Entreat Me (10 page)

He scraped back the hood, shrugged off the cloak and tossed it across the solar to land atop Louvaen’s garment.  “As you wish, mistress.”

Unlike Cinnia, she didn’t startle.  Gavin had assured him his cell had been too dark and her candle too weak to illuminate him clearly during her first visit.  Now he had no shadows in which to lurk.  Several candles and the leaping flames from the hearth’s vigorous fire lit the chamber.

She cocked her head to the side and offered him a sheepish smile.  “Those are impressive black eyes.”

He blinked, stunned by her teasing.  No revulsion, no fear, only a curiosity laced with a touch of embarrassment at the injury she caused.  He followed her lead and purposefully misunderstood her remark.  “My father’s eyes were also black.”

Her full lower lip flattened, and her throat worked to hold back laughter.  “Does the penchant for being hit in the face run in the family?  What an odd trait to pass on to your descendents.”

Ballard chuckled, surprising himself.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d truly laughed without sarcasm or bitterness.  Ill-tempered badger she might be, but Louvaen Duenda had accomplished something no one else had in years.  “The males in my family have been known to do foolish things that earned them a bruise or two.”  It was a round-about apology for yanking her off her feet and an acknowledgement he deserved what she’d dished out to him in response.

She harrumphed and raised a dark eyebrow.  “Is that so?  Then it’s just a matter of time before Gavin sports one or two.”

“Very likely.”  He indicated the chairs once again.  “Sit, mistress.  You’ll want to thaw by the fire.”

He followed her and took the goblets off the table while she made herself comfortable.  The ale had turned tepid, and he lifted the poker resting in the hearth’s coals.  Red iron clanged on stone as he struck off the clinging ash and plunged the tip of the poker into his goblet.  Ale spumed over the rim, and he blew the thick foam into the fire where it hissed and spat.  Louvaen watched him from her place.  “Same for yours?” he said.  She nodded, and he repeated the process, making sure no trace of ash floated in the ale.  She murmured her thanks when he passed the goblet to her and took an experimental sip.  She gave an appreciative sigh.

“Your Magda is the finest alewife I’ve ever met.  She uses nutmeg in her brew.”

As he’d been drinking only Magda’s ale for so long, he had nothing to compare, but it pleased him that his guest enjoyed one of the offerings of his household.  She sat in her chair as if seated on a throne, straight-backed and regal.  Her gown fell in folds to the floor, the fabric molded to one leg from thigh to knee.  Oh yes, she had long, long legs.  Ballard dragged his gaze back to her face, annoyed by the realization he was as distracted by a skirt as any green lad sniffing after a milkmaid.  “Tell me of your journey.  I’m guessing this Don Jimenin accepted payment.”

Triumph lit her eyes.  “He did, though I thought he might burst into flame.  I had to duel a clerk at the Merchant House with a pair of candlesticks, but I made sure the lending masters and half the town council came to witness the exchange.”  She smirked into her goblet.  “Jimenin was one blink shy of an apoplexy.  He doesn’t like being thwarted.”

“No man does.  From what Gavin has told me, payment in coin wasn’t Jimenin’s goal.  He’ll find another way to try for your sister.”

Her expression sobered.  “It’s why I’ve agreed to let her stay for the winter.  I need time to plan.”

Ballard wondered what she might devise to keep Cinnia out of Jimenin’s clutches if the girl refused Gavin’s suit.  “And if she chooses to make Ketach Tor her home once winter ends?”

Louvaen abandoned her seat to pace in front of the hearth.  “I love my sister, de Sauveterre, and I fear what Jimenin will do if he gets his hands on her.”  She pinned him with a hard stare.  “This is a questionable sanctuary at best.  A broken fortress sitting in a pool of wild magic; a man so crazed by it his own family chains him in a dungeon, and a magician who’ll beguile an innocent young woman so she doesn’t see the lad she swoons over sometimes looks at her with the eyes of a beast.  For now, I must entrust her safety to you.  If she chooses to remain, then she’ll need to know exactly what she’ll live with before she makes that choice.  Gavin has asked for the winter to court her.  In exchange I want to stay here with her and act as companion and guardian.”

