Anita Mills (20 page)

“I’ll fight,” she promised, panting.

Deep shadows chased across her face and her eyes reflected the light eerily. His eyes traveled from her face downward hungrily, taking in what he would have. Her body gleamed like alabaster, illuminated by the faint orange glow of the waning fire. His mouth went dry as his body warred with his rational mind, demanding the ease of his desire. Blood pounded in his ears as the heat flooded through him. With an effort, he forced his gaze away. His voice, when he spoke, was strained, betraying the turmoil within him.

“Nay, I’ll not harm you—I’ve taken none but Aveline unwilling, and I’d take none other like that.” He released her, pushing her toward the bed. “You’d best sleep, for ’tis another long ride to Dunashie, and I’d not be late to my wedding feast.”

“If you take no woman unwilling, you wed alone,” she taunted as she scrambled beneath the warmth of his covers.

“Do you never get lonely with naught but your bad temper to warm your bones?” he countered.

“Never,” she lied.

It was not until she heard his footsteps fade in the stairwell that she saw the glow from the fire, and she knew what he’d seen. It did not matter, she told herself, for at least she now had the bed. Still shivering, she burrowed into the depths of the feather mattress, feeling the warmth left from his body. And for that a traitorous gratitude crept over her.

Although the chill ebbed from her bones, she was still slow to sleep. With naught but Willie’s snoring and an occasional pop from a green log to break the silence, she lay on her side, staring long into the fire. He had no right to do this to her—he was but lord of some pile called Dunashie, whilst she was daughter to Guy of Rivaux. Even if she would—which she would not—she could not wed him. She owed her blood more than that.

And yet as she absorbed the heat left by his body, she could not deny the aching loneliness she felt. She could not deny that, there was that within her that longed for a man’s embrace, there was that that envied Gilliane de Lacey Richard’s love. But such passion had been denied her, and she was no longer a little maid filled with foolish dreams. Nay, but Giles of Moray was no Richard. There was no tenderness in him, no gentleness to temper the hard man without.

Resolutely, she tried to remember Ivo, to see again the young man she’d wed. He was too comely for a man, her mother had said in jest—sweet Mary, but she wished now they had listened. Aye, he was too comely, she remembered viciously. As painful as it was she forced herself to recall how it had been—how he’d vomited when his father made him do his duty to her. The marriage had been Reyner’s wish, not his, he’d told her in the beginning. But for Reyner the dowry was not enough—there had to be an heir. And the more he pushed his son the more Ivo had turned against her, making her the symbol of all that was wrong in his life. Reyner made his son miserable, and Ivo transferred that misery to her. But in the end ’twas Ivo who had warned her that his father meant to get a child on her if Ivo did not. It was Ivo who’d sent her to the chapel the night Reyner meant to come to her. Even Ivo had his pride.

Nay, she could not find any sympathy for her young husband—she’d not forget how he’d given her bride gifts to those strutting peacocks he called “friends,” how he’d ignored her, not for willing women, but for men. Jesu, but she could have suffered a mistress better. Even now, the barbs he’d flung at her still wounded: she was overtall—“the great mare of Rivaux,” he’d called her whilst his favorites laughed at her. And she, a lonely girl, homesick and far from Rivaux, had lain awake nights afraid of Reyner, wishing she were a man. Nay, the passing of years could not dim the humiliation of her marriage to Ivo.

But as the fatigue in her body gradually overtook the agitation of her mind, it was neither Ivo nor Reyner who plagued her. As she finally slipped into sleep, it was the borderer’s black eyes that mocked her and his strong arms that held her. And ’twas the heat he’d left in his bed that warmed her. In the end she wrapped her arms around his pillow, feeling again the hardness of his body against hers.

She came awake slowly, only dimly aware that ’twas morning. Lying on her side, her eyes still closed, she remembered where she was with sinking heart. Wycklow, they called it, when in truth ’twas little better than hell. And today they rode on toward Dunashie, some dreary, forsaken pile of stone on the border between the heathen Scots and the English.

But as her mind groped to orient itself to her situation, she sensed with a start that she slept not alone. The steady, rhythmic breathing she heard was not her own, and for a moment, she supposed Helewise had dared to creep into the featherbed for warmth. Ah, well… she would not punish her, not after what she herself had endured—and not when she was grateful for the heat the woman provided. Aye, she did not want to rise, to leave the soft mattress for the cold room. And she’d not face Giles of Moray again any sooner than she had to.

