The Bargain (2 page)

"We were headed north, to the border."

"To Scotland?"

She lifted a tawny brow. "Indeed, my lord. We have lived there these past years."

"Who awaits you in Scotland?"

Swallowing hard, she watched him for a moment, wary.

"Mayhap you did not hear me.
Who
awaits you in Scotland?"

"My betrothed," she blurted, shifting on her feet.

It was not the answer he'd hoped for. In fact, he was unprepared for the jealousy raging throughout him at the thought of some uncivilized Scot bedding this beautiful English woman. "Why is your betrothed not here helping you defend Braemere?"

"He was away when Adelstan and I left."

"You ran from him?"

She shook her head. "Nay, I did not
run
from him. I did my duty to my countrymen and to my brother. There simply was not time to alert him."

"And what will your intended do when he realizes you are gone?"

"He will come for me."

She was so certain; he could hear the confidence in her voice.

"And who is this man who will soon be charging Braemere's gates?"

She lifted her chin a fraction. "Laird MacMillan."

Of course she would be betrothed to a laird and not some lowborn Scot. He forced a smile. "I suppose we must ready ourselves to welcome Laird MacMillan then."

Her eyes narrowed. "Duncan has done you no harm."

Duncan
was it? How informal.

"Please let my brother and I go, my lord. I give you my word that we will never return." Her tone implored him, as did her expression.

He could feel her desperation. She put her hands together and rested them against her lips... as though in prayer.

There was nothing holy about his thoughts.

"Find mercy in your soul, my lord. Let us go."

Let her go, so she could return to the laird? There was not a chance in hell. "I cannot, my lady."

She released a ragged breath and closed her eyes, almost in defeat.

"There are many deaths to be accounted for, de Pirou's murder among them. Your king demands satisfaction."

She opened her eyes and the pain he saw there made his heart lurch. "My lord, please. I beg of thee."

For an instant he wanted to give her what she yearned for, but he had come too far, and his liege lord demanded satisfaction. "Again, I cannot."

Before he could blink, she drew a dagger from her cloak and held the point to her breast. "You will not take me alive."

"Do not!" he bellowed, surprised at the horror rippling through him at the prospect of this gorgeous woman killing herself rather than face her fate.

"I want to see Adelstan." The words were wrenched from her, and tears welled in her eyes. He knew what the words cost her—this woman who clearly was not given to crying or theatrics. A woman who begged for her brother s life.

"What is your name?" he asked, his tone calmer than he felt.

"Aleysia," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped forward and she pressed the knife in, drawing a whimper from her perfect lips.

"Aleysia, please do not hurt yourself."

A second later she dropped the dagger and reached out to him, her fingers curling around his. Aside from the shock of her actions, relief washed over him.

She fell to her knees before him. "My lord. Please..."

The depth of her plea and the feel of her soft fingers against his rough ones raised his desire to fever pitch. Even the hair on his arms stood on end. He had to remind himself that she touched him not out of desire, but out of desperation. He sheathed his sword and placed a hand on her head, the texture of the blonde locks like silk against his fingers. "Your brother lives. For now let that be enough."

Her beautiful green eyes searched his face as her fingers tightened around his. "Do you give me your word?"

He was astounded by her audacity, yet he admired her all the same. How selfless she was. Begging for her brother's life in front of her enemy.

Renaud's gaze shifted from hers, to the tiny, tipped-up nose, the full lips, lower to her neck... and the swell of her breasts. Roughly, he grabbed her by the arm and lifted her to her feet. She fell into him, her soft body against his front. His cock responded, pressing against his braies, rock hard, throbbing.

She swallowed hard. "My lord, I will do anything you desire in order to save my brother."

His gaze locked with hers. "Anything I desire?" he repeated, trying to ignore the exhilaration that rushed through his body at the prospect of taking this woman to his bed.

"Aye." To his surprise her gaze shifted from his, drawing slowly over his chest, down his belly, before settling in the vicinity of his cock. "Anything, my lord."

CHAPTER 2

Aleysia had never felt so alone in her life. The great hall buzzed with activity, but she knew not a soul. Sitting near the hearth, she watched the Normans file into the room, while harried servants scrambled to fill goblets and tankards with ale and sweet wine.

Gone were the familiar faces of her Saxon brethren, and in their place dirty, smelly, foul-mouthed Normans. Many still bore the stains of her people's blood upon their clothing. The pain and destruction they had caused seemed not to bother them, for they ate and drank as though they had not feasted for a week.

