The Conqueror (Hot Knights) (8 page)

He woke slowly, adjusting to the darkness, the unfamiliar surroundings. A dream. That was all it was, the only way he would ever see Damaris again.

But the Saxon lay beside him, snuggled close, as if she sought out his warmth. He could still remember the sweetness of her lips from the dream, and his shaft rose, hard and wanting.

He reached out for her, then stopped, realizing he could not find his release in the flaxen down between her thighs. There was a bargain between them. He would not go back on his word, even with a Saxon.

Torment. His men thought he had bedded her a dozen times by now. In the meantime, he burned. Burned like he had for no woman except Damaris.

Nay, that was not true. He did not burn for Damaris. He loved her, adored her, worshipped her. Over the years, she had become almost a dream to him. A fantasy.

The Saxon was real. Agonizingly, excruciatingly real. He could smell the scent of her. Warm and fresh, like new-mown hay. An earthy odor, unlike the perfumed oils that Damaris favored.

He stifled a groan and sat up. Not yet dawn, but it seemed unlikely that he would sleep again.

Getting out of bed, he fumbled around in the darkness. He found his clothes, his boots and sword belt. As he pulled his tunic over his head, the softness of the garment reminded him of who had sewn it for him.

’Twas too difficult, sharing a bedchamber with a woman he could not have. Mayhaps he should go back to locking the Saxon in and sleeping elsewhere.

But then his men would think he tired of her. Some of them might even dare approach her, believing she was no longer under his protection.

A wave of rage went through him as he imagined another man putting his hands on the Saxon. Nay, he could not endure that! If anyone was to have her, it would be him!

She was his prize, the symbol of his victory over her people. As her conqueror he should have the right to bed her. Every night if he wished. Several times a night.

Instead, because of his foolish agreement, he was forced to live like a monk.

He swore again as he started down the stairs, then slowed as he felt a draft. Someone had left a door or shutter open somewhere.

He ventured into the main part of the hall where his men slept soundly, stretched out on the benches. There was no sign of anything amiss, but he felt edgy. In the night, before he dreamed of Damaris, he’d had the familiar nightmare about being in the oubliette. This time there had been voices whispering outside his prison. The dream had gradually turned into the other, but the memory of those voices stayed with him. One of them had belonged to the woman, the Saxon.

The yard was empty and dark as he made his way to the jakes. A dog barked from near the stables, but otherwise everything was quiet. He relieved himself and walked back to the hall.

As he approached, he spied an unshuttered window at the rear of the building. The sight made him uneasy. He walked toward the gate to see if the guards had noticed anything amiss. Climbing the gatehouse ladder, he walked out on the wall. When no one hailed him, his heart leapt into his throat.

The guards had been killed! It was an ambush! He hurried down the ladder, ready to call an alert, and nearly tripped over a man sprawled in the shadows. The man sat up, groaning.

“Blessed Jesu, what happened?” Jobert demanded.

“Milord?” Osbert croaked.

“‘Yea, ’tis Brevrienne. Now, tell me what happened!”

Osbert didn’t answer. A sickly sweet scent wafted to Jobert’s nostrils. Not wine, but strong drink of another kind.

Fury built inside him. He wanted to grab the guard by the throat and dash his brains out against the palisade wall. Instead, he said, “Where’s the other sentry? Is he drunk as well?”

“Milord...” Osbert spoke in a slurred voice. “We did not mean to drink so much. It went to my head so quickly, I can scarce believe it.”

“Do you think you were poisoned, that the drink had something in it?”

“Poison? Nay, Golde would not do that to us. ’Tis merely...” He groaned. “I’ve never had this stuff before. The Saxons brew it out of honey. I had heard it was strong, but I did not think ’twould do this to me.”

“Who’s Golde?”

“One of the weavers,” the man groaned. “The comely one.”

“I should have you flogged!” Jobert snapped.

Osbert said nothing.

Jobert stood over him, disgusted. If he had these men whipped as punishment, then he would have to worry about their welts healing. While they mended, he would lose the services of two of his soldiers. It seemed a waste. There must be other means of teaching them a lesson.

He glanced around the yard, lit now by the beginning glow of dawn. “The stables need mucking out,” he said. “I was going to have some of the Saxons do it, but you and your companion may have the job instead.”

“Clean the stables? Today?” Osbert asked weakly. Jobert could imagine his distress. Raking out months of dung and soiled straw was an unpleasant task in the best of circumstances. With a raging hangover, ’twould be hell itself.

“Get to it, man. I’ll wake your fellow tosspot and tell him the good news.”

The guard rose shakily, then hurried off. Jobert found the other man snoring nearby, propped up against the palisade wall. A swift kick in the ribs and some well-chosen words had him on his feet in seconds, although Jobert wondered how long he’d manage to stay upright.

