Claire Delacroix (3 page)

Pretty compliments to his abilities were well and good, but Yves had to consider the practicalities of Perricault’s situation. Still, he was not inclined to take a challenge against an unknown foe.

“You should know that I have just declined the offer of the Lord de Tulley to regain your lost holding.” he said, surprised to hear the gentleness of his own tone.

The woman lifted her chin proudly. There was a gracious strength about her that could stir a man’s blood.

Yves’ own blood was stirring, after all.

“I have something to grant that Tulley cannot,” she said firmly. Yves thought he saw her inhale quickly, but knew he must have erred, for such a possessed creature could not have been uncertain of anything she meant to do.

“I offer myself to you in exchange for your winning back Perricault.”

Yves blinked, but the lady stubbornly held his gaze, challenge bright in those violet eyes.

She was right. Tulley had not made an offer nearly as tempting.

But would Yves be just as much of a fool to accept?

G
abrielle eyed the knight opposite her and could not imagine what was in his mind. It was disconcerting, to say the least, that he was so good at hiding his response to her brazen offer.

It seemed he had not even blinked.

Did women make such offers to him all the time? That he was such a handsome man did nothing to bolster her confidence. The legendary Chevalier Yves de Sant-Roux, champion and marshal of the Count of Burgundy, was reputed to be both uncommonly bold and uncommonly good-looking.

Gabrielle had thought herself braced for the truth, but rumor had fallen far short of reality. The knight was blond of hair and square of jaw; he was tall and broad of shoulder. There was a vertical cleft notched into his chin and his lips were drawn in a decisive line befitting one who made his way with his blade. The hands that cradled his cup were large and strong, yet toyed with the cup with a gentle dexterity.

That might have been troubling enough, had he not been half-disrobed. His linen shirt hung open to reveal a tangle of tawny hair on his chest, the garment clinging damply and lovingly to each muscle of his shoulders and arms. His hair was wet and disorderly, as though he had dunked his head and shoved his fingers through its thickness.

Gabrielle’s task would have been much easier if the man had been mailed and armored for battle.

Yes, and helmeted as well, so that she could not see the calm consideration in those amber eyes. Or their steady perusal of her inadequate store of charms. Her father’s long ago condemnation echoed in Gabrielle’s ears though she fought against it.

The fading afternoon sunlight painted the interior of the tent in alternating stripes of light and dark gold, echoing the pattern woven into the silken walls. Gabrielle could smell the knight’s skin, the cloves in the spiced wine he drank and the dampness of the earth beneath the tent’s floor. There was also a whiff of leather and horse and wet steel, achingly masculine scents each and every one.

And each and every one was a reminder of the void in her life. Gabrielle felt more aware of her widowed state—indeed, more aware of her femininity—than she ever had before.

Had there been a flicker of something in the knight’s eyes when she made her bold offer? Surely an estate was what most men wanted to call their own?

But there was something about this man unlike the men Gabrielle had known. He had been so quick to pledge his silence, and for nothing in return.

And he was so still.

Fear of failure made Gabrielle’s palms damp. It was not like her to be so bold, she who had always been the obedient daughter, and later, the dutiful wife.

At least, until the most precious thing in her life had been stolen away. And that loss revealed a determination within her that she had not known she possessed.

A determination that had brought her all the way here.

But that determination, however demanding, did not make any of the challenges she faced, such as winning the support of this knight, any easier. Gabrielle’s words fell from her lips in uncharacteristic haste, propelled by the need to convince this man to aid her.

“Should you win back Perricault, I will wed you. That will make you Lord de Perricault.”

The knight shrugged. “I care nothing for lands and titles.”

No! His indifference to something she had expected him to hold dear enraged Gabrielle, especially as it was all she had to offer. He must accept the terms!

For if he refused, what else could she do?

“How can you not care to hold a prosperous estate?” She stalked across the tent and flung out her hands, taking care to keep her voice low. “Surely you have some ambition?”

A slight smile flickered over the knight’s lips, and Gabrielle burned with the knowledge that she was providing his amusement. Heaven knew such a handsome man would look to her for nothing else.

“As I told the Lord de Tulley just moments past, I am content with my lot,” he said, his voice a pleasant rumble.

