward.”

“Why him?” Had Quigley been found out?

A muscle firmed and flexed in his jaw. “The name of your steward?”

“His name is Quigley. But whatever you need to say to him, you will say to me first.”

“Very well, madam.” He took a cocky stance,
one boot on the bench beside her. “When was the last time the cesspit in the barbican tower was cleaned out?”

“Well…I don’t know. Why?”

“Because it’s offensive to my men, and therefore to me. When was it last cleaned?”

Talia had made a point of never entering the barbican towers. “If the cesspit offends you, my lord, you have my leave to clean it.”

“Do I now?” That muscle in his jaw was working hard, the deep midnight of his eyes becoming darker.

Before she could decide whether to respond or to ignore him or to haul off and kick him in the shins, a young voice rose above the crowd, parting it.

“A message, my lord. From the king.”

A stony coldness shuttered de Monteneau’s eyes, directed toward the lanky lad standing at attention beside him. “When, boy?”

“Came just now to the guardhouse. I brought it straight away, my lord.”

De Monteneau snatched the sealed document. “Does the messenger await a reply?”

“No, my lord. He’s gone, my lord. Thank you, my lord.” The young man had dropped a terrified, trembling bow with each “my lord,” bent upon scurrying out of his lord’s reach. But when he turned to go, Talia realized that the dark red stain on his tunic sleeve was blood.

“Just a moment.” Talia caught his wrist then studied the stain. “Is this yours?”

His dark eyes flew open. “Of course it’s my tunic, my lady. Bought it in London a few months past.”

She tried to smile him out of his terror. “Is this your blood, I mean? Are you wounded?”

The young man shot his questioning gaze to de Monteneau and received an even deeper scowl. “Uhm…well…” He looked stricken, caught between flight and paralysis.

“Answer her, boy.” It was a cold, lifeless command.

“Yes, ma’am. My blood.”

She gentled her voice. “Here, then, let me see.” She gingerly raised the wide sleeve past the wound. “How did this happen?”

“Last night, my lady. I was helping to take the guardtower.”

“No injuries, de Monteneau?” Talia lifted her eyes to the frown she knew she’d find. “What about this boy’s wound? Ragged and dangerous and completely untended. Or don’t your young soldiers count for anything? How many others do you have lying about mortally wounded?”

“Away with you, lad,” he barked, “to the barber.”

Talia planted herself between them. “No, my lord. I’ll dress the wound myself. Sit.”

She backed the startled boy to the bench, and he
sat down with a plunk, watching in terror as she started rolling up his sleeve to his shoulder. She’d brought her medicines with her this morning, certain that she’d find something exactly like this.

And just as certain that de Monteneau wouldn’t approve. “I have a company surgeon, madam.”

“Aye, my lord, but where is he just now? Tending to your horses, I suppose?” Talia sat down beside the boy and studied the wound. Not life-threatening, at least not yet, but sore enough to make him suck air between his teeth when she dabbed gently at it with a rag dipped in a tincture of agrimony and vervain.

“If you please, kind lady, I…I can wait for His Lordship’s surgeon.” The boy kept his eyes trained on de Monteneau and tried to stand.

“You should have thought of that last eve, lad. Now hold still. I’ll do my best not to let it hurt.” Talia kept him in place with one hand to his shoulder and dabbed at the wound again. “Now, you’d please me a great deal if you tell me your name.”

“Kyle, ma’am.”

“You’re doing just fine, Kyle.”

At last a shy smile from the boy and a sigh that seemed to melt him. “And ’tis feeling a lot better.”

De Monteneau leaned the heel of one hand hard on the table. “Madam, I insist that you—”

“Excuse me, my lady, but when you’re done there, could you please give look to my finger
when you’re finished?” It was the huge man who’d put out the fire in the stable and had promised not to harm Figgis. “Burned right through my glove. Hurts like a damned conflagration.”

“Damnation, Simon!” De Monteneau grabbed the soldier’s hand and scowled at the angry red blister that must have broken recently. “Why didn’t you see Hartman about this?”

“Didn’t hurt till this morning, and he’s with the horses like the lady said. I thought since she was tending to Kyle here, she wouldn’t mind tending to me.”

“I don’t mind at all, sir.” In fact, it pleased her to no end to see de Monteneau’s will thwarted. And the boy grinning at her. Perhaps she’d even be able to resurrect the old garrison infirmary.

“According to the lady herself, Simon, she’s got far better things to do than to play nursemaid to—”

“Every wound on the battlefield is a danger, my lord. You know that. Is there anyone else in your company the worse for last night’s attack? I’d be happy to look at them.”

