The Prize (5 page)

Along the opposite wall were over twenty beds. Next to each bed stood a small chest. A single white candle sat on each chest.

Each bed and chest could be enclosed on all sides by white curtains that hung from ceiling to floor. When the draperies were pulled, the area became a cell of privacy.

All but one of the beds was exposed to the sunshine now. Royce surmised that the square white cocoon near the center of the room was the cell where Justin rested.

He settled Hugh in the bed next to the curtained cell. Within minutes he'd stripped his friend of his heavy outer garments and covered him with a mound of thick, soft fleece blankets.

"The wounds on his arms and shoulders are festering," the abbess remarked with a worried frown. "Sister Felicity will know what to do." She bent down and stroked Hugh's forehead in a motherly gesture. "God willing, this one will recover."

Royce nodded. He continued to be very accommodating until the nun suggested he and his men take their leave. Royce shook his head then. "No," he said. "A Norman soldier will guard Hugh until he recovers. He will not be allowed to eat or drink until the food has been tasted by one of your own," he added in a hard voice.

It was obvious from the surprised look on the abbess's face that she wasn't used to being contradicted. "You're a suspicious man, Baron," she said frowning. "This is a sacred house. No harm will come to your friend."

When Royce only shrugged his shoulders, the abbess asked, "And if I do not accept your conditions?"

"You won't turn Hugh away," he countered. "Your vows won't let you."

Her smile surprised him. "I see you're every bit as stubborn as I am," she said. "We'll both spend a bit of time in purgatory for that flaw in our natures. Very well, then. I'll accept your conditions."

Hugh moaned in his sleep, drawing the mother superior's attention again. She gently tucked the covers around the warrior, whispering soft words of comfort all the while. Then she closed the curtains and went in search of Sister Felicity. The minute she turned to leave, Royce motioned to Ingelram and Hugh's vassal. The two soldiers immediately followed the abbess to the doorway and took up their positions on either side of the entrance. No one but a nun would be allowed inside the chamber until Hugh had fully recovered.

While he waited for the abbess to return, Royce decided to appease his curiosity about the Saxon soldier. He wanted to see for himself that the man was too ill to be a threat to Hugh. He wasn't about to take for granted anything a Saxon told him until he had personally confirmed it.

Royce walked to the other side of Hugh's bed and was just about to push the curtain away when someone pulled it back from the other side.

He suddenly found himself shoulders to face with Lady Nicholaa.

Her indrawn breath told him she was even more surprised by their encounter than he was. He assumed she thought he'd left with the abbess. He knew she must have heard every word of their conversation.

They stood no more than a foot apart. A light fragrance of roses caught his attention.

Lord, she was lovely—and, he hoped, frightened. Her eyes were wide with what he suspected was fear.

Yes, he decided, she was afraid. Royce thought that was a most intelligent reaction. The woman should damn well be afraid of him, for every action after all produced a reaction, or a retaliation. Lady Nicholaa had lied in order to gain temporary freedom. Soon, however, it would be his turn to retaliate.

Neither of them said a word for several moments. Royce towered over her and waited for her to cower.

She waited until she could control her anger.

The longer she stared at him, the more furious she became. How dare this Norman venture inside her brother's sickroom?

Her chin came up in an instinctively defiant action.

He quit smiling.

She wasn't afraid of him. That realization stunned him. It was followed by a sinful thought. The woman was close enough for him to grab. Lord, how easy it would be simply to toss her over his shoulder and leave the abbey. It was a sinful thought because she was under the church's protection now. But it was no more sinful than the sudden burst of desire that caught him unawares.

If a man's preferences ran to blue-eyed nymphs, then Nicholaa would certainly be his first choice. He told himself his preferences didn't run in that direction. Then he recognized the lie and gave it up. Hell, he could be content to spend the rest of his days staring at her and wanting more.

Her mouth was too appealing to give him any peace of mind. All he wanted to think about was what she would taste like.

His discipline saved him from grabbing hold of her and finding out then and there. He took a deep, calming breath. He forced himself to put his lust aside and concentrate on staring the woman to her knees. Defiance was all very well and good under certain circumstances, but this wasn't one of them. She needed to be afraid now. With fear came caution, he reasoned. Nicholaa had caused quite enough havoc. It was time for her to surrender. He was determined to make her realize just whom she was up against. He was her conquerer, and she was his booty. The sooner she came to terms with that fact, the easier her life would be.

He was good at intimidation. The scar on his face helped, of course.

Odd, but it didn't seem to be helping him now. No matter how fierce his scowl became, she still didn't cower.

He couldn't help but be impressed. He took a step forward. The tips of his boots touched the toes of her shoes. She still didn't back away. Her head was tilted all the way back so she could continue to hold his gaze, and if he hadn't known better, he would have thought there was a sparkle in her eyes.

Dared she mock him?

Nicholaa was having difficulty remembering how to breathe. In truth, she was more furious with herself than with the warlord frowning so furiously down at her. Her reaction to the Norman was unexplainable. She couldn't quit staring at him. He had the most beautiful gray eyes, though why in God's name she'd taken time to notice the appealing trait was simply beyond her comprehension.

He was trying to intimidate her. She wasn't going to let him. The warrior really was handsome, damn his hide. And damn her own for noticing. What was the matter with her? He was her enemy, and she was supposed to hate him, wasn't she?

He obviously wasn't having any trouble hating her. His dark expression told of his displeasure. Her back straightened in reaction.

"I should have killed you when I had the chance," she whispered.

