Heather Graham (14 page)

“You!” she croaked.

“Indeed, me! Grasping, clawing, roaring, wretched horrid lion of a knave that I may be!”

He enjoyed a moment of complete satisfaction, fully aware that his taunting words had tormented her far more than the spanking. He couldn’t resist the temptation to go on and he turned idly from her, continuing slowly in a thoughtful voice.

“A tempting proposition,” he told her. “Very tempting. A knight can always use a greater income and I have been promised that Gariston is a rich county, indeed. But—” he said at last, “thus far, I have turned down the king’s most generous offers regarding your placement. I will marry the Lady Joanna.”

He frowned, hearing a thump behind him. He turned quickly, curious about the sound and intrigued to discover her reaction to his last words.

But there was to be no reaction. His tough-as-steel young countess lay in a little pool of silk and ebony hair in the soft grass. The mere suggestion of a marriage between them had managed what no threat or action had managed to do.

Silence her.

She had passed out cold.

S
TARING DOWN AT HER,
he had to admit that she was growing into an exquisite—and dangerous—beauty. Then a wave of guilt washed over him because she was young and, despite herself, afraid. With a soft sigh he told himself that he had to be more patient.

Maybe not. She had deserved it. Ah! Perhaps it was difficult to admit as well that the very idea of marriage with
him
had been so horrible that it had caused her to lose consciousness. He shrugged, smiling slightly, and reached down to scoop her up into his arms. He ran his fingers lightly down the length of her cheek.

“Danielle.”

After a moment, she stirred. Her eyes seemed very wide, innocent, vulnerable. Dazed. Then she looked up, and her eyes met his and widened. “I’ll never marry you.”

He smiled. She was quite well, and still fighting. “Good,” he assured her in return. “I’ll never marry you.”

“But you said—”

“I told you what the king suggested. I never said that I had agreed.”

“Then—”

“I love Joanna,” he said determinedly. “And I am going to marry her.”

“Oh,” she said, still staring at him. Then she swallowed hard. “I’m all right. You could set me down … please.”

He did so, a hand still supporting her until he saw that she was really standing on her own.

Then she drew away. Her chin tilted, her head lifted, and she spoke very softly to him. “I did not touch your saddle,” she said with tremendous dignity, then spun around and at a rapid speed, walked toward the field where the others waited.

Following behind her, Adrien saw Daylin dismount from his horse in the blink of an eye and bend down to offer Danielle assistance.

Danielle didn’t need assistance. She’d had the big bay mare with her as long as Adrien could remember, and she’d never had the least trouble leaping atop it. But she smiled prettily at Daylin and accepted his help. When she was seated atop the horse she looked down at the young squire and thanked him in a soft voice.

Daylin blushed so vividly that his freckles disappeared.

An extra saddle was taken from one of the supply wagons and when his mount was readied, Adrien tightened the girth on his saddle himself before he leapt atop his horse and lifted a hand to their party to begin the ride again. “Come!” he called, and started out at a brisk trot while the others fell into place.

How odd. She had been so willing to admit so many things! And then today …

Today, when he’d dragged her down and handled her like a child, she had denied any part in what had been done. Well, he had been longing to take such action for a long time. He wasn’t going to feel guilty.

She kept her distance from him then. After a while, Daylin rode up close behind him and since Adrien much preferred to be alone, he sent his squire ahead to see that the road before them remained clear.

But Daylin soon came back riding hard. “Milord!” he cried, face pale, red hair wild. “Milord, we must fall back, off the trail! Friars are coming this way, heavily laden with a wagon of plague dead for mass burial!”

Adrien rose in his saddle, looking back at his entourage. Life was full of little ironies. Landed knights and noblemen seldom drew aside for any reason, but the plague could make them scurry like desperate rodents.

“Draw the wagons far off the road and move deep into the woods!” he commanded. He rode Matthew now and turned him around and rode hard along the snake-like trail of his party, making sure that all heard him and obeyed. Just as they cleared the old Roman road, he saw the first of the brown-clad, tonsured friars making his way slowly around the curve, waving a pot of smoke and incense to warn others that they approached—and to somewhat allay the terrible stench of death.