Why the devil was it more disturbing when the man grew quiet rather than blustering?

“Fine, then play nursemaid all you wish, madam. I’ve a castle to secure.”

Talia resisted the utterly childish urge to stick out her tongue at de Monteneau as he walked
away toward the dais, leaving Simon unfazed by the man’s bluster.

“And I’d be doubly happy if you’d give a look at my squire Keenan and the knot on his head.”

“Of course, Simon.” And so went the next hour, with Talia sorting through the reports trickling in from her household staff and tending to a never-ending parade of de Monteneau’s ever-more-slightly wounded men, who afterward offered their seemingly genuine gratitude for every poultice and salve, until Quigley was at last standing in front of her, a fidgety cast to his old grey eyes. That telltale blend of fear and triumph that had allowed him to serve her and her father so faithfully and well.

He waited till the last patient was gone from her makeshift infirmary, then whispered softly, “Three barrels of lamp oil, my lady. A bundle of saddle leather, a bag of arrowheads, a chest of sawyer’s tools, two wheels of cheese, three sacks of beans.” He flashed her a wild half smile. “And more.”

“How? From where?”

Quigley said nothing more, only nodded slightly in de Monteneau’s direction.

Sweet Mother of God! Not a passing caravan, not a stray delivery cart, but right out from under His Lordship’s arrogant nose.

“Quig, you shouldn’t have taken the chance.”

“Oh, but the opportunity, my lady…”

“Except that de Monteneau seems the sort of man who keeps records of all he owns.” Well, there was nothing to be done about it now but see the lot safely stored.

Talia started packing up her medicinals, keeping one eye trained on her new guardian, watching for some indication that he might have already learned of the theft, trying to ignore the lifting of her pulse when he smiled at something Dougal said. “How did you manage it, Quig? And when?”

“The last of His Lordship’s carts were having trouble coming through the brindle cut early this dawn. A few of us offered to help. ’Twas a simple thing to relieve the carts of a few items in the process.”

“Dear God, Quigley. That’s too close.” Yet Talia couldn’t help but smile back at the dear old man. “I trust that you used your usual ingenuity in covering His Lordship’s loss?”

Quigley waved a dismissive hand. “His men won’t notice till they’re unpacking the goods here at the castle. Maybe not even then.”

“You’ve stashed it all where?”

“In the west sheepfold. I’ll try to bring up the oil and the sawyer’s tools this afternoon.”

“And the salt pork, too. Excellent work, Quig.” Though he terrified her at times.

“I was taught by the best, my lady.” He bowed in her direction.

Aye, but she’d become the best highway robber in the kingdom out of dire necessity, not from any desire for infamy or revenge or greed.

Just as she’d had to learn to read mason’s marks and stone arches and timbered cellars. Necessity.

“And now I’m off to the village before de Monteneau gets a chance. I’ll signal if there’s a problem with bringing in the goods from the sheepfold. Now, you’d best go check with His Lordship. He had a question for you. Something about the cesspit in the guardtower.”

Quigley scrunched up his weathered face. “Am I at his service, then?”

“I’ve already told him I’d lease him a shovel and pail. You can take it from there.”

Quigley shifted on his feet, looking unusually hesitant. “One more thing, my lady. A delicate question for you. Not that you have to answer, of course.”

“Go ahead, Quigley.” Talia tucked a bag of dried agrimony into her medicine chest. “You’ve known me since I was a babe; you can ask me anything.”

More feet shuffling. “Well then, will you be marrying this one? Seems a cleaner sort—”

“Any question but that one, Quigley.” She kissed him on his bristly cheek. “Now, go see if you can head him off while I see to the village.”

Talia watched Quigley tuck himself into the periphery of de Monteneau’s crowd, and hoped that His Lordship’s meeting with his council would
keep him occupied well into the afternoon. Taking one last look at the compellingly handsome man so intently involved with his men, she slipped out of the hall.

She made a brief detour to her chamber for her cloak and more medicines, to the kitchen to heap a large basket with bread and salted meat, before starting for the barbican with its new garrison of orderly watchmen walking the parapets, the sun glinting off their armor.

“Good morning, my lady,” came a series of greetings as she approached the guardtower. Polite bows, hands to hearts, unexpectedly courtly smiles.

Respectful in the extreme. Rufus’s men had always made her feel uneasy with their leering whenever she passed through the gates—as though they would jump down and drag her into their lairs, or slam the gate shut behind her—de Monteneau’s men seemed…safe.