Margo Maguire (18 page)

He lifted her into his arms and felt her stiffen against him. “Fear not,” he said as his lips brushed her temple. He carried her to the bed and let her slide to the floor. “’Twill be as much your pleasure as mine.”

“Do all slaves enjoy the attentions of their masters?”

He ignored her question and pressed the drying cloth to her hair, blotting up the moisture. Then he pulled it ’round her back, drying her there. She stood still, with
her eyes closed, and allowed him to tend her as he looked his fill. He slid the cloth slowly and gently across her shoulders, then down to her hips, using it to pull her close. He lowered his head once again, and kissed her.

“You taste of wine,” he whispered against her mouth. ’Twas all he could do to keep from trembling like an untried lad. He raised her cup and sipped from it, then held it to her lips, but she turned away.

“You have not eaten.”

“I have no hunger.”

“I do,” he said. “I want you.”

She bowed her head and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Do what you will, seignior. I am at your command.”

“I have never commanded a woman to submit to me,” he said. His throat felt raw as he said it, but not nearly as raw as his nerves.

“I am your prisoner. Your slave. I will do what is required,” she said. “I only ask that you…be patient with me, as this is my first… I—I have never…”

Her breath came out in a shuddering rush of air and when Mathieu saw her tears, he released her arms. He dropped the drying cloth, clenching his hands into tight fists. ’Twas not at all how he’d envisioned their lovemaking.

“You are no slave.”

She looked up at him, her body naked but for the curtain of damp hair that draped her back. “Then I have a choice here?”

He silenced her with his mouth upon hers. She started to pull away, but Mathieu was unrelenting. He stroked her lips and parted them with his tongue.

A moment later, he pulled away. “There will come a day, Aelia, when you will have no wish to refuse me.”

That day had already come.

Aelia stood silent and shivering in her chamber as the door closed behind Fitz Autier. She shut her eyes and sank onto the bed, pulling its blanket ’round her.

What had she done?

She’d sent away the man whose very presence made her body hum with a force she could not name. ’Twas more than anything her mother had foretold. Though Aelia felt the same shocking awareness whenever Fitz Autier was near, some other, equally potent force drew her to him.

She lay quietly for a long time, half listening to the comings and goings in the corridor outside her door, until all was finally still and she could think.

Naught that was said about the man was true. He was no barbarian butcher. Fitz Autier had spared as many lives as possible at Ingelwald, and begun to rebuild and restore her father’s holding, allowing the people to return to their work and their homes. He’d even spared the lives of the Saxons they’d met the day before, sending them to safety at Ingelwald when he could have left them to their wanderings. He’d been patient with Osric when another Norman might have killed the boy and been done with him after the incident with the horse.

Instead, the baron had devised a punishment that was severe but not harsh. And in so doing, Osric had learned to value the steeds that carried them over miles of rough terrain every day. Aelia’s brother was maturing.

And Aelia feared she was falling in love with Mathieu Fitz Autier.

She ached with the need for his touch, and her body still trembled with the power of his kiss. She’d wanted
more, but she could not merely submit to him as his captive. She was no harlot.

Pulling the blanket tightly ’round herself, she lay back upon the bed and curled into a ball. She’d rejected the one man she would ever love.

Soon they would reach London and he would turn her over to his king, who would have her wed a Norman warrior. And Aelia would have no choice in the matter.

Would Fitz Autier care?

Why should he, when he was destined to marry a Norman woman and take her back to Ingelwald? ’Twas a rich holding, and now that he possessed it, he had no use for Aelia.

And what would happen to Osric? Fitz Autier had never said what he intended to do with the boy. Would she be separated from him? Aelia sat up abruptly. She would never allow it. Osric was just a small boy. He needed her.

She climbed out of the bed and slipped on the thick chemise that had been left for her, then tied the laces at the neck. ’Twas an adequate enough covering and would have to do, since she had no other.

