Once a Bride (15 page)
“’Tis a difficult question to answer, my lady.” He waved a hand around the room. “Nothing here gives the least hint one way or the other, and I swear to you, I knew of no schemes. His lordship may nudge the illegal, but to commit treason … I am at a loss.”
So until she talked to her father—whenever that might be—she still could neither acquit nor condemn him.
Eloise took a mind-clearing breath and turned her thoughts to the other, more urgent matter on which she needed Simon’s advice.
“Have you seen the proof of Roland’s authority over Lelleford?”
He looked taken aback. “To what purpose?”
That’s what she’d thought. Simon and Marcus had taken Roland at his word.
“Roland claims to possess a royal writ granting his authority, which he was to present to my father. In my father’s absence, should not we demand Roland produce it?”
After a moment’s thought, Simon set aside his quill. “I trust St. Marten’s word. He would not make a false claim.”
Simon’s unconditional faith set her teeth on edge.
“Merely because he is a knight?”
“Because I know him to be an honorable man.” He tilted his head. “As I believe you do, too. Why is it, my lady, that you set yourself against him?”
Because I want him gone.
Because she feared what might happen if he was allowed to stay. She saw the flashes of desire in his eyes and responded too readily.
And, damn, she was beginning to like the man. ’Twas becoming nigh impossible to hold herself against him when by action and deed he proved himself other than what she wanted him to be. She didn’t question his honor, not after he’d offered to speak to Timothy if she thought it necessary … what other knight would be concerned over a maid’s well-being at the hands of his squire? Especially a disfigured maid whose only male relative was in the company of a man suspected of treason.
And at the church, she’d wanted to throw her arms around him, comfort him. Some of his words may have been harsh, but she understood the grief that prompted them, and was far too willing to forgive him the lapse of courtesy.
If she could send him away, she wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. He battered at her defenses, and she grasped at what might be her last chance to raise a shield.
“If my father were here he would demand to see the king’s writ. I simply believe we should do the same.”
Simon studied her intently for a moment, then gave her a soft smile, one she recognized as lovingly tolerant. “Then you should make your demand, my lady, and pay no heed to my foolish concern.”
So she intended, just as soon as she saw Roland again.
R
OLAND HESITATED to enter the great hall, which Eloise had transformed into a grand sewing room. Lengths of fabric in a variety of colors draped across numerous trestle tables, each table attended by females with scissors in hand.
Eloise glided through the organized chaos, a general among the troops, completely comfortable with her command. She moved from table to table and inspected each piece of fabric. Her brow furrowed as she considered her decisions, then eased when, satisfied, she told the maids in precise detail how she expected the cloth cut.
Though he couldn’t catch her every word, he heard enough to learn most of the fabric would soon be tunics for Sir John, the rest made into gowns for Eloise.
Roland eased up to Isolde, who oversaw the table used to sort the finer threads for sewing and various yarns used to embroider decorative hems and necklines.
“What goes on here?”
She cocked an eyebrow, as if she thought him daft for not recognizing the obvious. “My lord?”
“’Tis obvious you make garments, but so many at once?”
“Ah,” she said, his confusion now clear. “Lady Eloise wishes the garments finished well ahead of Christmas court, so we do them now.”
Garments that might never be worn if Sir John spent the season in a judicial court instead of in the king’s lavish court. Still Eloise strove to carry on as if nothing untoward stood in the way of the original plan to spend the holiday in the gracious surroundings of the nobles and the palace.
Eloise now stood at the head of a nearby table, peering down at a length of sapphire blue so bright and true it rivaled the color of her eyes.
He envisioned her draped in it, the soft wool wrapped in luxurious folds over her ample curves, tucked and snugged in all the right places.
But then, there wasn’t a wrong place on the woman’s perfect form. And damn, he could also see himself tugging at laces, unfolding her, revealing what soft loveliness lay beneath the as-yet-unmade gown.
Her expression wistful, she picked up a corner of the cloth and sampled the texture between her thumb and forefinger, the simple action so sensual he could hardly breathe.