After the guard left, Jobert found the empty skin lying on the ground. He picked it up and sniffed it.

Mead. He’d heard of it, though never sampled it himself. ’Twas said to be several times as potent as the same amount of wine. He wondered why the woman Golde had seen fit to share a skin of it this particular night. Would the weaver be about her work yet, or was she also sleeping off an aching head?

After searching the weaving shed, empty except for spools of wool, several looms, and dye vats, Jobert returned to the hall and approached the screened-off area where the unmarried women slept. Several of them were already up, braiding each other’s hair. They froze at the sight of him. “Golde?” he asked.

They all shook their heads.

He left the women, wondering where to search next. Mayhaps he should wait until Edeva rose and discuss the situation with her.

He went outside and followed the wall of the palisade to where it abutted the manor workshops. As he turned back toward the gate, he saw a figure hurrying toward the weaving shed.

He gave chase, and in a few long strides, grasped the fabric of a cloak and whirled the figure around.

Wide-set hazel eyes regarded at him. A swirl of tawny hair spilled over the drab cloak.

One of the comely ones, Osbert had said.

“Golde?” Jobert demanded.

The woman smiled.

He shook her. “Where did you get the mead? What have you been doing with the guards?”

She still smiled at him placidly, obviously unafraid. Either she was innocent, or she did not anticipate that he would punish her.

Jobert loosened his hold on the woman’s cloak. His inability to speak Saxon was proving to be a real trial. He could not properly question the woman.

She licked her well-shaped lips suggestively, and Jobert felt his muscles tighten. For a moment, he considered accepting her invitation, then drew back in disgust. She’d probably pleasured both the guards already. Even as sex-starved as he was, he had no desire to sample such well-used wares.

* * *

From a distance, Edeva saw the Norman and Golde standing close. He bent near, as if whispering an endearment, then walked off.

Edeva drew back behind the hall. She did not want him to catch her spying on him and his lover.

E
deva left the weaving shed and started across the yard. As she rounded the corner of the hall, she saw the Norman. He had apparently just come in the gate. His boots were muddy and his hair disheveled and windblown.

She watched him stride toward the storehouses, and her eyes narrowed as she remembered that she had sent Golde to fetch some woad for making blue dye. If the two met along one of the pathways between the storage buildings, she could well imagine what would happen. They would end up rutting like animals in some secluded spot. For the past few days, the Norman left the bed early, and Edeva was convinced his first business of the morning was a tryst with Golde.

She continued across the yard. ’Twas none of her affair. If the Norman sought to ease his lust with that conniving slut, ’twas his own stupidity. She would not tell him that Golde was a spy for her brothers. Let him find it out on his own.

She neared the hall, then suddenly reversed direction. Golde was her servant. If Brevrienne wanted to dally with the wenches, let him find one who had her work finished!

Edeva headed back to the storage buildings. As she strode purposefully past the granary, she met the Norman coming out of the smokehouse—alone. He met her gaze, smiling. For a moment, she was tongue-tied, then she mumbled something about getting herbs for dyeing. She started on her way, but the Norman grabbed her arm.

“You are exactly who I wished to see. I have come from the cattle pen where the men are culling the herd. ’Tis past time we began the butchering. I need your aid, Lady Edeva. I need to know where the salt is kept.” His green eyes entreated her. “You know that we must preserve meat before winter. If we do not, all of Oxbury will go hungry.”

His hand still gripped her arm and Edeva could feel the strength of his fingers through her tunic. A shiver passed through her. Even when he touched her thus, her body responded.

She had put off this moment, as long as she could. If they were to have sufficient foodstores for the long winter months, she would have to tell him. Sighing, she said, “’Tis under the floor in the chapel.”

“Show me.”

He continued to hold her arm as they walked across the yard together. The air felt cold and damp, and the Norman paused briefly to look up at the sky. “A storm is brewing,” he said. “I can smell it.”

Edeva thought of her brothers and the others in the forest. They would be miserable when the autumn rains began. While she remained safe and warm, sharing Leowine’s bedchamber with the enemy.

The Norman held the chapel door open for her. She hesitated.

“What’s wrong?”

She shook her head and went in.

A rush of cold air followed them, stirring the dust on the floor. The Norman pulled the door closed, then took the one candle burning by the entrance and went to light the others set in holders at either side of the nave.

As the small chamber leapt into light, an ache started in Edeva’s throat. The chapel had been her mother’s dream. She had wanted a “real” church, and Leowine had indulged her. The ornately-painted screen behind the altar, the carved wooden arches of the ceiling the trefoil windows set high in the whitewashed walls, their exotic shapes gleaming with precious rose-colored glass. Every detail lovingly rendered, as if fashioned for a fine cathedral.

