Lord of the Manor (12 page)

Richard didn’t trust her completely, but that didn’t bother her. A smart lord checked his underling’s work, particularly when it involved large sums of coin. She took it as a compliment that he would even show her the ledgers.

These ledgers were beautifully done, neatly lined, the words and numbers scripted in a bold hand. Richard’s hand.

“I would find great pleasure in helping you with these accounts. My thanks.”

He reached around her to pull one of the papers forward, brushing against her arm, sending a delicious tingle racing through her limbs.

In the woods, he’d promised an unhurried “next time.” She’d waited for two days for him to come to her again. This morn, when she’d wakened to find him in her hut, she hoped he’d come for such a reason.

Could he have more on his mind now than these ledgers? She dearly hoped so. She certainly did. Her body burned for want of his touch, more so than it had in the woods. Now she no longer only wondered about shared pleasure, she knew what Richard could make her feel—and craved more.

His mouth moved in the most provocative manner. “You will find I have made changes. Durwood no longer supplies chickens, but pigs. And Southton’s…Lucinda, do you hear a word I say?”

“Aye. You like chicken.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “I prefer piglet.”

“How nice, then, that you can get them from Southton.”

“Your mind has wandered. To what place does it stray?”

To beyond heaven. To wondering at how brazen she’d become in so short a time.

“Not far, merely down to the list of goods due from Norgate.” She ran her finger over an item on
that list “I see you still receive bear pelts. Bear pelts make for softer pallets than long grass.”

Richard glanced at the bear fur he’d long ago given Lucinda to use as her pallet. A woolen coverlet lay rumpled atop the fur, turned back from when she’d crawled out of it this morn. Where, if not for Philip’s nearness and Edric’s knee to attend, he might have crawled in to join her.

Was her comparison of fur to grass accidental, or was she truly inviting him to share the fur with him now?

He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her around, and found his answer in sultry pools of violet

“You prefer soft fur to coarse grass to lay upon?”

“I prefer your skin against mine, whether on fur or grass.”

Her door bore no bolt to slide to ensure privacy but, hopefully, they wouldn’t suffer interruption— Philip was watching Edric, and unless some urgent matter came up, none of the manor folk would come looking for him.

Richard hoped no urgent matter beyond his own urgent need arose, for he was quickly losing interest in any activity except taking Lucinda to her pallet and having his fill of her.

He bent to kiss her mouth, and reveled in her heated, eager response. She grabbed hold of his tunic as he slowly backed toward the fur. When he stopped, she didn’t, taking the extra step necessary to press her body fully against his.

Locked in an embrace, he sought other skin to taste. She shivered when he nuzzled her neck just below her ear.

Go slowly,
he told himself, unraveling her heavy
braid. The twists of silken black gave way easily to his busy fingers.

Her fingers, too, were busy, undoing the leather girdle about his waist. She wore no girdle. Indeed, his exploring hands soon learned that in her hurry to dress she hadn’t donned a chemise, only her gown. Just as he’d simply tossed on a tunic, which her exploring hands discovered—and slipped under. The heat of her hands on his outer thighs spread inward, tormenting him. If she touched him now, they might not make it down to the fur.

He pulled away and quickly slipped the boots from her feet and her gown over her head, unveiling her to his hungry eyes. He feasted on what he’d only dreamed of. Of dusky-tipped breasts that begged him to touch. Of a body beautifully curved from the long, sleek lines of her neck to the high, graceful arch of her feet. A siren’s body, singing a beckoning melody.

Entranced, he answered, tumbling into her spell and onto the fur. Lucinda received his weight with a satisfied sigh. He turned that sigh to soft moans as he kissed, and tasted, and petted until he knew every inch of her lovely form and found each of her sensitive places.

Suckling her nipples made them pucker. Stroking her inner thigh brought her knee up. Deep kisses drove her wild. She arched at the mere stroke of a finger through her moist heat.

“Have you been thinking about coupling all morn, as I have?” he asked.

“When you came into my hut to fetch me, ’twas not to tend Edric that I hoped you came,” she said, breathless.