Taking a candle to light her way, she lifted the latch on her chamber door and slipped out into the gallery. ’Twas dark and quiet, and it seemed that no one was about. She did not know which of the rooms was Osric’s, and she was reluctant to begin tapping upon doors to find out. Instead, she headed toward the common room, in hopes of finding Sir Guatier, or mayhap Diera, who could tell her where to find her brother.

As she descended the stairs, she saw that there was little light in the common room, likely only that coming from the fire in the grate. The room was silent and
it seemed that no one was about until she heard the creak of wood and a muted groan. Curious, Aelia lifted her candle and entered the room.

One man lounged in a chair, with his feet propped upon one of the tables. Two pitchers sat upon the same table, and another dangled from his fingers, precariously close to the floor.

“Seignior,” Aelia said.

“Ah, ’tis the fair Aelia.” Mathieu Fitz Autier slurred his words as he raised his cup of ale and drank. Aelia had never seen him so relaxed. So inebriated.

She looked about the room and saw no one else, no one to help her get him up the stairs and into his bed.

“Baron, ’tis late.” The pitchers on the table were empty, and she managed to catch the one in his hand before it slipped from his fingers. At least there was a bit more ale in that one, but it was clear Fitz Autier had imbibed too much. He would give her no answers about Osric tonight. “Mayhap you should go to your room,” she said, placing her hand gently upon his shoulder.

“Alone? No. I crave the company of a fair maid tonight.”

“You need sleep.”

“But not jus’ any fair maid,” he said, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to its palm. “There is only one whose lips I would taste….”

Aelia’s heart beat faster, but she knew ’twas the drink talking. She could not believe anything he said in this state.

Taking hold of his arm, she tried to pull him up from the chair, but he did not budge. He gathered a lock of her hair and pressed it to his face. “Smells like wildflowers.”

“The soap was scented,” she said, extricating her hair from his hand. “Can you stand?”

“’Course I can.”

“Come on, then.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“No, seignior, I only—”

He made a deceptively quick move and managed to pull Aelia into his lap. “You have the most amazing mouth.”

She tried to get up, but he had a firm grasp ’round her waist. He tipped his head down and kissed her. ’Twas not a punishing kiss like the one he’d given her before leaving her chamber, but gentle and sweet. “Baron—”

“Mathieu. My name is Mathieu.” His voice was soft and seductive, and as he touched his lips to her jaw and her ear, then trailed soft kisses down her throat, Aelia could hardly breathe.

She swallowed. “M-Mathieu…”

“’Tis a sweet sound upon your lips,” he said. “So much better than the shock I feel every time I see you.”

“Shock?”

“Aye.” He nuzzled a particularly sensitive spot below her ear. “When I first laid eyes upon you, I felt the ground shift under my feet.”

Aelia pushed away from him. “The ground shifted?” She could hardly think when he fondled her breast through the soft wool of the chemise. “Mathieu, you should stop—”

“No. You are mine. You will never belong to another.”

A shimmering pleasure ran through her at his touch, at his words. Had he really felt the same force of recognition that her mother had foretold, or were these just drunken ramblings? How could she push him away if he was truly the one?

“Every time I see you, ’tis as if someone set fire to
my blood.” He drew her close and kissed her. His lips stroked hers, his tongue sliding into her mouth, and she did not want to resist him.

T
he rain continued for another full day. Unfortunately, Mathieu could not blame his headache or sour mood upon it. He had only a vague recollection of the previous night’s debauchery. Without a doubt, he’d consumed too much ale. That was the only reason he had imagined Aelia in the common room with him…sitting in his lap as he kissed and fondled her.

He narrowed his eyes against the faint light coming in through his chamber window. He’d always tolerated his drink well. It must be his preoccupation with Aelia that had addled his brain.

He’d told his men to plan on staying another day if the rain continued. By the sound of it pattering against his window, it had not let up in the least. But one day’s delay in the warm comfort of the inn would not be amiss, especially since they journeyed with Aelia and the boy. The two were unaccustomed to the harsh conditions of travel.