Once there had been a priest as well. Father Saxfrid, sent by the bishopry at Winchester. He had died shortly before the battle of Hastings, and there had been too many other things to do to see to a replacement.

Since then, the place remained unused. Edeva sometimes came here to pray, but she had not done so in months. Her grief made her too bitter and angry for petitions to heaven.

The Norman stepped back, surveying the high-ceilinged space. His expression was admiring, almost reverent. Edeva felt a stir of pride that helped assuage her pain. Her mother had created a worthy legacy

“You said it was in the chapel,” the Norman said. “Show me where.”

She wanted desperately to refuse, but could not. She would not force her people to go without meat this winter.

She pointed to an area where the paving stones made a pattern, with a large square stone in the center. “There, in front of the rail.” Her hand shook.

The Norman went to the spot. He took out his dagger and began to pry up the flat middle stone. Edeva watched, her distress increasing. She should not have told him of her father’s hiding place. She should have come here alone at night and dug it up herself. Why had she not thought of that?

She shook her head, wondering what was wrong with her. Why did she keep doing things to help the Norman?

He swore loudly. She saw that he had worked the stone partway out and it had squashed his fingers. “Help me,” he said.

Taking a deep breath, she knelt beside him. Together they eased the stone out of the way. He motioned that she should pull out the wooden box beneath.

She tried but could not budge it. Grunting, he pulled the paving stone all the way out, then reached in and took the other side of the box. They heaved it onto the floor.

In the space underneath the box, surrounded by straw, were several barrels. The Norman pried open the top of one with his dagger and grunted in satisfaction. The salt. Then he turned his attention to the wooden box.

He used his dagger to wrest off the lid. Inside were several cloth bags. He began to pull them out and open them. He tossed the first one aside, and Edeva saw a curl of parchment poking out the end. She guessed it contained charters and grants from the long line of Saxon kings her family had served. All worthless now, good only for scraping and reusing the vellum, if it were not too old and brittle.

The next bag made a clinking sound when he shook it. He smiled, and then put it aside.

He hefted the final bag, and the look of expectation on his face deepened. He opened the bag and stared at the contents, then carefully dumped them on the floor. The wealth of Leowine’s lineage winked and twinkled in the candlelight—rings, necklaces, bejeweled daggers, belt buckles and brooches fashioned of gold and precious gems. A sick feeling went through Edeva. Her father must have hidden away his treasure horde before he left for Hastings. Now it belonged to the Normans, their enemies.

Traitor, a voice in her head accused. Better you all starve this winter than to lead him to this!

She glanced up and saw the Norman looking at her, his features softened by an expression of awe and gratitude.

She wanted to spit at him. “I did not know it was there,” she said in a voice full of venom. “If I had, you could not have forced me to tell you of it even if you tortured me to death.”

“Always the hellcat,” he said softly.

She stood, wanting to weep. She had betrayed her family, her heritage. And all for a man who thought her an uncouth, savage hellcat.

Whirling around, she stalked out of the chapel. When she reached the yard, she began to run. She dashed into the hall. People turned to stare at her. Edeva sucked in her breath and headed toward the stairs.

She reached the bedchamber and slammed the door behind her. Briefly, she thought of trying to lock it. But why bother? The Norman would be busy gloating over his good fortune for hours.

She threw herself onto the bed and pressed her hand to her mouth, forbidding herself to cry. If her brothers saw her now, they would be appalled. They thought she was strong. A hellion and a virago, they called her.

But she was not strong. ’Twas so hard to always be thinking of everyone else, to forever remember to hide her own breaking heart.

Oh, how she missed her father. He had seemed as formidable and enduring as the hills themselves. But he was gone, and she must carry on and do the best she could on her own. It seemed like such a heavy burden, and there was no one to share it with. Even if her brothers reclaimed Oxbury, she knew they would not aid her in the running of the manor. They were concerned only for their own comforts, their own prestige and power. ’Twould be up to her to see that Oxbury and its people thrived.

She sat up slowly. At least she had a purpose, something to work toward. She could see that the manor prospered, despite the Normans.

There was a sound on the stairway. Edeva jumped to her feet and looked around for something to bar the door with.

Too late. The door opened. Edeva moved to the storage chests in the corner, hoping the dimness of the chamber would hide her turmoil.

“Edeva?” The Norman stepped into the room. Edeva knelt down and opened one of the chests, pretending to look for something inside. “Lady Edeva, I would speak with you.”

She continued to ignore him, pulling out pieces of cloth and examining them. He approached her and tried to take her arm. She jerked away.

“Jesu, woman, I am trying to be civil!”