“Then tend me now, Lucinda. Ease my ache.”

To his amazement, she chuckled low in her throat and teased. “Do you ache, my lord? Your knee, perhaps? Shall I begin there?”

“Begin any place you wish, minx.”

Lucinda began by tugging off his boots, wanting him as naked as she.

Kneeling between his legs, she gave his calves and thighs her attention, with long strokes, purposely avoiding the source of his ache. She uncovered him to the waist and paused to admire that part of his body that made him male—a very virile and solid male. But she didn’t linger there, more intent on removing his tunic. He helped her by sitting up so she could pull the tunic up over his head.

Almost immediately he latched onto one nipple, then the other, all the while stroking her back and bottom. She tried to foster patience, to let him fondle and kiss where he would, until patience yielded to the burning passion fanned by his skilled caresses.

Lucinda leaned forward, pushing him back, falling with him gently to the fur.

Her hands skimmed along the breadth of his shoulders, so wide they nearly spread the width of the pelt. She moved lower, to kiss and caress the smooth contours of his chest, that rose and fell with his deepening breaths. And lower, to his rapidly beating heart.

And lower yet—where she stopped, and couldn’t go on.

Across Richard’s lower ribs a jagged scar slashed across his body, as if someone had tried to cleave him in two.

Someone had. One of Basil’s mercenaries.

She stared at the scar, tremors of hate for Basil and compassion for Richard scurrying through her trembling
limbs. How could Richard bear to lie with the widow of the man who’d been responsible for this horrible, life-leeching wound?

Desire fled, pushed out by a strong, deep ache in her heart. She laid her cheek across the rough flesh of the wound that could have ended his life, fighting the overwhelming urge to cry a stream full of tears and spit venomous curses.

“Lucinda?”

“I knew—” Her voice broke and she had to begin again. “I knew you had been wounded, but I did not know…merciful heaven, how you must have suffered!”

He rolled to his side and pulled her up. She threw her arms around his neck and held tight, unable to look him in the face, fearful of what she might see.

“’Tis over,” he said roughly.

“But not forgotten. Evil such as Basil’s can
never
be forgotten, nor far from your memory when you bear such a mark.”

He was quiet for a long time, then said, “The scar I wear reminds me of him, aye. But had I died, ’twould have been a swift and honorable death. Others suffered greater agonies for a longer time before they perished. Now the scar serves to remind me that Basil’s loss was my gain, and helps me be a better lord to those Basil once abused.”

She loosened her grip and backed far enough to see his face. She doubted that his vassals saw him as their savior. Most likely, they’d seen only one lord replacing another lord and he’d faced their hostility and mistrust. But little by little, in his quiet, steadfast way, he’d won them over.

“Do they see the honor of your heart, I wonder?”
she mused, brushing back his blond hair. “Or do they only know that you ended their suffering?”

He claimed her hand, kissed her palm, then moved it down, ever downward to between his legs. “Make me into no more than a mere man, Lucinda. Only a man whose current suffering is in need of relief.”

Her hand wrapped around him in an intimate caress, feeling his power, feeding his pleasure. With a tenderness so foreign and appealing, he rekindled her flame until she burned hotter than ever. When he could endure no more, he covered her and claimed her with long, firm strokes. So deep as to touch her where no man had touched before. Lucinda tumbled into that special world where only Richard could take her, taking him with her. And in the aura of its light, saw her danger.

Basil had abused her body and done his best to muddle her mind. More times than she could count he’d ripped out her heart. But he’d never touched her soul.

Richard did. He broke through every shield she raised, penetrating deep to the core of her very being. Leaving her vulnerable and unprotected against him.

She held him tightly, still joined with him, breathing hard. Grasping for the shards of her shattered defenses, Lucinda feared the pieces would never again fit tightly.

“A
re you ready, Lucinda?”

“Whenever you are, my lord.”

By the gleam in his eyes, Lucinda knew Richard referred to an activity other than comparing the contents of the cart to the list of tributes due. His indiscretion flouted all decorum and ignited a flush that probably colored her cheeks.