She put the fabric down and turned to the maid with the scissors. “A tunic for his lordship. The hem should be trimmed in gold braid—”
“A waste.”
Her surprise at his interruption matched his shock that he’d spoken his reaction aloud. Without words she made it quite clear she expected him to explain his unusual outburst. He should walk away, not interfere with what was none of his business.
“The color matches your eyes. ’Twould be a waste to make that fabric up into anything but a gown for you.”
The slight quirk of her mouth told him he’d pleased or at least amused her. Once again she looked down at the fabric, her longing for it still apparent. She lightly stroked the wool, her fingertips causing nary a ripple in the fabric, causing a slow melt in his innards, imagining those same fingertips stroking his skin.
“ ’Tis the most costly and beautiful of the lot, so should therefore go to the one who pays for it.”
He gathered his unraveling composure. “Your father did not strike me as a vain man. Besides, think of the pride he would feel when presenting his lovely, richly garbed daughter to the court.”
She peeked up at him through dark, lush lashes. “Think you?”
She couldn’t possibly be questioning her loveliness, so he assumed she questioned the matter of pride. Not that Sir John would likely be in a position to present her to court this Christmas. Still, he could envision Eloise on her father’s arm, floating into Westminster Palace’s grand hall and making her curtsy to the king. She’d turn the head and heat the loins of every man present.
A flash of unwarranted possessiveness, bordering on jealousy, almost made him retreat. He had no right to her, never would. ’Twas inevitable some other man would someday possess Eloise Hamelin, no matter how much that bothered him.
“I do.”
“Sir Roland is right, milady.” Isolde came up beside him. “If styled as is your crimson velvet, ’twould be most becoming.”
’Twould be utterly stunning.
Eloise apparently thought so, too, for her sapphire eyes widened and sparkled. “Oh, my, Isolde. What a wonderful idea.” With a flip of her hand, she relented. “So be it then. For me, in the style of the crimson velvet. Oversee the cutting, Isolde, so it is done correctly.”
Isolde moved closer to the table, and Eloise came toward him, her smile widening with each step. His pulse picked up as it did every time she got too near, and for the life of him, he couldn’t move away, give himself a chance to break her maddening spell over him.
She stopped but a few feet before him, close enough to reach out and touch. He crossed his arms and made sure his feet were planted firmly on the rushes.
“I suppose I should give you thanks,” she said, just above a whisper. With a conspiratorial wink, she added, “I must admit, I sought the merest excuse to have the blue made into a gown. ’Tis a wondrous color, and so soft to the touch.”
Courtly manners came to his rescue. “Delighted to be of service, my lady. Now, if you will beg pardon, I must—”
Her fingertips landed on his arm, stopping him cold.
“A word first, if you please?”
His plan for retreat thwarted, he nodded his agreement.
She withdrew her hand and glanced about the hall. “Over there, where we will not be overheard.”
Curiosity pricked, he followed her to an alcove not far from the stairs. Her smile had faded, and he mourned the loss.
“Is aught amiss?”
She rubbed her hands together, a small action he’d noticed every time she appeared nervous or upset. “I believe not, but Simon and I agree that we should be sure.” She glanced away briefly, the merest flicker of uncertainty that she quickly overcame. “When you arrived, you said you carried a writ from the king to present to my father, giving you authority over Lelleford in his absence. We have been lax in not asking to see it.”
A perfectly reasonable request. So why did it feel as if this was just one more attempt on her part to discredit him?
“You talked this over with Simon?”
“He agreed that in my father’s absence, one of us should see the writ.”
“And that someone should be you.”
She tilted her head. “Or Simon, if you prefer.”
Perhaps he was taking offense for no reason. He’d been ordered to give the writ to Sir John. Except Sir John wasn’t here. Eloise was only looking out for her father’s interests, and he couldn’t truly fault her for it.
“Can you read the writ?”
“I am not unlettered. I have a fair command of both French and Latin.”
“Then come along.”
Surprised that he gave her no further argument, Eloise followed Roland up the winding stairs, with nowhere to look but at the sway of his backside, the play of muscles in his lower legs.
