Warrior's Deception (20 page)

“Let me see that.” Roen untied the bag, and shoved his large hand inside. “Ouch!” He jerked his hand back and sucked his index finger. Drops of blood seeped from two puncture wounds.

“’E may be small, but ‘e’s a mean’ un. I’ll take care of ‘im.”

“Nay, never mind the pup. I’ll take him.” Roen removed the rock from the bag. His hand emerged with a series of staccato teeth imprints. The kennel master retreated with raised eyebrows and a look of disbelief.

“What do you plan on doing with that?” Hamlin asked.

Roen shrugged. “If the pup is strong enough to take me on, he’s strong enough to live.” He headed to the stable. “I’ll put him in there for now.”

The wooden bowls of food and water remained on sentry duty under the loft stairs. Gladymer would never again use them; the pup might as well get some use from Lenora’s diligence. Roen tilted the bag upside down and a black gray bundle tumbled out. A tiny thing, barely a handful of fur and teeth. The pup sat for a moment stunned, then jumped to all fours. The hair on its back bristled and it started barking at the cobwebs between the stairs.

“What’s that you have there?”

Lenora’s voice startled Roen so badly he jerked his head up and knocked it against the stairs. He rubbed the back of his head with his hand and stepped from the alcove.

“A pup.” Roen pointed to the fur ball attacking the remnants of the torn blanket. His eyes met hers. The sight of his wife intoxicated him with her beauty. Her dark gold overtunic accented the golden highlights of her eyes. A slight darkness under them marked her sorrow. Her crown of red gold hair, tied back with a thong of leather, haloed her face. His favorite curl, determined to remain free of checks, cascaded across the corner of one eye.

He wanted her. Night after night as he lay beside her, holding her in his arms, he feared she would awaken and order him from her sight. She had every right. The one night and morning they had shared haunted his dreams at night and thoughts
during the day. The knowledge that she reviled him cut him deeply.

“I’ll leave the dog here. There’s food for him.” Roen turned to leave but the light touch of her hand on his arm stopped him.

“You can’t just leave him here. He can’t eat this.” She pointed to the table scraps. “He’s not old enough to digest it.”

At a loss, both from her question and touch, Roen answered, “Then what will you do with it?”

“Me? ‘Tis not my animal, ‘tis yours.”

Roen shook his head and hands emphatically. “Nay, I just brought the pup here for you. I don’t claim it as mine.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

He shook off her hand and stormed from the stable. Outside, at the trunk of the oak, he stopped. He ordered his breath to stop its erratic pattern, but it did not obey. The spot on his arm Lenora had touched still radiated with her warmth. Would the craving in his loins ever lessen to a bearable level?

Lenora sat under the steps with her knees bent and rested her elbows on them. Then she cried. It felt good to release the pentup frustration of the past few weeks. ’Twas plain Roen did not want her company. Matilda’s stinging insults resounded. Beatrice remained at Woodshadow; ‘twas only a matter of time before Roen carried out her aunt’s prediction.

“Ouch!” Lenora pulled away the hem of her gown to find Roen’s pup tugging at her big toe. She wiggled her toes and the dog froze, then began to frantically bark at them.

She pestered the animal again with her foot. The pup executed a series of lunge attacks and yapped louder. “Such a fighter for one so little. You just don’t give up.”

Tired of the game, she stopped teasing the dog. Confident with its victory, the puppy sauntered over to the folds of her dress. After winding round and round, the tiny bit of fur settled its jaws on the tip of its tail.

“Nora?” Roen’s voice questioned as he entered the barn. He moved toward her resting place and braced his head against the beam he had struck earlier. The red rims of her eyes caused his heart to lurch. He cursed himself for being the instrument of her sorrow. Outside he had fought his body’s desires, prayed to
suppress them. His prayers remained unanswered, and the need had only grown, becoming so strong that he ventured back, just to see her once more.

“What do you want?” Lenora sniffed and wiped tears on the sleeve of her dress.

“I…I…I…” He sought some excuse for his return. “I came for the pup. If you don’t want him, I’ll give him back to the kennel master.”

“He’s not here.”

“Where did he go?” Roen began to search the area, lifting the blankets and finally the bowls.

Despite her tears, Lenora laughed. “I know he’s a bit of a dog, but, Roen, he could not hide beneath the bowl.”