Yet, truth to tell, she would rather be rolling around on her pallet with Richard than counting geese and kegs of ale, too. If she read his mind aright—a skill she was getting very good at—sometime this afternoon he would come to her hut and make love to her, and everyone at Collinwood would know.

In the two months since they’d become lovers, Richard had never taken any steps to hide their liaison. He openly visited her hut whenever the whim struck him, taking the one precaution of ensuring that Philip was occupied elsewhere.

She’d taken one precaution as well—the packet of herbs she secreted deep within her body to block his seed. Richard knew, and approved.

Sometimes he took her with mind-numbing tenderness,
at other times with ravaging urgency. No matter how he joined with her, Richard took care to send her reeling beyond the heavens.

Always, whenever his lust blossomed, she was ready and eager for him. And damn the man, he knew it. Even now he wore a smug smile. He’d become adept at reading her thoughts, too.

“Three geese,” she read from the list.

He chuckled and turned to his task. He put his hand on a crate at the back of the cart, then drew back sharply when one of the creatures hissed and snapped.

“Three geese, but soon to be two,” he declared, pointing at the offending fowl. “I will have this one for evening meal.”

Lucinda noted which goose vexed Richard and thereby sentenced himself to the soup kettle.

“I will inform Connor. Next is a sack of unmilled oats.”

“Here, sitting beside two kegs of ale. I dearly hope this is better than the last batch.”

And so it went, on down the list and the contents of the cart that came from one of Richard’s far-flung holdings, one that had once belonged to Basil.

As steward of Collinwood, Connor kept the records of the holding’s revenue, of the fees and goods due to Richard from Collinwood’s vassals. At each of Richard’s holdings a steward performed the same duty.

Richard, however, had kept the accounting of his stewards’ reports and ensured that Gerard, his liege lord, received a portion. Lucinda didn’t question Richard’s reason for giving over this duty to her; she was too glad to have some duty to perform. It made sense, however, since she’d known what to expect
from each of Basil’s holdings once she learned which ones Richard now oversaw.

This cart represented the last of the spring tributes. In a few days’ time, some of these goods would be sent to Wilmont.

“Three large pieces of leather,” she read the last item.

“Nay, no leather. I asked the steward to barter the leather in exchange for this.” He pulled a large sack to a clear spot at the back of the cart. “If he got this right, I might forgive him the inferior ale and that beastly goose.”

Curious, Lucinda walked over to see what he’d bought. He unwrapped two lengths of finely woven linen, one of ruby red, the other of pale green. Exquisite.

“Summer comes. You would swelter in your wool gowns,” he said.

He’d ordered the linen for her. She ran her fingertips over the fabric. So smooth. So beautifully dyed.

“You can sew, can you not?” he teased.

“Aye. Of course. Naturally,” she blubbered, and looked up to see how very pleased he was, with both the gift and her delight “’Tis beautiful, Richard. My thanks.”

“I will order the cart unloaded while you record the goods received. Tell Connor to have the goose feathers set aside for a feather-stuffed mat. Gerard has one, and I intend to have one, too. Think how very cozy that will be.”

He walked off with a swagger. Incorrigible man.

Lucinda rewrapped the fabric and picked up the sack to take it to her hut so nothing untoward would
happen to it, already planning how she would cut, sew and decorate new gowns.

She turned, and came face to face with Connor, and the familiar and still disturbing menace directed her way. She quickly brushed it aside and pointed at the crate of geese.

“Richard wishes the dark gray goose cooked for his evening meal—”

“And its feathers set aside for a cozy mat. I heard.”

Had he, then? How long had he been standing near, listening? Spying, more like.

“Then I will leave you to set about it,” she said, and moved to go around him.

He blocked her way and reached up to tug at the rope that secured the sack she carried. “A fine gift for one so undeserving. Though mayhap I misjudge. Noble men often reward a leman with fancy gifts for a good tumble, and unlike the rest of his lordship’s possessions, you do look a bit ragged.”

She bristled but held her temper. She would
not
become involved in a public argument of this nature with Connor! His very suggestion that Richard considered her a possession was preposterous.