She’d thrown down the gauntlet first, and inadvertent or purposeful, she’d done so while he was paying more attention to the way the firelight danced across her figure than on her words.  Magda would have said she was as flat as a washing bat, but Ballard admired the slight swell of her breasts, perfectly proportioned to her slender form.  Her gown eddied around her legs and hips while shadows played in her hair and pooled in the hollow of her throat.  His wife had once accused him of being a cold man, and years of the curse’s effects had dampened his vigor, but he still lived, still breathed and at this moment lusted mightily.

“De Sauveterre?”

She stopped her pacing, features pinched at his inattention.  If she only knew just how focused he was on her.  He took a swallow of his cooling ale before answering.  “By most lights it’s a reasonable request.”  She must have heard his unspoken “but” because her posture remained stiff.  “Reasonable if that’s all you intend.  Having you winter here will give you plenty of time to poison Cinnia against my son if you choose.  We aren’t fools, Mistress Duenda.  You hold great influence over your sister.”

He liked that she didn’t spout false denials regarding her power.  “True, but like everyone else, you underestimate Cinnia’s will.  Were it as meager as some believe, you and I wouldn’t be having this discussion, and Cinnia would be home in Monteblanco, as would I.”  She closed the distance between them and set her ale down.  This near and Ballard caught the scent that had broken the flux’s hold on him for a brief moment in his cell—cloves.  “I’ll not try and sway her one way or the other.  If Gavin wins her, he’ll do so with honesty as well as charm.  If he doesn’t win her, it won’t be of my doing, and we’re both free to leave with our debt to your family clear.”

Ambrose had said she was a widow, and Ballard could only guess how her husband must have worked himself into an early grave trying to remain master of his household with such a wife.  This woman was accustomed to issuing edicts and having them obeyed.  “If I agree, what do you intend to do while you reside in my castle, eating my food and using my firewood to warm yourself?  Ketach Tor requires a lot of upkeep and we’re a reduced household.  Everyone here attends to several tasks.”

He thought her spine might snap if she stiffened any more.  She crossed her arms and scowled.  “Cinnia and I aren’t leeches, my lord, nor are we unskilled.  I brew a vile ale and can burn this place down around your ears trying to cook; however, I’m an accomplished spinner and silk thrower, an adequate seamstress and an exceptional scrivener.  Cinnia apprenticed under Marguerite de Pizan as a scribe, illuminator and bookbinder.  Neither of us are noblewomen, nor do we fear hard work.  I’ve scrubbed plenty of floors, laundered linens, cared for the sick, and helped bury the dead.  What do you wish of me?”

Ballard listened to her passionate dissertation without interrupting.  Louvaen Duenda had an answer for most things and an argument for everything else.  She didn’t debate; she went to war.  His respect for Cinnia blossomed.  The girl had a stronger backbone than he credited her for if she hadn’t yet buckled under the weight of her sister’s imposing personality.  Fascinated, he succumbed to the temptation to tease Mistress Duenda and maybe render her tongue-tied.

“What do I wish of you?”  He paused, his gaze sweeping over her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes peeking out from her hem.  Her hands, long-fingered and pale, gripped her upper arms.  “You, in my bed,” he said.

He expected an indignant tirade or a hail of insults covering everything from his parentage to the horrors of his face and hands.  The silence that met his softly spoken declaration swelled in the room, turning as hot as the embers glowing in the hearth and those pluming in Louvaen’s eyes.  Ballard was willing to wager she’d exhale smoke from her nostrils and fire out of her mouth at any moment.  He watched her gaze flick to the poker, then back to him, and he almost laughed aloud.  She was calculating her chances of success in skewering him to his chair.