“Helewise,” she finally murmured, “I’d have you seek a gown for me, for mine is ruined.”

There was no pause in the even breathing, and for a moment Elizabeth considered rising to get her discarded wool dress, but then she remembered that Giles of Moray had ripped her undergown. Nay, ’twould have to be Helewise who asked, for she’d beg nothing of him. She rolled over to waken the woman, and her heart almost stopped.

His black hair curled against the pillow and his face was young, boyish, as he slept. His eyes, closed beneath faintly purple lids, were fringed by his thick black lashes. Dark stubble followed his jawline and circled a well-formed mouth. His breath was soft, almost caressing, where it touched her face. And without the mocking smile, without the coldness in his eyes or the hard set to his jaw, he was as handsome as any she’d seen—aye, as handsome as her brother. ’Twas the hardness that marred his looks when he was awake, she realized. Now there was no sign of the Butcher—only of a flesh and blood man.

And she felt oddly drawn to him, as though she would touch him, but she dared not, for the harsh lord she knew would return when he waked. For a long moment she studied him, and dared to wonder what it would be like to lie with him. Nay, but the man who lay beside her was no Ivo, no boy with a taste for men. Her eyes traveled the length of him, measuring the body that pinned the covers beneath his clothes. He was in truth one of the biggest men she’d ever seen. Here was a man whose own height made hers less marked. Here was a man stronger than she. Here was a man who could make her afraid, not of him so much as of herself. And it was that fear that angered her.

“Get up,” she muttered. “Would you have your household see that you have dishonored Rivaux’s daughter?”

The black eyes flew open, followed by a smile that did not mock her. “.’Twas too cold to stay below in the hall, and your pallet was still damp from your gown.” His eyes lingered where the covers slipped from her bare shoulder. “And as tempting as ’twas, I did not crawl between the sheets,” he added, yawning. “I put another log on the fire instead.”

“Jesu, but what is everyone to think?” she hissed, trying to move beneath the pinned coverlet. “ .’Twill be said you make me your leman!”

“None were here but Willie and Helewise. And”— he rose up on one elbow to lean over her, favoring her with a wicked grin—“and I know not how Ivo did the deed, but I would expect the noise we would make to waken them.” Then, seeing her face redden, he relented. “Nay, Elizabeth, they know I did not take you.” Reluctantly, he rolled to sit on the edge of the rope-hung bed. “Sometimes I wonder if Ivo did the deed at all, for you are as skittish as a virgin.” When she did not answer he rose and stretched sore, tired muscles. “God’s bones, but I would that we did not have to ride today.”

“I’ll not sleep in that hole tonight,” she snapped.

“Nay, I’d not ask you.” He swung around suddenly, and his expression had grown serious. “Elizabeth, I know I am not what you would have—nay, hear me before you speak—I am a hard man, and I admit it freely. But if you would wed with me, I’d honor you, I swear it. And whether you believe me or no, I tell you that you would want for naught.”

“Nay, I—”

He raised his scarred hands in a gesture of silence. “I’d finish ere you answer,” he interrupted her. “While I cannot pretend to the power of your father or to Rivaux of Celesin, I am not without wealth, Elizabeth. And a war comes now, a war where the rewards can be great. I mean to win for my blood whatever I can—I ask you to believe that.”

“Fighting for Stephen!”

“Fighting for myself—I care not who sits on England’s throne. I care more what I leave my sons, what I send with my daughters.” Moving closer, he looked down where she held the covers against her breasts, and his voice grew earnest. “Elizabeth of Rivaux, I can give you those sons and daughters—between us, we can make fierce sons and proud, willful daughters for Dunashie. You do not need to wither and die without issue, Elizabeth. You do not need to be pitied for what Ivo of Eury did not give you. You do not need to sit a widow in your father’s house. Dare to be what God made you—let Him make of you and me more than either of us alone.” He stopped, aware of the fear in her green eyes, and he dropped his hands to his sides. “Nay, if you are afraid of me… ”

“ ’Tis not you I fear,” she answered simply. “And if I am to ride, I’d rise and dress. You promised me a robe of yours, I think.”

