Lord of the Blade (4 page)

She banged down the flagon of wine and
turned in a flurry to leave the room. The strong grip of Lord
Corbett's overpowering hand on her arm kept her from going further.
She stared down at his large fist, noticing the warmth that flowed
through her body when he touched her. Just like when he caught her
from falling off the trestle table, his closeness made her very
warm and she didn't quite understand why. She both craved and
feared it at the same time.

Malcomn took a stride closer and spoke in a
voice that was probably supposed to sound authoritative but to her
only sounded whiny.

"What is your name, maidservant?" His eyes
scanned every inch of her body. Devon felt ravished, humiliated.
Never had any of the monks in the monastery treated her with such
disrespect.

Corbett broke the silence as he loosened his
grip on her arm and let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword, a
subtle reminder for her not to try to leave again. The warmth left
her immediately.

"Green Eyes, I suggest for your own benefit
you answer Lord Malcomn's question. Though I'm lord of Blake
Castle, he is the baron's son. I'm not responsible for any actions
he may decide to take against you."

She couldn't take the chance of Lord Malcomn
deciding to take her away from Blake Castle, and therefore away
from the only family she'd ever known - Heartha. So, she boldly
looked Lord Malcomn straight in the eye and gave him his
answer.

"'Tis Devon," she retorted tartly.

Malcomn shook his head and crossed his arms
in front of him. "'Tis Devon…what
?"

Confused as to what he wanted, she looked to
Corbett in question. Only when she spied Corbett who had moved from
Malcomn's range of view, mouthing the words she was supposed to
say, did she understand her error. Deciding her cooperation at this
point of the game might be beneficial to the escape she was already
plotting, she went along with this little charade.

Bowing her head, and with a small curtsy she
managed to open her mouth and all but choke out the words this
red-haired, vain man needed to hear.

"My name is Devon…
my lord
," she
answered with a wonderful act of respect.

Malcomn’s pleasure to her response showed.
He stood a little straighter and Devon knew he was basking in the
glory of being the one to coax her to speak. She sensed the
competition between the two men when she saw Corbett's jaw twitch
beneath his cool facade.

"Get us that wine, wench." Malcomn
straightened his garments and strutted around the room like a
rooster.

Devon sighed deeply but didn't move. Why
bother telling the fool her name if he still planned on calling her
wench?

"’Tis on the table.” Corbett’s soft voice
was a combination of urging her to cooperate and warning her not to
defy them.

"Aye…my…lord." Devon slowly pushed each word
from her mouth with reluctance as she acknowledged Corbett. This
was the first she had talked to him, but why was it so difficult?
Could it be because secretly beneath her repelling attitude toward
the man she thought he was ruggedly handsome? Could it be because
when he touched her arm a moment ago she felt a warmth flow through
her body that she couldn't explain?

Confused, she blindly walked to the stand
and retrieved the two goblets of wine. Delivering the first one to
the red-haired man by the fire, she continued on her way towards
Corbett who was once again staring out the window. In order to gain
his attention she had to talk to him again. For some strange reason
she thought he had planned this, knowing how hard it was for
her.

"My…lord?" Devon spoke in a voice no louder
than a whisper.

Corbett pretended not to hear, wanting her
to say it again. He liked the way his title sounded coming from her
mouth. And he liked the hidden softness in her tone that belied her
hardened composure.

"My…lord?" repeated Devon a bit louder this
time.

He faced her, giving her his undivided
attention.

"
Devon,
" he pronounced her name very
deliberately. She lowered her eyes and nodded her head to
acknowledge him. Accepting the goblet, he purposely touched her
fingers wanting a reaction from her, but getting one of his own
instead. A wave of excitement swept through his body. As she tried
to let go, he held his fingers over hers, wanting her to stay. She
stared at his hand in disbelief and he could feel her fingers
tremble. Then she slowly raised her emerald eyes to meet his. He
found himself mesmerized by their clearness, drawing him back to
his dreams. Enchanting they were, as well as stubborn, with a hint
of childlike innocence. Her long lashes flickered once, and then
twice, but she didn’t turn away.