The first words of an apology for his poor jest hovered on his lips and died when Louvaen’s outraged demeanor cooled.  The shrewd look she gave him transformed his amusement into amazement, and it was he who went tongue-tied.  He rose to stand in front of her, close enough that her breath caressed his cheeks, and he could count the number of dark lashes edging her eyelids.  “My gods,” he murmured.  “Your love for your sister is exceptional if you’re actually considering giving yourself to me.”

Her top lip curled into a faint sneer.  “If I say yes, I give only my body, not myself.”  She snapped a finger against one of the buckles on his tunic and stepped away.  “I won’t be the one diminished by such a bargain, and you’ll be lucky if I don’t geld you before spring.”

Ballard congratulated himself on keeping his voice even and his expression neutral.  “You may keep to your own bed, Mistress Duenda.  I suspect I wouldn’t survive an encounter between us unscathed.  I’d like to keep my bollocks attached.”

She blinked, confused and her brow knitted into a frown.  “What do you want then?”

What did he want?  Hers was a fair question with no easy answer.  He wanted more of this—the exhilaration of truly living instead of only counting time.  The sharp-tongued sister who’d invaded his home, made her demands and challenged his authority as
dominus
sent the blood singing through his veins.  They were going to clash, no doubt about it.  Ambrose hadn’t exaggerated when he said she had the disposition of a badger, but he hadn’t felt this alive since he raised the newborn Gavin in his arms and proclaimed him heir of Ketach Tor.  There was still hope for Gavin.  Cinnia’s affection for him might turn to love and break the curse that bound him.  It was too late for Ballard.  He existed on borrowed time, and his days as a man still in possession of his humanity were few.  Isabeau had spoken true when she proclaimed no woman born would love him, but he’d found one who’d spar with him.  It would be enough to comfort him when the last of his sanity winked out in the darkness of his cell.  Louvaen Duenda could stay.

“Your companionship,” he said simply.  “Ketach Tor has been without the presence of a refined woman for many years.  Gavin will command your sister’s attention; I will command yours.  You’ll entertain me when I wish, give me your company—pleasant company.”  He smirked.  “Talk to Magda if it’s spinning you want.  She’ll bless you until the end of her days.  We had a good flax harvest this season and enough bundles to keep a horde of spinners busy until next summer.”

“Anything else?”  She’d finally lost her composure and gawked at him in open-mouthed incredulity.

“You’ll never forget you are only a guest of this house, not its mistress.  Your sister can show you which rooms are yours to explore.  Stay out of the rest unless invited.  If you break the rules, there will be consequences.  You can spin just as easily while you spend the winter imprisoned in one of the cells below. If you explore the woods, don’t go alone.  And stay away from the roses growing along the keep wall.  They’re warped by the flux and vicious.”

Louvaen stopped gaping long enough to answer him.  “Understood.”

“We have an accord?”

“We do.”

She’d been the one to parley for the right to stay, yet he was the one who wanted to gust a sigh of relief that she’d agreed to his terms.  He resumed his seat and captured his goblet just to give his hands something to do.  “You’ll want to join your sister for supper then.”  He inclined his head, signaling an end to their meeting.  “Mistress.”

He received only a brief nod and a cool “de Sauveterre” before she retrieved her gloves and cloak from beneath his and left the room without closing the door.

Ballard grinned at the fire, downed his ale and the remainder of Louvaen’s for good measure.  Winter promised to be interesting.

“Well?”

He glanced up to find Ambrose next to his chair, the lenses of his spectacles reflecting the firelight and hiding his expression.  “I’ve agreed to let her stay.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Ambrose grumbled.  “Best watch your back then.  If you so much as sneeze wrong in her sister’s direction, she’ll try to take your head.”

“She-wolf with a pup.”

The sorcerer nodded.  “Aye.  I suspect she killed her husband.”

