The Prize (8 page)

"I said thank you."

"Why?" he asked, his puzzlement obvious.

She shrugged. "For a kindness given," she explained. "There is never a good reason for rudeness, Baron. We Saxons understand that, but I assume from the look on your face that Normans do not. 'Tis yet another reason you should go back where you belong and leave England alone. Our cultures are too different to mix."

God, she was exasperating. He let out a sigh. "Are all the Saxons as daft as you?"

She clutched the edges of his heavy cloak around her shoulders and glared at him. "We aren't daft. We're civilized."

He laughed. "So civilized that Saxon men and women paint their bodies? Don't shake your head at me. I've seen the pagan designs drawn on the Saxon soldiers' arms and faces. Even your church leaders think it quite decadent."

The man had a valid argument there, but she wasn't about to admit it. She, too, thought it a bit decadent the way some of the Saxons painted themselves. However, this was a ridiculous conversation to be having right now.

"Why can't you just leave me alone?"

The anguish in her voice caught him off guard. One minute she was arguing with him about his manners, and the next she was pleading with him and looking ready to weep.

"I'd like nothing better than to leave you alone, but it is my duty to take you to London, and it's your duty to—"

"To become some man's prize? Isn't that the real reason I'm being dragged to London?"

She was bloody furious again. Her changes of mood occurred so swiftly that he was amazed. And pleased. He much preferred an angry woman to a weeping one.

"I hadn't planned to drag you all the way to London, but the idea has merit."

The amusement in his voice made her want to scream. "You do try my patience," she muttered.

"And you mine," he announced when she pushed his outstretched hand away a second time."

"If I'm going to London, then I shall walk there. I won't—"

She never got to finish her threat, because he took matters into his hands. Literally. Before she realized his intention, he leaned to one side of the saddle, grabbed her around the middle, and lifted her up onto his lap. It happened so quickly she didn't even have time to gasp. Her bottom landed on his hard thighs. Her back was slammed up against his chest, and his arm became an anchor around her waist.

Ulric was tucked under one of his arms. The baby's lusty laugh indicated he was thoroughly enjoying being jostled about.

Nicholaa hated being so close to her captor. His size overwhelmed her. The heat and the strength radiating from him made her feel horribly vulnerable.

She fought this fresh spurt of fear, but she knew she was losing the battle when she started trembling again. It was actually her captor who made her terror subside. He handed Ulric to her and then took time—and care, she couldn't help but notice—to adjust his cloak around her shoulders. He tucked the heavy garment around her legs and even offered her his warmth when by pulling her back against his chest. He was being extremely gentle with her, as gentle as he'd been with little Ulric.

He smelled nice, too. She let out a little sigh. He wasn't a monster after all. God's truth, that admission took the wind right out of her. The fear, too. She realized she couldn't dislike him as much as she wanted to, and then she found her first smile. Heaven help her, she'd never been good at holding a grudge or disliking anyone as thoroughly as she was supposed to dislike him.

She mulled that truth over for a minute or two and came up with an alternative. She couldn't hate him, for that would be a sin. She could, however, make his life a living hell during the short time they spent together. Odd, but that plan cheered her considerably. The possibilities, after all, were endless.

The Norman barbarian deserved every inconvenience she could give him. He was the one who insisted on taking her to London, and any misery she could give him would be his just reward.

Nicholaa turned her attention to the baby. She cuddled him against her bosom, kissed the top of his head. Ulric let out a happy gurgle. Absentmindedly she brushed his hair down. The strands of blond fluff sprang right back up.

Royce watched her. "Why does his hair do that?" he asked.

He'd whispered that question close to her ear. She kept her gaze directed on the baby. "Do what?"

"Stand up on end," he said. "He looks as if he'd just suffered a fright."

She couldn't help but smile. Ulric did look silly. And adorable. She didn't let the Norman see her amusement, though. "He's perfect," she announced.

He didn't agree or disagree.

"You don't plan to take Ulric to London with us, do you, Baron? The journey would be too difficult for him."

He ignored her question and nudged his stallion forward. They stopped when they reached the iron gates. He dismounted in one fluid motion. "You will wait here," he ordered. He put his hand on her thigh. "Do you understand me?"

His grip stung. She put her hand on top of his to push him away. She wasn't going to obey any order he gave her. Then he captured her fingers and started squeezing. "I understand. I'll stay here," she lied, hoping that the lie didn't qualify as a sin, since the Norman was her enemy and God was still on her side. God would help her get away, she reasoned. As soon as the Norman went inside the abbey, she and Ulric would take to the north road.

And then what? The baron's men would surely notice she was leaving.

She completely discarded the plan when Royce took Ulric into his arms.

"Give him back to me," she demanded.

He shook his head.

"What are you thinking to do?" she asked.

"I told you to stay there," he commanded when she started to dismount.

His voice hadn't risen above a whisper, but the sternness in his tone got her full attention. "Give me my son and I'll do whatever you ask."

He pretended he hadn't heard her. Nicholaa waited until he went inside the abbey. She was left to fret a good ten minutes before he came outside again.

The baby wasn't with him. Royce carried her baggage, though, and once he'd secured it to the back of the saddle, he remounted behind her.

"Will the abbess see that Ulric is taken back home?"

"No."

She waited for him to explain in full, but after he'd settled her on his lap and covered her with his cloak, the rude man still didn't say another word.

"Who will take care of Ulric?"

The worry in her voice softened his attitude. "Ulric's going to stay at the abbey until your future has been decided."