Her laugh, however gentle and halfhearted, rang like music to his ears. His gaze rested softly on her tear-streaked face. Her bereavement echoed in his own soul. He dropped his gaze to the floor.

“You’ve no idea where it may have gone?” Roen questioned.

“Nay, I am not partial to your gifts.”

Roen sat down beside her. The tip of a furiously wagging tail lay exposed beyond the hem of Lenora’s dress. “Aye, I know. You sent back the cloth and jewels. You never wear the wedding gift I gave you.”

“Wedding gift?”

“The amber-and-emerald necklace.”

She turned, and he could see her search his face. He felt unsure of what she found because her face screwed up in a horrible grimace. “Lenora, what is wrong?”

“Nothing.” Her voice rose in pitch and she bit her lips.

He tried to take her in his arms, and his heart clamored against his chest. “Are you ill?” She grabbed her knees and squeezed her eyes closed. “What’s wrong?”

“Get that hound!” Lenora pulled her dress up over her knees and revealed the pup, its teeth tugging at the tender skin near her little toe.

Roen lifted the animal by the scruff of its neck. Lenora lifted her leg with it. Her foot dangled high in the air, and her gown slid up, displaying the sensuous curve of her calf and thigh. He shook the pup to dislodge it.

“Ouch. That hurts.”

His finger slipped into the animal’s mouth and pressed down. The strong jaws parted and Lenora freed herself. He placed the little beast on the hay and plopped one of the empty wooden feed bowls over it.

“There. See? The mongrel could fit under a bowl.”

Lenora massaged her injured toe. “Where did you get that little hellion?”

A full belly laugh erupted from Roen. Tears came to the corners of his eyes, and every time he thought he would gain his composure, another laugh blurted out.

“Stop it. ‘Twas not that comical.” Lenora pinched him, hard.

“That hurt.” The statement lost some of its recriminations because he burst out in another attack of laughter.

She pinched him again, harder.

“Peace, wife. I’ll stop or be black-and-blue soon.” He could not help but notice the smile Lenora tried to keep at bay.

“Well, what are you going to call it?”

Roen’s laughter came under control. “I gave the beast to you. ‘Tis your place to name it.”

She shook her head. “Nay, you name it.”

“Call it Dog, for all I care.”

“That is precisely the point. When you name something, you claim it as your own. It has your mark upon it. A name shows that you do care. ‘Tis the only way I will accept it.”

“Nora, ‘tis nothing but a scrap of fur and teeth.”

“Name it.” Lenora lifted the bowl. The pup lay curled up, asleep.

Roen started to protest, then stopped. ‘Twas a little thing, and if it made her happy he would do it. He pursed his lips, staring upward as though for heavenly inspiration.

“Goliath. His name is Goliath”

“That little fur ball you name after a giant? I’ll sound like a fool calling him that.” She crinkled up her brows and scratched the pup behind the ears.

“Nevertheless, ‘tis his name. He may not look the part, but he acts it.” He smiled at the relaxed stance of his wife. The tension that had lain between them thinned. Could he break through the barrier that separated him from Lenora?

“Why did you give me this animal?” Lenora’s somber voice asked.

From his pocket, Roen pulled the worn collar. He handed it to her. She took the strip of leather from his hand and stretched the band open. Her finger traced the letters written on the inside.

“How—” she bit her lower lip “—did you find this?”

“In the woods. I found his body near a green clearing. There were no broken bones. I think he died peacefully. Probably just fell asleep and did not awaken.” He spoke the white lies so easily. Why tell her the truth and increase her pain?

“Thank you.” She hugged the collar to her chest. “For bringing me this and giving me Goliath.” Tears clouded her golden eyes. Without thinking, Roen gathered her up in his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck and released the tears.

She cried for Gladymer, for her father, even for Roen. It felt wonderful to lie cocooned in Roen’s arms and not have to be strong.

Every tear spent, she lifted her face from his shoulder. A huge wet blot darkened his tunic. Her tears caused the red thread on the embroidery at his neck to run. She sniffed and rubbed the stain with her fingers. “Look, I’ve ruined this. The dye has marked your tunic.”

Roen closed his fingers over hers and gave them a gentle squeeze. “’Tis nothing, no need to speak of it.”

“That’s your answer to everything.” She pushed herself from his arms, her resentment knotted up inside her. “But I need to speak. Why? Roen, why did you do this thing to my father, to me, to us?”

“I gave the man my word. I did not know you would take it thus.”