Eyes interlocked with eyes, the action
lingered longer than he originally intended. He'd only wanted her
to look at him, but now found himself having a hard time looking
away. Her eyes were clearly what his cousin, Brother Ruford, would
call windows to the soul.

He found himself lost in her eyes, lost in
her confusion, her abandonment, her pain. He didn't know who she
was or from whence she came, but he planned on finding out soon.
Her presence in his dreams was disturbing. Her presence in his life
was mystical, magical and somehow a quest he knew he had to embark
upon even though his practical mind warned him not to get
involved.

"That's all I wanted." He spoke softly so
Malcomn wouldn't hear. Satisfied for now with the raising of her
eyes to meet his, he released her fingers and tried to pay
attention to whatever it was Malcomn was rambling on about from
across the room.

"I only turn my back, and already you try to
steal my wench!" joked Malcomn. "Well, I have plenty others from
which I'm willing to share.” And with a clap of his hands, several
pretty servant girls appeared from the adjoining wardrobe.

"I'd be willing to trade any or all of them
for that one." He approached Devon as she stood at Corbett's side.
He reached out and ran his fingers through her hair, raising it to
caress his own face. Devon shuddered.

"How noble of you to offer me one of my own
servants in exchange," said Corbett. "But as I told you, this one
is off limits to all but me."

"Remember whom you are addressing," warned
Malcomn without even looking up.

"Nay," answered Corbett. "For 'tis you who
should remember I am lord over not only your temporary dwellings,
but also the maidservants you have so disgustingly placed in your
stew."

Malcomn let go of Devon's hair abruptly. "My
father is your overlord and while he is ill, I stand in his
place."

"How can you stand in his place when the
baroness has already filled those shoes? Nay. While Kenric still
lives, my allegiance is to him and him alone. I'm still lord of
Steepleton, and you, my foster brother, are still a landless knave
with a courtesy title you don't deserve."

Malcomn snorted, and snapped his fingers.
Two of the lingering maid servants rushed to his side.

"Enough of your games," continued Corbett.
"I'm short on servants and I insist you break up this little
brothel of yours. Choose one wench to warm your bed and the rest
will return to the great hall at once to help with the chores."

Malcomn nodded toward a small, flat-chested
blonde and turned back toward Corbett. "This one is mine. I've
brought her with me from Torquey so you shouldn't have to feel I'm
taking anything of yours again."

With a jerk of Corbett's head the rest of
the maidservants scattered out the door.

The cry of a bird interrupted them.
Corbett’s raven swooped in the open window and landed on the sill.
The velvet blanket of darkness enveloped the nighttime sky. Corbett
stretched out his arm and the raven flew to him.

"What is it my friend?" He studied the
raven, sensing that something was not right.

"Talking to that bird again?" Malcomn
questioned. "Shouldn't that thing have died by now?"

"This raven is my companion since
childhood," Corbett reminded him with a penetrating stare. "This
bird has warned me many a times of battle. His message tonight must
be of importance to risk his life flying through a darkened
sky."

Malcomn laughed, "Surely you jest?"

"When it comes to my raven, I assure you I
never jest."

"So what does your
friend
have to say
tonight, m'lord?”

Corbett studied the bird for a moment,
trying to see into its mind. He'd been able to pick up thoughts of
the raven since he was a child of eight summers. Ever since the day
the bird appeared at his window just after the death of his family.
Others said the raven was the messenger of death. Corbett
considered this bird his only true friend. It was a day later the
baron decided to take Corbett into his household and raise him as
his foster son. The raven was an omen, and it proved so again when
the baron decided to train Corbett as a knight.

The bird opened its beak and let out a
series of short, loud squawks before flying back out into the
blackened sky. Corbett scoped the land for the men on horseback
he'd seen in his raven's mind.

He finally answered, seeing the torches of a
small band of men on horseback approaching the barbican. "Soldiers
approach, though I can't decipher their pennant in the dark."