Then his gaze flicked away and he pushed himself to his feet, bending to fetch another cup. Gabrielle caught herself noting the strength of his legs, artfully revealed by his chausses when he bent, before she tore her gaze away.

What was in her mind?

“Wine?” he asked, and Gabrielle glanced back to find him offering cup and flagon. His scrutiny was so searching that she felt her every emotion was laid out for his perusal.

And entertainment.

Cheeks burning with self-consciousness, Gabrielle took a deep breath and nodded. “A cup of wine would be welcome indeed.” Anything to make her forget the worries that stalked her every step.

He poured the ruby red wine into the brass cup with an easy grace, then offered it to Gabrielle. Their fingers brushed inadvertently in the transaction, the heat of his hand making Gabrielle step backward.

Honestly, how many knights had she faced, even since Michel’s death? It must be the import of this request that
jangled her confidence and made her aware of so many minute details.

Gabrielle sipped her wine quickly before speaking again. “Surely any knight longs to have a cadre of trained men at his command. If you fear the fate of idle comfort, Perricault offers none such. Being as it is on the periphery of Tulley and no small prize in itself, the lands are oft contested.”

The quirk of his lips was so fleeting that Gabrielle barely noted its presence before it was gone. “I do not fear boredom,” he said, his gaze locking steadily with her own. “It is only that material gains hold no allure for me.”

That could not be true! All the same, Gabrielle would provide him with a more noble reason, if he needed it as an excuse.

“Then fight for the justice of it!” She stepped forward once more to argue her point. “Philip de Trevaine attacked unprovoked and without warning.” Bitterness echoed in her tone. “No attempt was made to negotiate. No opportunity for peaceful surrender was made.”

“It is oft thus with war,” the knight argued carefully. But had his tone turned more considering? Certainly his eyes had narrowed and his gaze was fixed upon her.

Was it possible that Gabrielle was persuading him?

“No, this war was uncommonly cruel. I have seen war, but never like this.” She recalled that fateful night, and her voice fell to a flat monotone. “They came in the night, slaughtered all in their path and in the village outside the walls so that a cry of warning could not be raised.”

Gabrielle looked to the knight, to find his gaze bright. “We found women and children, unarmed and cut down as they rose from their beds at the sound. We found men, attacked from the rear and granted no chance to defend themselves.”

“And the Lord de Perricault?”

“My husband was cut down from behind.” Gabrielle’s voice was hostile with the injustice of it. She had not loved Michel, but that had nothing to do with his having the opportunity
to honorably defend his holding. He had been a good man, a decent husband, and there had been honesty between them.

It was all a woman could reasonably expect from marriage, after all.

“He never saw his murderer,” she admitted tonelessly, “nor did he have a chance to defend himself.”

The knight’s blond brow arched skyward. “Then you have no army with which to return the attack.”

“There is more to this than the count of men left standing!” Gabrielle pounded her fist into her palm. “What of the injustice?”

“Injustice will not be served by sending more men to their deaths,” the knight countered calmly.

Gabrielle hated that he was right.

“I have a dozen men-at-arms and two knights loyal to my house,” she declared proudly. “They have seen the worst Philip has done, and still hold fast.” She looked the knight right in the eye and jabbed a finger through the air toward him. “Such commitment cannot be bought at any price!”

“That is true enough,” he acknowledged. “But what of this Philip’s forces?”

Gabrielle had to drop her gaze, for this news would not win her any favor with this obviously practical knight. “He bolsters his forces nearly daily. Our last count is fifteen knights at Perricault.”

She sighed, then swallowed, knowing she would have to be honest with him. “The men-at-arms are too numerous to count accurately.”

“Then you have spies abroad?”

“Yes.”

Silence fell again in the tent. Gabrielle hoped with all her heart that despite the odds, this knight would take on her cause. She had made the best argument she could.

When the silence drew long between them, she knew she would have to appeal to his pride, as well. It disappointed her
to find him so obviously like other men, after all, but Gabrielle made the argument that would be telling.

“I understand the odds are not as favorable as a lesser knight, or one of less experience than you, might like,” she began, lifting her chin to meet his gaze once more. “And the task will not be an easy one. I have restrained my men from attack for want of a strategic plan and an effective leader.”

And that under protest, though Gabrielle did not admit as much. It chafed her to know that she must trust another to regain all she held dear.