A scream of frustration and rage at the back of her throat. “How did you expect me to react? How would you react if ‘twas the reverse? If ‘twas your parent that had died?”

His mouth grew tight and grim. The heightened pulse of the vein in his neck marked his mood. How dare he get angry with her? She had been wronged, not him. His long body jolted upright and he looked down on her with his fists clenched at his
side. He moved from the alcove without answering her questions.

She jumped to her feet and followed him. “Not this time, Galliard. You will answer me. You owe me that much.” She ran and, ignoring the danger, planted herself in front of him.

“How can I answer? I have no knowledge of what you ask,” he rasped through gritted teeth.

“Just because you are still blessed with your parents is no excuse. Can you not imagine how you would feel at their loss?”

“Nay, ‘tis not that.” Raw hurt glittered in his stony eyes. “’Tis I cannot imagine parents.” He paused, letting the statement sink into Lenora’s brain.

“I don’t understand. Roen, you must have parents.”

“There’s a man whose name I bear, but I’m not his.” His jaw tightened. “Lenora, you married a true bastard, in deed as well as birth.”

He stepped around her, leaving her stunned and silent. She shook her head to recover her wits and again ran after him. He stood near the oak with his back to her, blotting out the sun with his body.

Her compassion overcame the outrage in her heart. The need for battle ended. This was a time for healing. She slipped her arms around his waist and leaned her head on his arm. In a hushed voice she gave the gentle command, “Tell me.”

He tilted her chin up, his eyes wary. “’Tis no more to tell. I am a bastard with no true name.”

“There’s more, Roen. Tell me.”

Hamlin had said the same thing earlier. Roen gazed down into her eyes. Tenderness softened the golden tones, and the sight melted his last resolve. He cleared his throat and moved from her embrace. The words clung in his throat. After so many years, the hurts, the insults, the injustices still caused him pain.

“The mark of a bastard has been with me since the day I was born. They only had to look at me to see I did not belong. I am one of six brothers and the only light-haired one of them. No one else has my eyes or build.”

“But that alone could not mean you were a bastard. Your mother, was she—”

“Nay, she was dark and small, also. There were other things.”

“Like what?”

Roen turned his head from her and tried to regain the iron belt of restraint he kept on this part of his life. “I can read.”

Lenora’s eyes widened in bewilderment. “I don’t understand.”

“My mother engaged a tutor for me against Galliard’s wishes. I was directed to study late, by candlelight. My teacher told me Galliard would be so proud of my fast progress. Then my mother arranged for me to entertain a crowd of visiting noblemen at mealtime. A passage from the Bible had been selected by my tutor. I stood and read those words with so much hope.” He pounded his fist on the trunk of the oak then leaned his head against it.

Lenora’s quiet voice tore through his anguish. “What happened, Roen?”

“’Twas all a joke on her part, another way to mark me as different.” Roen tried to hide the pain from his voice. “They had all tried, every one of my brothers…they had all tried to learn but they couldn’t. They were just like Galliard. The letters got all jumbled up and backward. None of them could read. None except for me.”

“Did your father never ask, never seek more than just these superficial marks?”

Roen closed his eyes, the blackness transforming into red-hot bands. “’Tis easy for you, with your eyes and hair, even your stance so like your sire’s. There could be no doubt in your father’s mind whose issue you were. I remember the first time I saw you and Sir Edmund together, so alike…I wanted the same with my father, whoever he might be.”

“My father would have loved me if I were short and dark-haired with green eyes.”

“’Tis an easy thing to say, but not so easy to prove.”

Her eyes melted into pools of weary wisdom. “Nay, not hard at all. Ask any about my brother, Louis. He bore those colorings, yet Father never doubted his birthright. It wouldn’t matter what any of his children looked like—he knew my mother loved him and he her.”

Unsettled, Roen blasted back, “Galliard wanted more proof. He pleaded, begged and even beat her for the truth.”

Hate laced his every word. “My mother never admitted nor denied it. She would only smile. Lord, how I hated that smile. When I read that passage, I still remember her smiling at me. No matter how many times Galliard dragged me out into the exercise field and struck me over and over again in full view of her, she stood silent and smiled. With every blow he demanded an answer. It fell into a pattern, the sound of the lash, the sting of its blow on my back and the question, ‘Is he mine?’ I think she took great pleasure out of the man’s uncertainty.”