A knock at the chamber door drew Mathieu from his bed. He opened it to Osric, who stepped past him into the room. “’Tis late, baron! Will you take me to the stable and practice with swords today?”

The lad’s voice stabbed through Mathieu’s head and he winced. “Later, boy. Mayhap later.”

Then he saw Aelia and had to grab hold of the door-jamb to steady himself. She looked different today.

“Hush, Osric. The baron does not feel well and your chattering only makes it worse.” She looked up at him. “I brought you this…the same potion Wilda used on Osbern’s headache.”

He took the mug she offered and raised it to his lips as he tried to determine what had changed. Her clothes were the same as she’d worn the day before, but they were clean now, as was her face and her hair.

’Twas her eyes that were different.

“Drink it all at once, seignior,” she said when he hesitated. “’Twill do no harm, I promise.”

He had a most disturbing thought—was it a memory?—of Aelia with her head tilted back as he kissed his way down her throat. Her eyes had been soft then, too.

Mathieu tipped his head back and downed the draught, wincing at its bitter taste. How could he have such a strong memory of Aelia’s hands slipping ’round to the back of his neck to caress him, when he knew he’d left her alone in her chamber?

He did not wish to examine too closely the anger that had sent him away from her, but he knew that was the reason he’d overindulged in drink. ’Twas not his habit to drown his frustrations in ale, but last night had been an exception.

“Will you let me practice with Guatier, baron?” Osric asked. “Sir Raoul will surely allow me to use his sword!”

“Go away, Osric, and let the baron rest.”

“But I—”

“Now.”

Osric started to protest, but Aelia turned him around and took him outside, while Mathieu sat down in a chair and lowered his head into his hands, grateful to be left alone in his misery. It had been years since the last time he’d felt so low.

“Lean back.”

Mathieu looked up so suddenly his ears rang.

“Sorry. I did not mean to startle you,” said Aelia, who had obviously not left with her brother. She stood behind him and placed her hands upon his shoulders.

“’Twould be best if you left me to suffer in peace.”

“The decoction should work soon, but this will help.”

“No, I…”

A sorceress could have worked no more potent magic. She kneaded his shoulders and neck, then slid her fingers through his hair to press on the parts of his skull that pounded from the inside out, and the pain eased.

“My father sometimes overindulged,” she said softly, “and I helped him this way.”

Her touch was too good to be true. Mathieu could have let her continue indefinitely, but reason prevailed, and he stood up and went to the door. “This is a very bad idea,” he said, more to himself than to Aelia. ’Twas strange that she was suddenly willing to act as his personal slave.

But his brain wasn’t working well enough to figure it out.

Within the hour, however, his head had improved, and he spent much of the day away from the inn—away from Aelia. Most of the men stayed in the common room, playing at dice or chess. Mathieu took his saddle pack to the stable and found a comfortable place to
sit and carve. ’Twould settle the restlessness that had plagued him for days.

“Will we be off tomorrow, baron?” asked Osric, who sat beside him, carving his own small statue.

“Aye.”

“What if it’s still raining?”

“I’ve never known a warrior deterred by a rain shower.”

“Then why are we stopped here?”

Mathieu’s knife slipped. “’Twas time for a rest.”

“Do your men tire of travel, then?” the boy asked.

“You insult my men. Of course they don’t,” he said, aware that he was contradicting himself.

“Well, I don’t understand—”

Mathieu stood abruptly and went to the open door of the stable. “There are many things you will not understand until you are grown, boy.” In spite of the cool autumn air and the constant rain, ’twas warm inside with the heat of all their horses.

Mathieu stood under the lintel and looked across the yard at the inn, a stone-and-timber building with narrow windows in the walls of the upper and lower floors, and wondered if Aelia had joined his men in the common room. Mayhap she craved the company of her fellow Saxons and had joined the innkeeper’s family.

