Love at First Sight (6 page)

Faith! What was she thinking? Worse, she was flapping the neck of her chainse with the speed of a bee’s wing. She let loose of the material and glared at the chamberlain.

“’Twas you and none other who made me appear the fool. You knew full well the baron was expecting a nursemaid, not a witchwife.”

Spindleshanks’ head drooped lower. “Sir Gavarnie’s pride e’re prevents him from seeking aid of any type. I’d hoped to disguise your true purpose.”

“Why did you not explain yourself from the beginning?”

Sperville glanced up at her. “Had you known of the deception, would you have agreed to come?”

’Twas as if a worm were squirming inside her. Obviously, he thought her too honorable to be involved in trickery. She felt as if Mimskin were standing there, shaking a finger at her.

Ye destroy your swevyn with your falseness and rob those who have true need of your help. ’Tis ashamed I am to claim you as kin.

Golde piled her braid atop her head and fanned herself, cooling the flesh that prickled not from the room’s heat—or from thoughts of the baron—but from shame. Though why she should feel thus was a mystery. In this instance, Mimskin was as guilty as Golde of deceit.

Meanwhile, Sperville had deceived Delamaure into thinking Golde was a nursemaid. Had Mimskin foreseen the baron’s foul reaction to Golde’s arrival at Skyenvic, she would never have allowed her to come. But Mimskin hadn’t consulted the runes on the question of Golde’s reception, for Spindleshanks had implied that the baron would welcome her.

And what had Delamaure said earlier about Sir Varin?

. . . the Baron of Cyning is behind this scheme
.

Aye. That was it. Delamaure assumed Varin had sent her.

. . . risks losing his wits each time he empties his bowels . . .

Which she would indeed tell Varin the moment she arrived home. For, according to what Roscelyn had said before Golde left Cyning, Varin believed Delamaure to be a friend.

Golde frowned at the ache that was beginning to throb in her head. ’Twas nigh impossible to determine who was deceiving whom.

Nor did her ruminations help solve her immediate dilemma concerning Nicolette’s illness. Would the baron truly forbid Hesper to care for the child?

At last, she addressed Spindleshanks, her tone brusque. “I will stay until the child is well, provided you confess your maneuvering to your master.”

A look of satisfaction appeared to cross the chamberlain’s features, but before she could be certain, Hesper had clutched her hand and kissed it.

When she looked back to Sperville, he’d drawn himself up and was shaking his head. “Nay. I cannot allow it. You would be less than a mouthful for the baron’s wolfish bite. As we speak, he demands your presence for no reason but to vent his spleen upon you.”

The poor lighting and vapor haze had tricked her. Far from looking satisfied, Spindleshanks’ eyes were round with fear.

Golde snorted. “If his lordship commands my presence, then so shall it be.”

She marched past Sir Sperville into the hall. ’Twould be best to instruct the ill-mannered Delamaure at once on the proper treatment of her person, now that she’d decided to stay.

I
T SEEMED TO
G
AVARNIE
he’d just drifted off again when something wakened him. Christ’s blood. Would he never sleep this night? He started to roll from his back to his side when he left a tug on his boot. He forced himself to stillness as the evening’s events surfaced in his thoughts.

The ogress.

By the rood, she was no more than a thief. ’Twas a common fallacy amongst the Saxon peasantry that Norman lords slept with valuables tucked inside their boots. A fallacy the hag would regret.

He concentrated on the movement at his feet until he knew exactly where he’d aim his blade. In one smooth motion, he hauled his sword from beneath the pillows and shot upward to his knees.

Blessed Virgin Mother! Could it be Nicolette?

His heart thudded and he jerked the blade sideways. The sharp-honed steel tore through the heavy bed curtain and bit into the massive post at the foot of the bed.

Sperville yelped, “’Tis I!”

Gavarnie gulped air and clutched the sword’s hilt, hands shaking. “Whore’s gleet! Have you no consideration for your safety, man? Had I not thought you Nicolette at the last moment—” He yanked the blade free of the post. “What were you thinking?”

“I was removing your boots so your rest would be more comfortable.” The chamberlain’s voice carried high and thin. “Nicolette has been returned to her chamber.”

Still gripping the sword, Gavarnie sank back against the pillows. Swallowing hard, he waited for his heart to slide from his throat back down to his chest, where it belonged. Then he forced himself to speak calmly. “As ever, Sperville, your devotion to duty overrides your good sense. But I prefer you whole rather than in halves. And, if you would, please consider my sentiments before next you come creeping ’round my bed in the dead of night.”

“My apologies,” the chamberlain sniffed. “Might I remove your boots, that I may get some rest?”

Gavarnie rose again to sit. “You have yet to gain your bed? Why do you not rouse Roland to remove my boots? Or does he yet run errands at your command? And what has become of that miserable dowd I sent you to collect?” “When we returned, you were sleeping. I assumed you would rather deal with matters on the morrow than be disturbed.”

Gavarnie ran a hand over his face. “Faith, Sperville, you and Roland have much to do. De Warrenne will be arriving on the morrow. The silver plate needs counting and spices must be doled out to the kitchens.”

He paused as his thoughts came full circle. “Nicolette. Is she . . .” He could not complete the question, so sharply did his inwit stab him.

“She is recovering.”

Gavarnie’s pulse quickened. The child was recovering? Before God, he vowed, Nicolette would never want for anything again.

“You would do well to avail
yourself
of the witchwife’s miracles before you scare her off.”