He raised an eyebrow. "And when was that?" he asked in a soft, mocking voice.

"When I knocked you off your feet with the stone from my sling."

He shook his head.

She nodded. "My aim was true," she boasted. "I meant to mark you, not kill you. Now I regret that decision. Perhaps I'll get a second chance before you're chased back to Normandy where you belong."

He still didn't believe her. He folded his arms across his chest and smiled down at her. "Why didn't you kill me when you had the chance?"

She shrugged. "I didn't feel like it," she announced. "Now I do."

When he laughed, she realized that he still didn't believe her. She couldn't blame him, she supposed, because until this very minute, she hadn't told him a single truth. She wondered if he'd found out she wasn't really a member of the order of nuns. Of course he had, she decided almost immediately. The treasonous tax collector would have told him.

Nicholaa could feel her composure slipping away. Her knees, too. She decided to dismiss him and reached up to pull the curtain closed.

He was much quicker than she was. He had hold of her hand before she'd even touched the drapery.

He wouldn't let go, either. His grip stung like a hornet. She quit trying to pull away from him as soon as she realized how futile her struggle was, and how weak it made her appear.

"Are your possessions here, Nicholaa?"

That question, asked so matter-of-factly, took her by surprise. She nodded before she could stop herself. Then she said, "Why would you ask me such a question?"

"I'm a practical man," he answered. "It will save time to go directly to London from here. Have your things ready or I'll leave them behind. As soon as my friend has recovered, we leave."

She was astonished by his arrogance. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Yes, you are."

She shook her head at him. The veil hiding her hair slipped to one side. Before she could right the damage, he reached over and ripped the covering from her head.

Nicholaa's glorious blond mass of hair tumbled down from the coil on top of her head to hang almost to her waist. His breath caught in his throat at the magnificent sight.

"Only nuns wear the veil, Nicholaa, and you aren't a nun, are you?"

"The pretense was necessary. God understands. He's on my side, not yours."

That ridiculous remark made him smile. "And how did you come to that conclusion?"

The smile had moved into his voice. Was he laughing at her? No, of course not, she told herself. He wouldn't know how. Norman warriors didn't experience human emotions. They lived only to kill and to conquer, or so her brothers had told her. The reason was simple: the enemy soldiers followed a leader who was more monster than man.

"Why do you believe God's on your side?" he asked again when she didn't answer him.

"I did get away from you, didn't I? That should be proof enough, Baron, that God's on my side. I'm quite safe here."

He couldn't argue with that bit of lopsided logic. "For the time being, you're safe," he agreed.

She granted him a smile that showed off the attractive dimple in her cheek. "I'll stay here as long as I want," she boasted. " 'Tis the truth, I'm not leaving this sanctuary until the invasion attempt has been foiled and you've gone back home where you belong."

"The invasion is all but over, Nicholaa. England belongs to us. Accept that fact, and life will be much easier for you. You've already been conquered."

"I will never be conquered."

The mighty boast was thoroughly ruined by the quaver in her voice. He noticed it, too. The rude man had the gall to smile. Her shoulders straightened in reaction.

Royce gave her hand a hard squeeze before finally letting go. Nicholaa started to turn away. He stopped her by grabbing hold of her chin.

He forced her face up, then leaned down until he was just inches away from her. "Don't inconvenience me again."

He didn't raise his voice above a whisper when he gave that command, but his tone was hard enough to truly infuriate her. She pushed his hand away from her chin, then moved to one side so he could get a clear look at her brother.

"Do you actually believe I care if you're inconvenienced or not?" she asked. "My brother lies near death because of your greedy, land-hungry leader, Duke William. Had he left England alone, Justin would still be whole."

Royce turned his attention to her brother. The first thought that came into his mind was that the Saxon soldier really was near death. His complexion was as white as the blanket covering him. Beads of perspiration covered his brow. His hair was the same white-blond as Nicholaa's, but that was the only similarity between brother and sister.

Royce couldn't see any injuries, because the blanket covered the big man from neck to feet.

He judged the soldier to be young from the lack of wrinkles at the outer corners of his eyes and the few scars on his face. He remembered then that the Saxon informant had told him Justin was a year younger than Nicholaa, and from all appearances, she was a very young woman.

So the Saxons also sent boy warriors into battle. Royce suddenly felt very weary. He shook his head in an effort to clear it while he kept his gaze on Justin. The brother's sleep was fitful. He wore a frown that suggested demons were racking his nightmares. Royce found himself affected by the sight of such obvious torment.

Nicholaa saw the concern in his eyes. He'd tried to hide his reaction, but he hadn't been able to. She was surprised, confused, too. Shouldn't he be gloating?

"When he's awake, he prays for death," she whispered.

"Why?"

He sounded genuinely perplexed. Nicholaa realized he couldn't see Justin's affliction. "My brother's left hand was severed in battle."

Royce showed no reaction to her announcement. "He could still live," he said after a long minute. "The injury could heal."

She didn't want him to be optimistic. She wanted him to feel guilty. She took a protective step toward her brother. "You might have been the one who did this to Justin."

"Yes."

His easy acceptance of such a foul deed took her breath away. "You feel no remorse?"

He gave her a look that suggested she'd lost her mind. "Remorse has no place in a warrior's mind."

He could tell from her expression she didn't understand what he was saying. He patiently explained. "A war is like a game of chess, Nicholaa. Every battle is like a well-thought-out move on the board. Once it begins, there shouldn't be any emotion involved whatsoever."

"So if you did, in fact, injure my brother—"