“You stopped for my sister,” Osric said with a hint of taunting in his tone.

Mathieu gritted his teeth. “We travel at the pace I choose,” he said angrily. “If we stop it is with good reason.” It galled him that the boy was right and that his motivation was so transparent. Never in his life had Mathieu altered his plans for a woman, and ’twas time he took his duty into account. “We will leave upon the morrow. Regardless of the weather.”

The rain stopped sometime during the night, for which Aelia was grateful, though there was not much else to lift her spirits.

Fitz Autier had stayed away all the previous day. When he’d turned up for supper with Osric in tow, he’d eaten and retired to his chamber, barely sparing her a glance.

Aelia wondered if she’d been mistaken about what she’d heard when he’d rambled in his drunken state. Mayhap all he’d experienced was a surge of anger when he’d first seen her. Or annoyance when he realized he’d been wounded by a
woman
in battle.

The horses were saddled and ready for the road when Aelia went outside, only to find that the baron had ridden ahead, leaving orders for the rest of their party to follow. He stayed far ahead of them for the next two days, barely stopping with them for meals and to sleep.

’Twas clear to everyone that he was avoiding her.

On the third day, they reached a large holding, an estate called Rushton, which had been wrested from its Saxon lord the previous year.

“’Tis a massive place,” Guatier said. “Mayhap as large as Ingelwald.”

“We stayed here one night when we came north,” said Henri.

’Twas now under the command of Baron Roger de Saye, and when they rode up the path that led to the gate, Aelia could see that a vast number of Norman soldiers were garrisoned there.

She quaked at the sight of so many of William’s men, many of whom turned to gawk at her as they rode past. Though her escort treated her well, there was no doubt she was merely a prisoner, a captive on her way
to her fate at the hand of their king. And all of these Normans knew it.

“What will we do here?” she asked.

“Baron Fitz Autier awaits us,” Guatier replied. “’Tis likely we’ll spend the night and be on our way again tomorrow.”

“Aye,” added Henri. “Roger de Saye is an old friend of the baron.”

Aelia felt uneasy as they entered through the gate. Soldiers and workmen seemed to be everywhere, and several of the buildings within the walls had only recently been built. The largest of these was a long, low structure that seemed to be the soldiers’ quarters.

Accommodations for hundreds.

Near the center of the property was the lord’s hall. ’Twas at least three stories high, with a tower that extended even higher. The building was grand, made mostly of stone, and had banners hanging from the highest points.

“There’s the baron,” Guatier said.

Fitz Autier stepped out of one of the buildings with another man. The two were dressed similarly, in hauberks with their swords at their sides. But there was no comparison beyond that. Mathieu towered over the other man, his shoulders broad, his features starkly handsome. A familiar shudder of attraction flared through Aelia at the sight of him.

He was her captor and she should feel naught but hatred for him. But she could not.

Sir Guatier and the rest of the company dismounted in front of the great hall. As Aelia placed her hands upon Guatier’s shoulders to be helped down, she caught sight of Fitz Autier, who glanced at her at the same instant.

Then he looked away, as if she were not of the slightest interest to him.

Aelia’s balance faltered and she slipped, but Guatier prevented her from falling, and took her arm. “Is aught amiss, Lady Aelia?”

She shook her head, not trusting her voice, but she had no chance to dwell upon the baron’s slight when a matron in a dark brown kirtle and light headgear appeared at the top of the wide wooden staircase that led into the hall and shouted to them.

“This way! This way!” she called impatiently. Flanked by two guards, the woman beckoned Aelia and her escort to enter the hall, then she disappeared inside, expecting them to follow.

Aelia looked in Fitz Autier’s direction, but he seemed deeply absorbed in conversation with his companion, and did not glance at her again.

“Who’s that?” asked Osric, as wary as Aelia. She half expected him to dig in his heels and demand to speak to the lord here, but Fitz Autier’s tutelage had had some effect. Osric was not the same rash child as the boy who’d left Ingelwald.