“Connor, if you would stand aside, I have duties to perform.”

“Of course,” he said with a mocking bow. “I am sure you will wish to appropriately thank his lordship for his gracious gift. I must say, I find it vulgar that he chooses to rut with a woman of so sordid a past, but then, mayhap that is what he finds so appealing. How better to honor Basil’s memory than to use the vermin’s wife as a whore?”

Inwardly, she flinched, but allowed Connor to see
only an uptilted chin and icy look as she brushed past him.

Connor was wrong. Had to be wrong. But what if he had the truth of it?
Nay,
her heart screamed, but her head reeled with uncertainty.

She entered her hut and dropped the sack of fabric down on the table.

Had Richard simply used her as a means of vengeance on Northbryre? Every time he joined with her, was he secretly despoiling the woman who had once belonged to his most hated enemy? Had she blindly cooperated in her own defilement?

Nay. If Richard meant to despoil, he wouldn’t take the time to give her pleasure.

And despite Connor’s allusion, she wasn’t Richard’s possession, mere chattel to do with as he pleased. If anything, she belonged to King Henry—an unpleasant thought altogether. She might be dependent on Richard for food and shelter for as long as she must remain within his care, but he owned no rights to her body. She’d given herself to him by her own will, out of her own needs.

Needs she’d never perceived within herself until meeting Richard. If anyone had told her, up until a bit over two months ago, that she could enjoy intimacy with a man, she would have called the person daft.

Truly, if Richard used her, she had no right to complain, for did she not use him, too?

A boisterous ruckus in the bailey drew her out of the hut. Three men had ridden in, stirring the dust and ruining her day.

Stephen had returned from Normandy.

* * *

Richard strolled out of the manor just as Stephen reined in his mount, scattering dirt. Behind Stephen rode the two guards who had accompanied him to Normandy. The guards and horses looked road-weary, but not Stephen.

Apparently, Stephen considered riding into Collinwood an occasion of some import. He wore no hauberk or helm, but a fine-linen black dalmatica trimmed in scarlet over a bloodred sherte. Not a speck of road dust marred his garments. ’Twas irksome how the man could appear fresh and impeccably attired when all others drooped.

“Hail, Richard!” Stephen cried out through a sparkling grin. He fairly sprang out of the saddle and dropped lightly to his feet. “I bring good tidings.”

Richard couldn’t help but return his half brother’s smile. “I see as much. If you brought bad news, you would have ridden in here wearing a hefty scowl. Your trip went well?”

“Aye,
very
well. Offer me a goblet of wine to wash the dust from my throat and I will tell you all.”

Once in the manor, Richard ordered a serving wench to fetch goblets and a flagon of wine. Stephen removed his riding gauntlets and tossed them onto the trestle table.

“’Tis good to be back on English soil,” Stephen declared. “I may be Norman, but Normandy is so foreign. Each time I go, I am surprised anew that I feel no connection to the land of my heritage.”

“Why should you? Granted, both of your parents were Norman, but your upbringing embraced both Norman and English ways, more so than most. How many nobles do you know who have learned the English language?”

Stephen slid onto a bench. “Aye, well, I had no need of English while in Normandy, I can tell you. The Latin that Father insisted we learn served me well, though. Hellfire, Richard, you should have seen the tangle of documents and records and ledgers that George keeps on his holdings. One would need to be a cleric to understand it all.”

A serving wench set goblets and a flagon of wine on the table. Richard waved her off and poured out the beverage himself.

“George cooperated with you, then?”

“Not at first. He refused to see me. So I called upon some of the holdings and told each steward to no longer send rents to George, but to you.” With a smug look, Stephen added, “Some of those stewards sent word to George about my visit, for he soon sent for me. He apologized for his earlier rudeness, saying he thought I was a charlatan because he believed Lucinda and Philip had died along with Basil. ’Twas only when the nobles who’d attended the royal betrothal returned to Normandy and told him of Lucinda’s court appearance that he believed I was who I said I was and that I may have some claim on him.”

“And you believed that?”