"How did you get the abbess to agree to tend Ulric?"

"I offered her a bargain she couldn't resist," Royce replied.

She could hear the amusement in his voice. She tried to turn so she could see his expression, but he forced her to stay where she was. "What was this bargain?"

They started back down the hill before he answered her. "In return for the favor of looking after Ulric, I promised to see that Justin is taken care of," he said.

She was astonished. "How could you make such a bargain? Justin's dying, or have you forgotten?"

His sigh was long. "He isn't dying," he said. "Somewhere in that mind of yours I think you know I'm speaking the truth. Justin might not want to live, but he's going to, Nicholaa."

When she started to answer him, he put his hand over her mouth. "In the past two months there have been many changes in your country. England is ours now, and William is as much your king as mine."

Nicholaa was completely disheartened. He spoke the truth, and she wasn't naive enough to pretend otherwise. She'd heard about some of the changes, too. Even though the abbey was isolated, the nuns kept abreast of the latest happenings. Nicholaa was well aware that the Saxon defense had crumbled on the fields of Hastings.

"You still had no right to make such a promise to the abbess. Justin's my brother. I'll take care of him," she said.

He shook his head.

She wanted to hit him. "If you had an ounce of compassion inside you, you'd let me stay by my brother's side during this unsettling time and give him the comfort he needs."

"The last thing your brother needs is comfort."

He sounded so sure of himself. Odd, but his attitude made her feel a glimmer of hope, a possibility that he might hold the answer to Justin's future. She'd been so terrified for her brother. What was going to become of him? How could he ever learn to make it on his own in this cold world?

"What is it you think he needs?" she asked.

"Someone to teach him how to survive. Compassion won't keep him alive. Proper training will."

"You haven't forgotten Justin has only one hand?"

There was a smile in his voice when he answered her. "I haven't forgotten."

"Yet you believe you could train him?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It's what I do, Nicholaa," he patiently explained. "I'm a trainer of men."

She was stunned by the commitment he'd just made to Justin. She was terrified, too. Could she really trust this man? "What happens to this promise of yours when you return to Normandy?"

"If I return to Normandy, Justin will go with me."

"No," she cried out. "I won't let you take my brother away from me."

He heard the panic in her voice. He gave her a squeeze to calm her. He understood her distress, of course. She'd already lost one brother to the war, if he'd heard correctly, and it was apparent to Royce that she felt complete responsibility for Justin's welfare. She carried a heavy burden on her shoulders, too heavy, he thought, for someone of her young age.

"Justin would return to England as soon as his training is completed. There is also a chance that I'll stay here, Nicholaa."

God, she hoped he would stay in England. For Justin's sake only, she qualified. Nicholaa felt such relief. The baron would keep his word. She didn't have a single doubt about that now.

"I still don't understand how you could take on the responsibility for a Saxon soldier, Baron, when you—"

His hand covered her mouth again. "We are finished with this discussion," he announced. "I've been extremely patient with you, Nicholaa. I've allowed you to express your concerns, and I've explained my position. We've wasted enough time."

She didn't agree with that rude dictate. He had his way, though. He goaded his mount into motion again, making conversation impossible.

He set a hard pace. There was one amusing moment, though, when he paused at the foot of the hill to collect his shield. The soldier holding it obviously thought to impress his baron by tossing it to him. The weight proved to be too heavy for the soldier, though, and the kite-shaped shield ended up on the ground between the two mounts.

Nicholaa almost laughed out loud until she saw the horrified expression on the young soldier's face. She couldn't add to his humiliation by openly laughing at him. She bit her lower lip, turned her gaze to her lap, and simply waited to see what Royce would do.

He never said a word. She heard his sigh, though, and almost lost her composure then and there. He must have guessed she was amused. He squeezed her around the waist, a silent message, she supposed, for her to remain silent.

The poor soldier finally regained his wits and went to fetch the shield. His face was bright red when he picked it up.

And still Royce didn't chasten him. He accepted his shield and then took over the lead. Just as soon as they were out of earshot of the embarrassed soldier, Nicholaa gave in to her urge and started laughing.

She thought he might laugh, too. It had been amusing, after all. He didn't laugh, though, and when he pulled the top of his cloak down over her head, she came to the conclusion that he took exception to her own laughter.

There wasn't much to laugh about during the rest of the long day. They made camp when it became too dark to continue. Nicholaa was beginning to think Royce was actually a tolerable man to be around. He made certain she was warm, well fed, and even fashioned a tent for her near one of the fires.

Then he ruined her good opinion of him by reminding her why he was taking her to London. He spoke of an immediate marriage and kept referring to her as the king's prize.

She began making her escape plans then. She pretended to be very docile, exhausted, too, and waited for her opportunity.

Royce gave her his cloak again as an added blanket to cover herself. She thanked him for that consideration.

He laughed.

Nicholaa was about to go inside the tent when she suddenly stopped and turned around. "Royce?"

He was surprised she'd used his name. "What is it?"

"No matter what happens to me, you cannot break your promise to the abbess. You have to take care of Justin, isn't that right?"

"Yes," he answered. "The promise can't be broken."

She was satisfied. She pretended to fall asleep a few minutes later. Her plan was set in her mind. She would sneak away from the camp just as soon as the soldiers had all settled down for the night. She knew the area well. The forest was part of Baron Norland's holding to the south of her own estate. It was a fair walk back to the abbey, though. Nicholaa thought it might take her an entire day to get there. She'd have to keep to the trees, she thought with a yawn, and avoid the broken north road as much as possible.