“Sweet Jesu!” he whispered softly, crossing himself as he saw the entourage approach. Bodies lay piled atop bodies and more bodies, some half-clad, some fully dressed, as if they had been struck down even while they worked, and died so. Arms and limbs of gentry entwined with arms and legs of peasants, workers, farmers. He stared, feeling enormous pity. Then he suddenly remembered that he was in charge of an impressionable young lady, and he turned around to seek her in the woods.

He didn’t have to look long. She was quite close behind him, dismounted from her mare, staring even as he stared. Her eyes seemed even more startlingly green than usual, for her face was pale, like snow, surrounded by the ebony wealth of her hair.

He leapt down quickly from Matt, catching her shoulders, drawing her against him.

Surprisingly, she didn’t fight his hold. But neither did she turn to him to hide her eyes from the sight of the death wagon. He felt her trembling.

“Don’t look!” he commanded her. At that moment, she seemed very vulnerable.

For the moment, it seemed, Danielle had forgotten that he was her dread enemy. For that same moment, he felt the pain and compassion within her and wanted to protect her.

“Don’t look!” he repeated.

She shook her head. “I’ve seen the plague before,” she said, but he could feel her trembling. But this once, she did not fight his supporting arms, and her voice quivered when she spoke. “I watched my mother die,” she reminded him.

She slipped from his hold then, sank to her knees, crossed herself, and prayed as the friars passed by with their heavy burden of death.

When they were gone, there was silence. The sun beat down and cool air swept by, rustling the leaves. At last, the sounds of birds chirping came again.

Then it seemed that everyone was talking.

“We shouldn’t breathe—” cried one of the armed guards from Gariston.

“We have to breathe, man. What are you, daft?” returned another.

“We must move quickly, quickly, milord!” Daylin said to Adrien.

“Aye, milord,” agreed Doctor Coutin. “The Black Death cannot be stopped by a knight’s armor or a noble’s silk—it will attack where it pleases. Keeping clear of it is the only defense I know. Though it sounds cruel, we must hurry on, and be careful when we come to Gariston, that once we’ve entered, we keep others out!”

“Let’s move onward!” Adrien said. “And make Gariston quickly then.”

Men began mounting their horses. Adrien turned toward Danielle, but she was already mounted and ready to ride.

They rode hard in silence, and the hours passed quickly.

Coming out of a forested section of the Roman road, they reached a vast field that stretched across a wide valley. Then they saw Gariston before them, up on a hill, looking almost like the fabled Camelot beneath the dying sunlight of the day. Rich farmlands with a plentiful dotting of cottages, stables, and barns surrounded a moated fortress with high stone walls that seemed to gleam and glitter against the deep greens and golds of the fields. The Norman engineers who had built the original fortress had incorporated the natural flow of the river into the structure. The water did not lie stagnant around the fortress, but moved in a swift flow around it, heightened now by a brisk breeze. As the king had sent a messenger ahead days ago, they were expected. The great drawbridge lay down across the water.

Adrien found himself assessing the place with an appraising eye. The king had assured him it was a rich inheritance, and indeed it was. He could see flocks of sheep upon the distant rolling lands—acres and acres of rich, productive land. The fortress appeared to be in excellent repair, and he was anxious to see inside it. Gariston surely supplied the king with a multitude of fighting men-at-arms, and with a rich income as well. The feudal system of life was simple. Villeins worked the land they held from their lord or lady. A portion of all goods went to the lord of the manor, a portion to the king. In turn, the lord protected his villeins, the king led his country, and he and his knights upheld the realm. The king expected service from his landed knights and nobility. Equipment was expensive, horses were expensive, a good set of armor could impoverish a man. Thus, a holding such as Gariston was a rich prize for any man to claim.

The countess was indeed a rich young lady.

He realized she had ridden by his side, that she stared up at the great fortress and vast lands equally intrigued.

“ ’Tis quite an inheritance your
English
father left you, milady,” he told her.

She turned to him, chin high. “Indeed, I imagine you find it tempting. I’m ever so glad you are so enamored of Lady Joanna!” She nudged her mare and went racing before him once again.