Ballard recalled her quick glance at the fireplace poker and then at him.  He smiled.  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

CHAPTER SIX

Louvaen had so far spent nine days and as many hours of her winter stay within the stone walls of Ketach Tor fortress.  Magda had fed her well, and the master of the house had yet to serve her the plate of crow she’d expected to eat when she crossed the drawbridge on her return trip.  The chamber given to her was the same one she’d stayed in during her first visit.  Small but easily warmed by its hearth, it offered a comfortable bed and privacy.

The spacious bedroom where Cinnia slept was three times the size of Louvaen’s room.  Its attached bower and lead pane windows caught the southern sun and overlooked the birch and oak woodland.  Louvaen had initially wanted to share the chamber with her sister, a safeguard against any midnight visits Gavin might be tempted to make.  He’d sworn not to compromise Cinnia’s honor, and while Louvaen trusted him to hold to his word to the best of his ability, she was reluctant to confine her role as chaperone to daytime.  She changed her mind after two hours of spinning flax in the bower with Cinnia chattering nonstop about Gavin’s numerous abilities, which bordered on godlike and miraculous.  She’d abandoned her basket of bundles and fled to her room, pleading a headache.

Magda had given her a knowing smile when she caught Louvaen shoving her chest of clothing down the hall and into the smaller chamber.  “What?  Not interested in falling asleep to the many praises of the wondrous Gavin de Lovet?”

“Stop looking so smug and help me push this chest inside.”

She’d since slept with one eye open and her door cracked.  So far no footsteps had tiptoed the hall late at night, and Cinnia’s door had remained shut.

True to his word, Ballard made certain she and Cinnia were kept busy.  The first morning of her stay, Magda had given the two sisters enough time to consume the familiar breakfast of bread sopped in ale before leading them to a store room set off from the larder.  Inside, twisted bundles of flax tare shared space with baskets overflowing with tow.  Louvaen guessed they had stored enough flax to keep an army of spinners busy for months.

“Unless you’re harvesting a small country’s worth of flax, this is more than a single season.”

Magda pushed baskets out of her way to lift a hanging strick of tare from a hook in the ceiling.  “Three seasons and this summer saw a better harvest than most.”  She pulled one of the braids from the main bundle and passed it to Louvaen.  “We’ve enough to do in the winter with the mending, cooking, making rush lights and candles, along with the usual sennight of laundry.  We haven’t the time to spin a decent portion of what we’ve harvested.”

Louvaen untwisted the braid of flax line and held it in the light streaming in from the kitchen.  Her fingers sifted the butter-soft hank of flax.  “Who hackled this?”

Magda gestured with her chin to the two serving girls hovering in the doorway.  “Joan.  She has a deft hand with the combing and carding.”

The girl flushed at the praise and turned a brighter red when Louvaen passed the line to Cinnia.  “Feel.  I’ve thrown silk less soft.  It would be a privilege to spin this.”

Magda lifted a basket of tow and dropped it into Cinnia’s arms.  “We can use aprons, rope and stockings more than a fine shirt or napkins at the moment, so I need the tow spun.  As good as Joan is at the hackling, Clarimond is better on the loom.  She can weave as fast as you can spin .”  She tried to take the flax line from Louvaen who refused to relinquish it.

“Would you let me spin this as well?  You’ll have yarn to use if his lordship or Gavin needs a fancier shirt to wear in the future.”

Magda nodded.  “If you think you can give Clarimond the yarn she needs to weave, spin what you want.”  She placed a second basket in Louvaen’s arms.  “I prefer a good drop spindle myself, but Gavin’s brought home a couple of those spinning wheels.  One of the girls will show you where they are.”

Cinnia looped her arm through Louvaen’s as they followed Clarimond up the stairs to the third floor and a door recessed into an alcove at the end of the corridor.  The rush light in Clarimond’s hand sent shadows scurrying to the corners as she entered the room and stepped aside to wait while the sisters explored.  They gasped in unison at their first peek inside.