He stood there a moment, and she could sense his growing anger. Good. Let him understand that she was not willing to do his bidding unless it served her purpose.

“We are back to this, then. You fighting me, snarling like a wildcat?” He heaved a sigh. “I do not want it to be like this, Edeva. I have tried to show you courtesy, to treat you with deference. I had hoped to win your cooperation and respect in return.”

“Respect?” Edeva straightened. “How can I respect you, you greedy, lustful pig!”

“How can you call me lustful? I have honored our agreement. I have not touched you!”

Edeva went rigid. She longed to tell him that his lover was a Saxon spy. But then she would have to tell him how she knew of Golde’s perfidy.

His eyes suddenly glowed with anger. “I can see my forbearance, my attempts at honor, are wasted on a shrewish bitch like you! ’Tis clear I should never have rescued you, but left you down in that foul cellar to rot!”

He turned and started to leave. In the gloom, he tripped on the stool in his pathway. He swore violently, then picked up the stool and threw it into the wall.

“Stop!” she screamed. “’Tis not yours to break. None of this is yours! All the things in this room—the furniture, the chests, the clothes, the jewels you found in the chapel—they belong to me! I am the heiress of Oxbury, and I will command this place as I see fit!”

He approached, and once more his voice was deadly calm. “You are wrong, lady. King William gave Oxbury to me. It is mine now. All of it.” He reached out and grabbed her sleeve. “Even you. Although why I would want such a quarrelsome, viper-tongued creature, I know not.”

As he glared at her, Edeva felt her fury fade. She did not want him to despise her. As ridiculous as it was, she still sought his regard.

His anger also seemed to ease. His fingers relaxed on her arm, then stroked. “I don’t know why I should want you, but I do.” His voice grew low and husky. “I want you all night long... every morning... every time I look at you.”

Shimmering heat rose inside her. Edeva tried to remember her hatred. He moved closer, trapping her. His arms reached around to imprison her and his mouth met hers.

The kiss was long, slow, searching. Edeva felt her legs turn the consistency of gruel, her head swim. When he drew back, she could barely stand.

He stared at her, the pupils of his eyes huge and black. “I think there is a woman inside you, beneath all the snarling rage and fire.”

Edeva swallowed. The way he looked at her... It made her feel weak, helpless.

He leaned down and kissed her again, his tongue probing, inflaming. She gave a low moan and her arms came up around his neck.

His body felt warm and solid against hers, his mouth like liquid fire. She tasted, reveled... and surrendered. When he took her hand and led her toward the bed, she did not try to resist. Her will was gone. Utterly vanished.

He began to undress her. He pulled the loose gunna over her head, then knelt down to take off her shoes. She did nothing. He reached under her shift to find her garters and roll down her stockings. Edeva stood, trembling, nerveless.

He grasped the hem of the linen shift and eased it upward. As he pulled it over her head, Edeva’s gaze met his. His face was soft, intent. Not the fierce mien of a warrior but the misty countenance of a lover.

“Edeva, my beautiful Edeva.”

His admiring words melted her last vestiges of resistance. As if in a dream, she watched him lower his head to mouth her nipple. She sighed and closed her eyes. He caught her as she swayed. Throbbing need radiated out from her nipples, swirling and whirling inside her.

He drew her nipple deeply into his mouth, and Edeva cried out from the sudden, urgent restlessness afflicting her. She longed for something, some wild, unnamed thing.

When he released her, she wanted to weep for the loss. But then she saw that he was undressing and her breath came faster. She could not forget the first time she saw him naked. How proud and invincible he appeared. How intriguing. She remembered staring at his groin, and the way it made her feel. Aching and weak inside.

She wished it were brighter in the room, so she could more clearly see his triumphant masculine beauty. Those wide, well-muscled shoulders, strong arms and chest, the lean, flat line of his belly. The warm sheen of his skin and the vivid body hair accenting his underarms and chest.

His tunic lay in a heap on the floor, and he bent down to unfasten his boots and cross garters. He stripped off his hose, and then approached. Edeva stared at him, marveling as always at his size. Most men made her feel overtall and unfeminine, but with the Norman she knew what it was like to imagine herself as a dainty thing.

’Twas threatening to be near a man so big and strong. Also intoxicating.

His eyes raked over her, admiring her as she had him. “I’ve never had a maid before, but I will be gentle with you, Edeva. I promise.”

His words made her impatient. She did not want him to be careful and restrained. She wanted the passionate fire that he had aroused before.

Her whole body felt hot, her nipples tight, rigid points. The sensations surging through her were near unbearable. Overcome, she parted her lips and regarded him through slitted eyes.

A look of surprise came over him, then his nostrils flared. “God help us, woman. I am not made of stone. If you look at me like that, I am like to pounce on you like a beast”