He swore to himself and came riding after her. Her mare was a swift creature. She tore across the fields, cutting through flocks of sheep, and reached the bridge before he caught up with her. Even then, she but slowed to a trot to cross the bridge while he followed behind. In the vast courtyard of the castle, he leapt down from his horse and came to her, sweeping her down from her horse whether she wanted the assistance or not as the rest of their party filed into the enclosure.

There were three towers in a circular enclosure. Massive doors to the eastern tower were opened to the day, and it was from these that a tall, slim man with a creased face and a headful of silver-white hair came hurrying out. “Milord, milady, welcome!” he called to them. He was Sir Thackery Milton, longtime steward of Gariston. Adrien knew him. He was loyal, shrewd, and intelligent, the perfect man to manage such a wealthy estate.

He saw that Danielle smiled at the old steward, pleased as she greeted him, instinctively liking him. Yet he was touched with a shade of unease watching her then, for he couldn’t help but think that hers was a dangerous smile. One day, that smile might move men … where they shouldn’t be moved.

“Welcome, welcome!” Sir Thackery said. “A long ride, eh, milady?” he asked.

“Not so long!” she said cheerfully. “What is long is the time it has taken the king to send me here!”

“Then come in, explore, and see this wonderful place,” he told her. “Milord MacLachlan,” he said to Adrien, “if your squire will see to the men, young Jacob there will see to the countess’s women. And I will show you and the countess the fortress castle of Gariston.”

Adrien nodded, giving the order to Daylin to see that his men were quartered, then following behind Sir Thackery and Danielle. The great hall, taking up the whole of the east tower’s ground floor, was a fine place worthy of any man. Heavy tapestries lined the walls, along with a display of weapons, swords, pikes, halberds, maces, and knives. Two full suits of fighting armor stood by the entry, and two full suits of tournament armor stood far across from it by the massive stone mantel and hearth. A heavy, finely carved table stretched out from the hearth, while a rich fur rug lay directly before it, surrounded by heavy chairs in a golden oak to match the table. A tray of wine was set on the table. Sir Thackery poured a goblet to offer to Adrien, who was smiling, pleased with the place.

“A fine hall,” Adrien commented.

“Indeed. Come up to the master’s chamber,” Sir Thackery said. “Ah! Forgive me!” he told Danielle. “It is now the lady’s chamber, is it not?”

She smiled her acknowledgment and followed closely behind Sir Thackery as he started up the broad, sweeping stairway to the level above. There was but one door there, and a rise of stairs that continued on upward again. Sir Thackery opened the door with a flourish, and they stepped in.

The hearth was identical to that in the great hall below, huge and crafted in stone. The fire that burned within gave an unusual comfort and warmth to the room, for fortresses such as this could often be drafty and cold. A huge canopied bed stood across from the hearth, while before it was another rich fur rug, surrounded by cushioned and tapestried chairs. Across the room was a table with another set of chairs around it, set before the archers’ windows so that light might stream in. A door led to a privy and a marble-topped washstand, which held a pitcher and water.

“A fine place, indeed, Milord MacLachlan!” Sir Thackery said.

“Very rich,” he agreed.

“Come above, milord, for there is a guest chamber above this master suite where it is said that William the Conqueror housed his own family upon occasion. I’m sure you will find it quite comfortable.”

Sir Thackery started out and Adrien followed him, but paused to study the finely carved mantel.

“Excuse me, milord, but this is
my
room,” Danielle said. “Sir Thackery awaits to take you to yours.”

A brow arched, he turned back to her. She might have forgotten his treatment of her when the plague victims passed by, but she remembered it now. Her eyes were pure green fire—she was obviously anxious to be rid of him. And she was delighted in the richness around her, relishing the fact that it was all
hers
—and not his.

He fought the temptation to reach out and drag her over a knee again. Instead, he bowed deeply to her. “Countess, with great pleasure, I leave you to your solitude.”

With that, he again started to follow Sir Thackery, who had gone on up the second flight of stairs. He was surprised when she called out to him again.

“I didn’t touch your saddle, MacLachlan.”