“I know as much as you.” She braced herself and started up the steps, unprepared for whatever awaited her within. Certainly the situation could not be too bad if they were being taken to a chamber within the hall. And ’twas only for one night.

“Why is Fitz Autier not here to see us situated satisfactorily?” Osric asked.

Aelia did not answer, but stepped through the doorway into Rushton’s great hall. She had always taken great pride in the grandeur of her father’s hall, but Rushton’s main room was massive, with furnishings that took her breath away.

A large table with at least sixteen chairs dominated the space, and two maids worked at dusting and polish
ing them. Two more women swept the floor, while another two spread fresh rushes. There were men setting up trestle tables adjacent to the main table, while others carried in firewood and set it on the hearth.

Aelia was so absorbed by the activity in the hall, she was startled to see the woman in brown standing imperiously, with her hands upon her hips, waiting for them with obvious annoyance.

Aelia put her palm upon Osric’s shoulder and followed her to the far end of the hall, to the massive fireplace where a young woman awaited them.

Her age was close to Aelia’s, but her bearing was that of one much older, and Aelia realized she must be the lady of Rushton. Garbed in a richly embroidered gown of deep blue, she had beautiful dark hair that was partially covered by the sheerest of veils. Thick chains of gold encircled her neck and waist, and colorful jewels adorned several of her fingers. Though her features were comely, her dark brown eyes were cold and assessing. Aelia knew she would need to tread carefully with this one.

“Lady Hélène, these are the Saxons.”

The lady tipped her head back slightly and narrowed her eyes. “A ragged pair, are they not?” she said to the matron as her gaze flickered over Aelia’s travel-worn clothes.

Aelia blushed at Lady Hélène’s rudeness. Clearly, she did not realize she and Osric understood her words.

Osric started to speak, but Aelia gave his shoulder a squeeze, hoping he would understand the need to keep silent. They had an advantage in their knowledge of the Norman tongue, and Aelia did not want Lady Hélène to be aware of it. At least, not until Aelia knew what was in store for them here.

“I will have her serve as my lady’s maid, before tonight’s festivities.”

“Oh, but my lady—”

“I would enjoy having a Saxon slave,” said Hélène. “A high-born woman who should be able to anticipate my needs. Not like these ignorant peasants Sir Bernard keeps sending to me.”

The older woman bowed in acquiescence, then called to one of the men. “Beauvais, take this urchin to the stables.” Then she made a gesture indicating Aelia was to follow her.

“Go with him, Osric,” Aelia said. “’Tis likely you will see Raoul there with the other men.”

“But what about you?”

Aelia looked into the eyes of the haughty Lady Hélène as she spoke to her brother. “I’ll survive.”

“What’s got you so restless, Mathieu?” asked Roger de Saye. “Planning to go to battle again?”

Mathieu shook his head. “I hope to be finished with warring.”

“Aye. Now that you’ve got Ingelwald. And Lady Clarise. Have you had any word from the lady since you left London?”

“No.”

They left the overheated armorer’s shop with its fires raging and the clang of hammers upon steel, and stepped into the fading light of the cool afternoon.

“Well, I suppose that should be no surprise. We’ve had no travelers stopping at Rushton since you were here last, much to my wife’s lament.”

De Saye had done much with Rushton in the year since he’d taken possession of the Saxon holding. He’d enlarged the hall, expanded the walls and added space
to house the large number of knights who protected these lands. Many of the improvements were changes Mathieu would have to implement at Ingelwald to accommodate all his knights and to make the holding secure.

Mathieu walked across the grounds with Roger, inspecting the new buildings and discussing his plans for administering the estate. He concentrated fully upon Roger’s words, aware that he would learn much from his friend’s experience.

But when his own knights entered through Rushton’s gates, Mathieu could not keep from searching their number for Lady Aelia.