“Humph,” Gavarnie snorted, feeling better than he had in years. “The hag is not afraid of the devil. Know you what she dared earlier? She threatened to castrate me with her bare hands. Had the audacity to clutch my—” Wheezing gasps issued from the foot of the bed. “That had best not be laughter I hear spilling from your mouth.”

The windy mirth only increased, and Gavarnie drummed his fingers on the hilt of the sword. ’Twas not at all like the staid chamberlain to find humor in such baseborn behavior.

“Your reasoning has deserted you,” he remarked sourly. “Take yourself off and get some sleep.”

Sperville cleared his throat. “The young lady is most resourceful, is she not?”

“Resourceful? Snakes doubtless flee at her approach. Spiders likely scramble to hide, lest she pluck them from their webs to eat.”

More gasping merriment.

Gavarnie struggled to shove the sword back under his pillows, the length of the blade making the task difficult. It kept catching in the bed linens. At last he succeeded, then bent forward to wrestle with a boot.

“Young lady,” he grumbled, and slammed one boot on the floor. “I’ll wager she has not one tooth left in her ancient head.”

“You have formed quite an image of the woman. Surely she does not frighten you.” Sperville’s voice quivered, clearly a result of his struggle to contain his mirth.

Gavarnie jerked the remaining boot from his foot and clutched the stiff leather in his fists. “Begone, imbecile, lest you find my boot between your teeth.”

“As you wish, my liege. But my inwit would allow me no respite were I to leave you with such nightmarish visions. Golde is not as you think.” The chamberlain’s tone grew earnest. “Though I will admit she is no beauty at first glance, if you could see, you would find her quite striking.”

“She is big as a horse, judging from the size of her forearm. And tall as you, according to Nicolette, with one black eye and one green. I’m not sure
striking
properly describes the wench.
Hideous,
perhaps.
Ugly,
of a certainty.”

“Aye, she is tall, but in the likeness of a sapling that bends with grace before the wind. Far from big, she is lean in the way of woodland creatures that depend upon agility to survive.”

Big as a tree and lean as a boar
sow, he translated Sperville’s description. “Get thee gone. You are moonstruck and I will hear no more.”

He dropped the boot and plopped back on the mattress, pulling a pillow over his head. He’d never heard the chamberlain speak so warmly of a woman. Not that Sperville did not know beauty when he saw it. He’d oft remarked on serving wenches, and even a time or two on Isabelle’s appearance. But ’twas always dispassionate, in the way a jeweler might examine a particular stone.

Removing the pillow from his head, Gavarnie rolled to his side. On a whim, he squeezed the fingers of one hand around his forearm. His lips puckered.

Mayhap he’d been wrong. The hag’s arm was nowhere near the size of his. Even so, she could not be skinny, as Nicolette claimed.

He hugged the pillow to his chest. One eye green, the other black. No pinch-faced sour dowd. No beauty, either. Striking. He tried to imagine her face. Oval, round, heart-shaped? Framed with black hair, by Nicolette’s account. He remembered the thick, damp tresses he’d clutched earlier.

Bats’ wings dipped in moonlight
.

Her voice floated through his memory. Throaty, muted. A low murmur trailed through still water, rippling outward, caressing everything it touched. Like a woman skilled at seduction, he thought drowsily, allowing the layers of sound to drift ever lower. They lapped at his loins and laved his shaft in a resonant, husky chorus.

Abruptly lust tore for release, and he ground his hips against the pillow. It seemed an eternity had passed since he’d last—

Whore’s gleet! He bolted upright. For all he knew, Sperville could yet be standing at the foot of the bed. He stilled, straining to hear the telltale whisper of breathing.

Nothing.

Fool! he railed at himself. Had he not covered his head with the pillow, he would have heard whether or not the door closed and known if the chamberlain had left to seek his bed in the undercroft.

“Sperville?” he whispered.

No reply.

Still, it felt as if every person in the castle were watching him. ’Twas not the first time he’d felt thus, but never had he sensed it so keenly.

He threw himself back on the mattress, willing away the despair that threatened to engulf him.

He would not remain blind.

He would not!

And by all that was holy, in future he would make certain of his privacy.

G
OLDE SWATTED
at the nettlesome hand that persisted in shaking her shoulder. Despite the dripping heat, she was having no difficulty sleeping on a pallet beside Nicolette’s bed. Indeed, now that the child’s cough had eased, providing a measure of quiet, Golde felt certain she could sleep a full fortnight.

Her thoughts drifted to the stream that ran behind the castle orchard back home at Cyning. An image of clear water flashed crisp invitation. She hurried toward it, stripping her clothes. Ah, to be clean and cool.

Her steps slowed to a halt. Delamaure stood on the bank opposite her. The black-eyed stare he leveled at her gleamed hard and sharp. His nostrils flared. His visage darkened with heated blood. A wolf that had just scented its mate. Though a black cloak concealed his body, he exuded raw, randy strength.

Warmth pooled in her groin at his predatory gaze. Possession. ’Twas what he wanted. How she longed to surrender, to be held in his powerful embrace, to feel his hands on her. A blush crept over her face. None would dare ridicule her so long as she held the baron’s favor. She would be safe.

The hand shook her more urgently.

Golde refused to open her eyes. “Get thee gone, wretched gnat.”

“Lady, please,” a young woman’s voice quavered. “It’s me duty to rouse ye. His lordship commands yer presence.”

“The baron?” Golde rolled onto her belly and snuggled her face into the woolen blanket she’d used to pillow her head. ’Twas remarkable how comfortable the scratchy material felt against her cheek, despite its sweat-ripened smell. If only she could again draw forth the stream’s cool image. And Delamaure.