“Aye.” She’d evaded him, not answering his suit this time, but neither had she denied it. He stepped back, unwilling to press her further, unwilling to force her to tell him nay again. “Helewise may get what you have need of from my boxes. I keep clothes here for when I am come.” Settling his shoulders to ease the tension he felt, he turned to leave. “Think on what I have said, Elizabeth—wed with me and I will give you fire. You’ll not need a blaze in the hearth to warm your bones and your blood at night. And if ‘tis your barrenness you fear,” he added, “I can only say again that I am not Ivo of Eury. If the fault was his, then we shall make sons. If ‘tis you, I’ll accept that also.”

After he’d left she sat very still, her covers still clutched to her breasts. And for the first time since her bitter disappointment of Ivo she wanted to believe she could be loved, she wanted to know the strength of a man’s arms holding her.

You do not need to be pitied for what Ivo of Eury did not give you. You do not need to sit a widow in your father’s house.
His words echoed in her mind, touching again the nearly forgotten pain, the humiliation of her marriage and her subsequent return to Rivaux, where many thought she’d merely failed in her duty to her lord.

It was as though this hard, battle-scarred man had seen what she’d kept hidden these last years. And she did not want to wither, dear God, she did not… but neither did she want to put herself wholly in the power of a man again. And yet there was that within her that longed to be as other women, that part too long denied. There was that in her that envied her mother and Gilly for what they had. There was that in her that wished for a babe of her own to hold and to cherish. She closed her eyes and saw Amia of Beaumaule at Gilly’s breast, heard Gilly’s soft voice singing to her daughter. And even as she saw them again, her brother bent over them, his expression warm with love for both.

Nay, but she could not—would not—think this way.

She dared not dream again—not now. She was sworn to defend Harlowe, not to go to some distant keep. Besides, he was naught but a petty baron, and she was the daughter of Guy of Rivaux and Catherine of the Condes. In her veins flowed the blood of Brione, of Rivaux, of Nantes. She was too far above him in birth to give her body to him, to give his sons her blood. It was an outrage to even think such a thing. Elizabeth of Rivaux could not be as a chattel in Giles of Moray’s poor border keep. It was unthinkable. She knew naught of whence he had come. He was not even of the Earl of Moray’s blood—or if he was, ’twas through bastardy, she’d warrant.

“My lady?” The tiring woman peered timidly around the landing. “His lordship sent me away,” she tried to explain. “Now he would have me come back.”

“Aye.”

“He did not harm you?”

“Nay.”

Helewise appeared relieved as she moved into the room. “I did not want to anger him.”

“Nay, ’tis all right.” Elizabeth swung her legs over the side, touching her feet to the cold floor. “Jesu, but he ought to have ordered a new fire.” Then, nodding toward the carved boxes that lined one wall, she directed the woman, “Look in those and discover something for me to wear. I’d have a long tunic, an undertunic, and a belt. Aye, and stockings also, if there be any.” Then, seeing Helewise hesitate, she shook her head. “Nay, but he said I could wear his clothes.” Looking down at her long, bare legs, she added ruefully, “Indeed, but there’s naught else to fit me here.”

“Aye, my lady.” The plump woman moved to open the boxes, peering inside curiously, fingering the garments that lay wrapped between silk tissue. “What would you favor?”

“Anything warm. I’d not freeze again.”

To Elizabeth it seemed she waited overlong, but she held her tongue, knowing that poor Helewise could not have slept much either. Finally, the woman came back bearing a long tunic of soft blue-dyed camlet, banded at the neck, hem, and wide sleeves with embroidered silk. It was the sort that he would wear at home when there was no need for mail. On her other arm Helewise carried an undertunic of white linen.

“You found no stockings?” Elizabeth queried as she examined the clothes.

“Nay, but I hung yours to dry.”

Satisfied that neither Willie nor his master lingered nearby, Elizabeth stood, letting the bedclothes fall from her naked body. And as cold as it was she looked down again, this time seeing the firm, well-rounded breasts set high, and the flat belly, wondering despite herself what he would think of her. Slowly she reached for the undertunic, pulling it over her head and letting it fall over her hips. Then she bent to allow Helewise to lift the robe over her head. As it enveloped her, she had the satisfaction for once of wearing something too big. It was larger even than her grandsire’s. Holding her hands out, she waited for the woman to turn back the sleeves to reveal the fine linen underneath. And she wondered if he’d ever worn the clothes she wore now.