Right after their confrontation at the church, she’d vowed she would never again notice his handsome face and powerful shoulders. Heat bloomed on her cheeks at the realization of which part of his body she admired now. Parts of the male body she’d never dreamed of admiring on any man.
Roland was a sight to behold, from front or back, and ’twas impossible not to appreciate the quality of his form.
At the top of the stairs he turned right, leading the way to the chamber he occupied. It had belonged to her brothers, neither of whom had seen fit to occupy it for many a month.
She glanced around at the familiar furnishings. Two beds, Julius’s draped in blue, Geoffrey’s in green. An oak table flanked by two chairs, a chessboard in the center, the pieces arranged for a game.
Only Julius’s clothing trunk sat beneath the shuttered window, awaiting his return from Italy, whenever that might be. Not long ago she’d packed all of Geoffrey’s belongings into his trunk and taken it with her to Cornwall when attending his marriage to Leah. Well, almost all of his belongings.
While Roland pulled a large sack from beneath the bed, Eloise crossed to the mantel and picked up her favorite of the winsome carvings she hadn’t been able to part with. The fat toad sat back on his hind legs, the look on his face one of immense satisfaction, as if he’d just swallowed the biggest, juiciest bug in the pond for his supper.
Geoffrey had carved it to make her smile, and its magic took hold of her now. She closed her hand around the smooth wood, wishing its carver were here to bear part of the burden of dealing with her father’s troubles. Why her father hadn’t wanted Geoffrey, with his knowledge of the law, to come to his aid, Eloise couldn’t fathom.
“I am told Geoffrey carved those,” Roland said. “A useful talent for a man to have.”
“Selling his carvings kept Geoffrey from starving while he was in Paris.” She put the toad back on the mantel, knowing that if her brother hadn’t been able to sell his carvings to pay for his schooling, food, and shelter, he might have come home years sooner, and so saved them both worry and grief. But those bad times were over now, and not worth thinking about. “These are but a sample of his talent. The horses in my father’s chamber are magnificent.”
“You will have to show them to me sometime.”
He sounded sincere, so perhaps she would.
Roland held out a scroll, bright red wax sealing it shut. “The writ.”
She took it, but didn’t break it open. The king’s seal was imprinted in the wax, proof enough for her that Roland had told the truth, that she’d lost. Roland St. Marten had been granted authority over Lelleford, and he’d be staying for however long it took for her father’s fate to be decided. And there wasn’t anything she could do to send him away.
A pox on the king for sending Roland her way! Why the one man who set her insides aflutter with no effort on his part? Why the knight with a warrior’s build and courtly manners that she couldn’t avoid admiring? Why Roland St. Marten, who’d warned his brother that she was too brazen and strong-willed to make a good wife?
What he wanted for his brother, Roland likely wanted for himself, a woman meek and gentle, which Eloise knew was beyond her.
Oh, Roland wanted her. Sometimes when he looked at her, she could see the embers smolder, feel his lust. They could easily become lovers the pull was so strong. Too strong.
“How did you come to be in royal service?”
He tilted his head and his eyes narrowed, making her realize she’d taken him off guard again. As always, he recovered swiftly.
“I was in the wrong place at the right time. Sometimes a battle takes a turn no one expects. I found myself guarding Edward’s back, and for the service gained a reward I am not sure I deserved.”
“He took you into his service.”
“Took me to court, gave me new armor, horses, and a squire.”
Eloise knew how royal favor worked. For good service a knight in royal service could rise high and amass a fortune quickly.
“No land?”
“Not as yet.”
She looked down at the king’s seal, then back at Roland, a shiver slithering down her spine.
“Is that what you hope to gain here? Land? Lelle-ford?”
He gave her a wry smile. “Nay, my lady, nothing so grand as Lelleford. I hope for no more than a small manor with enough income to support my knighthood. My service here warrants no more.”
That eased her mind, somewhat. There were other ways kings tended to reward those who’d proved their loyalty.
“Perhaps Edward will grant you an heiress.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “One never knows what form the king’s generosity will take.”