The chamber was no larger than a modest buttery and just as crowded as the storeroom they’d left, only this one housed things more interesting than flax.  Cinnia made straight way to a harpsichord shrouded in dust.  Beside it stood a pendulum clock and a table covered with a variety of storm glasses as well as a vase filled with lead pencils.  One corner held two spinning wheels; a great wheel and another that had Louvaen striding across the room.

“A castle wheel,” she whispered.  Before his death, Thomas had promised her a castle wheel.  He’d died before he could fulfill his promise, and the burden of her father’s debt had prevented her from buying one.  She ran her fingers over the frame, caressing the wheel and drive bands.  The spinning wheel was as dusty as the harpsichord, but otherwise untouched, as if someone had bought and abandoned it.  Magda had stated the wheels were free to use, and she couldn’t wait to bring this one out into the light, clean and oil it and spin her first bit of drafted tare.

“I know what this is!”

She was interrupted in her mental planning by Cinnia’s exclamation.  The girl bent and pressed her eye against the narrow tip of a tubular contraption mounted on a tripod.  Rush light revealed designs of vines and leaves carved into a brass casing made dull with dirt.  Louvaen left the wheels and joined Cinnia.  “What is it?”

She straightened and Louvaen grinned at the brown circle of grime decorating the girl’s eye.  “They call it a telescope.  When you look through this glass, it’s as if the stars hover on your doorstep.”  She clapped her hands, delighted by her discovery.  “We have to get Gavin to bring this out.  Who would leave such a marvelous machine in a dirty room?”

Louvaen wondered the same.  Several of the items were commonplace in the households she knew—commonplace but also expensive.  Some, like Cinnia’s telescope, were very rare while the castle wheel was readily available if one had the funds to upgrade from the bigger wheels that spun bulkier yarns.  The de Sauveterres had paid Jimenin and acted as if her father’s exorbitant debt was nothing more than ribbon money.  The things tucked away in this chamber, neglected and forgotten, were beyond the means of most but well within the purchasing power of this family, yet Magda and her women prepared meals and cleaned the rooms with basic tools.  The conflicting realities made no sense, and so far no one in the de Sauveterre household offered an explanation.

“That’s a question I’d like answered.”  She lifted a delicate bottle spun of fragile glass from the table.  “These things are too costly, too useful, or both to be left here.  No matter how fast Magda is with her beloved drop spindle, she can’t equal the speed of a wheel in turning out yarn.  It’s a shame having a storeroom stuffed with flax waiting to be spun when these two wheels would make short work of the excess.”

Cinnia shrugged.  “Well, we’ll have something to do in the evenings or when the weather is bad.  Besides, I’d rather spin than launder any day.”

Magda had shrugged when Louvaen asked her about the chamber with its many forlorn treasures.  “Gavin’s always bringing baubles and oddities from his journeys.  Didn’t have the time to play with some or learn how to use the others.  If something catches your eye just say so.  We’ll take it out, clean it up, and you can put it to use.”

Over the next few days, the spinning wheels found a place in the solar and the telescope in one of the towers.  Louvaen offered to teach Clarimond and Joan how to spin on the wheels, and with Magda’s blessing, scheduled lessons before supper.  While the housekeeper displayed an obvious deference to both Ballard and Gavin, she treated the sisters in the same manner she dealt with Ambrose, either chasing them out of her kitchen for being underfoot or putting them to work at one of the many endless tasks that made Ketach Tor a comfortable home.  Evenings were spent in the solar, with Cinnia spinning alongside Louvaen or beating the lights out of Gavin in one of their numerous games of Nine Men’s Morris.

Sometimes Ballard joined them, sitting quietly near the fire, shrouded in hood and cloak so he wouldn’t disturb Cinnia.  Despite their bargain, he had yet to request Louvaen’s company privately and had so far refused her offer to read to him.  He seemed content to sit and listen to the quiet clack of the spinning wheel’s treadle and watch as she spun flax into linen yarn.