"'Tis late in the day for anyone to be
arriving unannounced," added Malcomn hurrying to Corbett's
side.

"I'll tend to this situation immediately.”
With his hand on the hilt of his sword, Corbett made it to the door
in just a few long strides.

"M'lord?" Devon's small voice came from
across the room." Am I dismissed?"

"Aye.” He ran a hand through his hair in
thought. He wanted to find out more about the girl, but with
soldiers at his door it would have to wait until later. “Nay,” he
changed his mind. "Stay here until I decide what to do with
you."

"I'll guard her for you," Malcomn
offered.

That would never do. Leaving her with
Malcomn would be like throwing her to the wolves.

"I was hoping you'd come along with me,
Malcomn, to see to this matter at hand." It pained Corbett to have
to say the words he didn't mean, but he knew Malcomn well enough to
know he'd take the bait and therefore leave Devon alone. Malcomn
longed to be the warrior Corbett was, but the baron never saw to it
that his own son was trained as well as his foster son. Malcomn had
always envied him and sought attention throughout his life that
he'd never had from anyone but the mothering baroness who only made
him soft.

Even when the baron sent Corbett off to
serve King Edward III, four years earlier fighting in the Battle of
Crecy, Malcomn was forced to stay behind by the domineering hand of
his doting mother. Though many a squire his age had gone, he could
only dream of handling the longbow with the expertise of the fierce
archers that came home triumphant, as heroes of war.

The baroness had convinced the baron that
Malcomn was too young when in reality King Edward's son, the Black
Prince, was but a mere two years older than he at sixteen years of
age yet commanded a division at the battle, and from it rose to
fame.

Corbett knew Malcomn was envious of anyone
who had what he wanted. The boy didn't even have the chance of
being fostered as was proper. Malcomn always wished he could have
been what Corbett became. Malcomn had always craved Corbett's
attention but Corbett hadn't cared enough for him to give it.
Corbett knew that any boy who let his mother control him would
never be a warrior. No woman should have such power over a man and
he despised the baroness for somehow turning the baron himself into
a mouse.

"I'm at your side." Malcomn pushed past
Corbett out the door and Corbett looked back to Devon.

"Stay here until I call for you," he
ordered. "Mayhap you can take pointers from Malcomn's servant girl
in how to please your lord."

"And how may that be?" Devon asked coldly.
"By warming your bed, m'lord?"

Corbett let his eyes run down Devon's body
and the thought of her warming his bed pleased him. The thought of
her coming up with the suggestion pleased him even more.

"That'll be good to start. Then have her
teach you how to serve wine."

Chapter 4

Devon picked up Corbett’s goblet and threw
it across the room, just missing his raven. The bird squawked and
fluttered away out the open window.

“You mustn’t do that.” Malcomn’s maidservant
rushed over and picked it up, wiping it clean on the hem of her
cotehardie and gingerly placing it back on the table.

Devon shook her head. “But the things he
expects me to do - ”

“Are a servant’s duties,” the blond girl
finished for her.

Devon admired the petite girl for her
loyalty, but wondered if she’d ever tired of trying to please her
lord. Her large brown eyes looked up to Devon, and she smiled
shyly. Devon guessed her to be about the same age as herself, but
her body was much smaller.

“My name is Devon. What is yours?”

“I’m Leahla.” She pushed a stray strand of
hair behind her ear, twirling it once around her finger. “You
haven’t been a servant at the castle long, have you?”

“No,” stated Devon. “And neither do I intend
to keep up the charade. I am not a servant, but of noble
blood.”

Leahla dipped into an extended curtsy.
“Forgive me, I had no idea.”

Devon pulled her back to a standing
position. “You need not do that, Leahla. I have no proof of my
heritage, so for now I am your equal. But even if I was titled, I
would treat you no differently.”

“Oh, yes, you must,” Leahla assured her. “I
am only a servant.”

Devon didn’t like the word ‘only’. A servant
Leahla may be, but she was a person just the same. If only Devon
ruled, things would be different. She sat down on the bed with the
girl.