“’Tis possible, I suppose. George tells a tale of traveling to England shortly after hearing of Basil’s death, to learn what he could of his cousin’s holdings. ’Twasn’t long before he learned that King Henry had confiscated everything Basil held in England. So, George claims, he set out to see what became of Basil’s heir. No one remembered seeing Lucinda or Philip after Basil’s downfall. When the search proved futile, and he did not receive any word from them after several months, he assumed they no longer lived.
He returned to Normandy, and as Basil’s closest relative, took possession of the remaining holdings.”

“Did he dispute Philip’s right to those holdings?”

“Nay, but he was shocked that I knew exactly which holdings were Philip’s and what rents they paid. If not for the list I carried, I doubt I would have received an honest accounting. However, George is willing to do right by you, Richard. Indeed, under the circumstances, he is prepared to be very generous.”

Philip ran into the manor, a helmet clutched in his little hands.
Not quite so little anymore,
Richard acknowledged with an odd pang in his chest. The boy had grown since coming to Collinwood, requiring new tunics and shoes.

The boy’s headlong rush to the table halted abruptly when Philip saw Stephen. His look of joy faded to uncertainty.

“You may approach, Philip.”

Philip did so, at a more sedate pace. He placed the helmet on the table for Richard’s inspection.

“Edric said I should show you your helm, my lord. I polished it by myself this time,” he said with a note of youthful pride.

Richard ignored Stephen’s frown and picked up the leather helmet. Philip had done a fair job of polishing the silver studs and noseguard. Only one stud showed a small smudge of tarnish.

Richard pointed to the stud. “Apply a harder cloth to this one, then I will inspect again.”

Philip studied the imperfectly polished stud, then used the sleeve of his tunic to finish the job. He turned hope-filled eyes on Richard.

“Well done,” Richard told him. “You may tell
Edric that I give you sole charge of polishing my helm. How goes the work on the chain mail?”

Philip screwed up his nose. “Slow. All those rings!”

Richard held back a chuckle. Polishing a full suit of chain mail was indeed a tedious job. But not one beyond Philip’s ability or patience level.

“A warrior’s mail is both a mark of his status and his protection in battle,” Richard said. “Take care to make the rings gleam, and mark any that need repair. My life could depend upon your diligence.”

Philip picked up the helm with a somber nod. “So Edric says.” The boy glanced at Stephen, whose frown had deepened. The child’s face twisted into several expressions that Richard now recognized as an attempt to summon courage.

The boy had had ample opportunities to practice the skill over the past months. Philip faced the same censure and snubbing as Lucinda. And just like his mother, Philip faced adversity with dignity and forbearance.

Finally, Philip asked, “Shall we still ride this noon?”

’Twas a question Philip shouldn’t have felt the need to ask. Richard let a bit of ire show. “I promised you we would, did I not?”

“Aye, but since Lord Stephen has arrived, you might rather spend the time with him.”

“Have I ever broken my word to you, Philip?”

“Nay, but—”

“Nor will I. My promise to you stands firm. A good lord always keeps faith with his vassals, Philip. Remember that.”

Philip directed another solemn nod Richard’s way. Then he turned to leave.

“Philip, your manners.”

The boy turned back. “My apologies, Lord Richard,” he said in a manner too tight and mature for a child of six. Philip then executed a bow to Stephen, and a deeper bow to Richard. “By your leave, my lord.”

Richard nodded his permission. Philip then strode out with all the bearing of a soldier.

“You coddle that boy, Richard,” Stephen said.

“The boy is far from coddled. If anything, he works far harder to gain my approval than any other boy at Collinwood.”

“’Twould seem he works hard because the rewards are greater. What other boy would earn a ride for polishing a helmet?”

“’Tis not so much a reward as another lesson,” Richard defended his decision. “He needs to learn to sit a horse in accordance with his rank. Philip
is
Norman, a noble. My duty as his protector demands I ensure Philip knows all he needs to know before he comes of age and assumes control of his lands. I intend to raise the boy as our father raised us, by giving him the best tutoring available and by good example.”