Since Michel’s death, Gabrielle had come into her own in a way she might never otherwise have anticipated. The reins of leadership fit readily in her grip—yet the knights of Perricault were reluctant to follow a woman. Though Gabrielle had become a woman well used to resolving matters herself—with considerable success—the respect such behavior usually commanded had been denied to her.

Simply because she was a woman. That the stakes were so terribly high only made the insult worse.

But Gabrielle gritted her teeth and continued. “I have been advised that if any could win Perricault back, it would be you.”

The knight said nothing.

Why did he not agree?

Or was he of the ilk of man who liked to see a woman beg? Curse him! Could the man not see what this appeal cost her?

But she truly had no choice.

Gabrielle took a deep breath and looked up once more, refusing to be daunted by the knight’s steady and dispassionate gaze. “I beg you, Chevalier, grant my offer the consideration it deserves before making your decision Perricault is not a poor prize.”

She waited, but he still said nothing. The knight merely peered into his chalice, a slight frown marring his brows.

Had he forgotten her?

This interview was not progressing exactly as Gabrielle had expected. Indeed, he was supposed to leap at the prize of Perricault.

But this man had not.

Perhaps he needed time to consider the matter. The silence pressed so against her ears that she could not stand it. Gabrielle set down her cup and stepped toward the flap.

“If you could decide this evening, I should appreciate knowing which way the wind blows.” She made to step out into the afternoon, but his low words brought her to a halt.

“There is no need to wait. My decision is made.”

Gabrielle spun to face the knight, her heart in her throat, her fingers clenched tightly on the silken tent. To her consternation, she could not discern his conclusion from his expression.

Then the knight shook his head minutely and Gabrielle knew.

No! Her heart plummeted to her toes, even before his words found voice.

“I decline your generous offer, just as I declined the Lord de Tulley’s offer to take this cause.”

Rage erupted within Gabrielle, and she closed the space between them before she paused to think. “You cannot do this! I must have your aid in this matter!”

“You do not have it,” he countered calmly.

“Then I shall lead my troops upon Perricault myself!” Gabrielle propped her hands on her hips, content to see the knight’s eyes narrow slightly.

At least it was some sign that he had heard her.

“You cannot do that,” he argued coolly. “You cannot have the experience to plan a successful strategy.”

“I am sick to death of that argument, and believe me, Chevalier, I have heard it more oft than was welcome!” Gabrielle retorted. “There is no reason why I should not lead an attack, for I know that keep better than all others!”

The knight, though, shook his head, evidently unconvinced.

“Men will not follow you, or if they do, you will not be able to rely upon them. Should you proceed thus, my lady, you will only bring about your own demise and that of your followers.”

“I shall
have
to do so, despite your arguments, and do so without delay!” Gabrielle retorted, her patience with men and their reasoning completely expired. She had tried to solve this problem without letting her emotions muddle matters, but this pushed her too far. “With or without your aid, I will save my son and I will do it soon!”

The knight pursed his lips and folded his arms across his chest as he scrutinized her. His eyes blazed like molten gold and Gabrielle knew she had said something that had securely snared his attention.

“Your son?” he echoed.

“Yes, my
son!
” Once uncorked, it seemed Gabrielle’s passion could not be contained. “My son was captured by that miserable, scheming Philip and I will not tolerate his being used as a pawn in Philip’s plans. He is just a child!” Gabrielle wagged a finger at the knight before her. “One way or the other, I shall see Thomas free, even if it is the last thing I do!”

The knight frowned, looked away, then impaled Gabrielle with a bright glance. “Is he your only child?”

“Yes! Yes, he is!”

To her own dismay, Gabrielle began to cry. Hers was not the delicate weeping of a refined woman, but the manner of crying that comes from the heart and leaves a woman looking her ravaged worst.

“He is only six summers of age!” she blurted out, without knowing why she confided this particular fact. “He will not understand what is happening!”

To Gabrielle’s relief, the knight did not rush forward to console her or touch her with a familiarity undeserved. He simply stood back and let her cry.

And watched, a concerned frown marring his brow. To her
astonishment, his expression had softened slightly. Their gazes locked and held for a breathless moment, then the knight stepped closer and offered her a linen handkerchief. Gabrielle gracelessly blew her nose and mopped up her tears as he stood just a step away and watched her avidly.