“Why spinning, Mistress Duenda?”  He asked her one evening as she drafted flax tow through her fingers.  “A lady usually engages in other pursuits.”

Louvaen smiled.  Spinning was a lowly skill, despite the weavers clamoring for every scrap of yarn a spinner could twist and ply as fast as possible.  “I’m not a lady, my lord, only a bankrupt merchant’s daughter.”  Shed dipped thumb and forefinger in the cup of flax mucilage to coat the line.  “I’ve no talent for the harpsichord or the psaltery, and I find needlework dull.  Spinning though—spinning is listening to thread sing, and I’ve a good ear for it.”

“Give me your hands.”

His command surprised her, but she ceased spinning and stretched out her hands, palms up.  He leaned forward and grasped them, the pointed tips of his nails scoring lightly down the lengths of her fingers.  Her skin was golden next to his, her hands elegant.  Louvaen glanced at her sister who’d paused in her game with Gavin to watch.  Cinnia shuddered and turned back to the board.  If Ballard saw her reaction, he ignored it, concentrating instead on sliding his thumbs across the pads of Louvaen’s fingers.

“Not a lady but with the hands of one.  Soft.”

Where Cinnia shook in revulsion, Louvaen shivered at the pleasant tingle his touch elicited.  She gently withdrew her hands from his grasp and took up her line once more.  “When I spin wool, I spin in the grease.  Good for the skin.”

Ballard sat back in his chair.  “What a fine thing to know the caress of such hands,” he said in a low voice.

The heat in her face warned her she was probably a deeper shade of red than Cinnia’s gown, but she refused to look away from Ballard’s steady gaze, the eye shine yellow and glowing in the deep shadows of his hood.  “I’m no longer considering your proposition, Lord de Sauveterre,” she said in equally quiet tones.

“I proposed in jest, mistress, but the offer stands with all sincerity should you ever decide to accept.”

He was an enigma, one which kept her awake at night trying to puzzle out.  Their meeting had started well enough.  Unlike Cinnia, Louvaen wasn’t content to leave a mystery unsolved.  Gavin and Ambrose had warned her of Ballard’s disfigurement, and the bony hands with the black claw-like nails hinted at a man who no longer resembled one.  His concealing garb, however, had only made her more curious, and she’d been both surprised and pleased at his willingness to put it aside and reveal himself to her.

If anyone were to ask her what she remembered most about him at first sight, she would have said his eyes.  In the light, they were deep set and long lashed, so dark a brown, they appeared black and nearly obscured his pupils.  They assessed her with a gaze that bespoke strength, patience and a certainty his appearance would send her fleeing from the solar.  Louvaen didn’t think he’d ever been a handsome man.  Her nose was positively delicate compared to his.  A thin, high bridge arched long into a pair of flared nostrils and pointed tip made even more hawkish by the slight crookedness of the nasal bones.  He possessed a thin-lipped mouth, hard jaw and cheeks hollowed out by either suffering or age.  A filigree of silver wove through black, shoulder length hair, giving the wavy locks the look of pewter stained with soot.  As they were, his features made him stern and forbidding.  With the warping caused by the flux, he was frightful.

Small grooves in the shapes of arrow tips were carved into his cheeks, a matching set on both sides.  Another grouping, these shaped like spirals, etched vertical paths on either side of his forehead.  More scars, some raised, others sunken and shriveled, encircled his throat to disappear beneath the high collar of his cotehardie.  Some of the scars were pale, others almost dark as his hair.  The dark ones resembled runes or thorny vines and reminded her of the sinister roses growing in wild profusion across the garden wall and up the north side of the fortress’s keep.  His skin was unnaturally pale, the only real color the purplish bruises ringing his eyes from a healing broken nose.  As Thomas Duenda’s wife, Louvaen had prepared enough of the dead for burial to truthfully say Ballard de Sauveterre had the fish-belly pallor of a drowned man.