She despised every last one of them, but most of all one man. A man she had made a bargain with. A bargain that would begin this night. Her insides twisted at the thought of sharing a bed with the Norman.

Renaud de Wulf, lord of the keep. Sitting on the high dais, looking down on his vassals and servants with a satisfied smile. He certainly played the part of conqueror to perfection.

How different he looked without his helmet, the nose-plate having hidden his features from view earlier. Now those features were on display.

In truth, Renaud de Wulf was striking, with his long dark hair and contrasting silver eyes. His square jaw, straight nose, jutting cheekbones, and obscenely long eyelashes only added to his appeal. The one flaw she could see was a disturbing scar that ran along his right cheekbone.

In the past fortnight when rumors abounded, she had heard that this monster had been given the scar by his betrothed. The woman, a Norman princess who desperately loved the baron, discovered he had a leman. So great was her fury, she had attacked de Wulf in a jealous rage. If she had scarred him hoping it would detract from his looks, the woman had failed. Miserably so, for the mark only enhanced the barons untamed sensuality. A rugged, dark beauty—which made him even more dangerous. No doubt he had already littered England with many a bastard.

She prayed she did not add to that number this night.

"My lady, would you like some wine?" a servant asked, jarring Aleysia out of her unpleasant thoughts.

"Nay," she replied, with a forced smile. She must keep her wits about her. Mayhap tonight the Normans would become so drunk that she could escape his chamber and release her brother from his prison. Then she would not have to forfeit her maidenhead to the beastly de Wulf.

The minutes ticked away into hours, and she waited and watched as the ale and wine flowed freely. The noise in the hall grew louder by the second, signaling the soldiers were well in their cups.

A man broke into song, and was soon joined by his comrades. The song was in French, so Aleysia did not understand, nor did she care to. She hated everything about these men and the wretched country that had brought them to England's shore.

Aleysia's gaze flitted over the giant tapestries on the opposite wall. They were enormous and had taken a long time to sew. One was a brutal hunting scene in bold colors, and the other of finely dressed women strolling about a garden, in soft, muted colors.

The latter reminded her of a tapestry she and her mother had embroidered for years, and they had finished it just a year before her mother's death. It had been a depiction of their family. Her mother, her father, Adelstan, and herself, standing in the fields beyond the manor. The tapestry had hung in the manor house, the first thing one saw upon entering. Every visitor had commented upon it, saying how lovely it was. Everyone, save for de Pirou, who had ordered it ripped from the wall and burned shortly after he had murdered her parents.

The horrible baron had laughed uproariously while Aleysia cried, and Adelstan had done his best to comfort her. How she had wished the man dead at that moment.

At least de Pirou was in hell now—right where he belonged.

A woman shrieked, bringing Aleysia's thoughts back to the present. She looked in the direction of the cry to find a woman fighting off the advance of two men. Aleysia went to stand, her fingers curling around the knife in her pocket... when she saw the woman smile, and then laugh before she kissed one of the knights. A moment later the three slipped out the door, no doubt off to find a private corner.

Aleysia had considered slipping out that very door a time or two, but where would she go? The Saxons who had been here this morning were all either dead or imprisoned in the dungeon. If what de Wulf said was true, then Adelstan had been taken to the tower, where prisoners of significance were kept, though rarely treated any better than those in the dark, dank dungeons. No doubt each entrance and exit would be heavily guarded.

Nay, she had made a deal with the devil, and she must pay her due. Which meant sticking it out until she could come up with a way out of this mess.

Feeling someone watching her, Aleysia glanced over at the Norman to find his silver gaze settled on her. Her pulse quickened. His was a stare that could make grown men quiver in their seats. No smile, no frown. No expression at all. Just a cold, distant look in his eyes that was more than a little unsettling. Though it was difficult, she forced herself to hold his gaze.

His jaw ticked, as though he clenched his teeth too tight. Aleysia's lower lip began to tremble, but she bit the inside of her cheek to steady it. She must not show fear. He must know she would not back down.

A servant passed by him, and he grabbed hold of her wrist. The woman with copper-colored hair and dark eyes, who Aleysia had not seen before this day, fell into his lap, one arm draped around his neck.

De Wulf s large hand slid to the girl's waist, and she seemed not to mind. Indeed, she seemed excited to have his attention as she rested her head back against the Norman's neck, her nipples pebbling beneath the bodice of her faded kirtle. The woman's hand slid down de Wulf's chest, toward his stomach.

Aleysia knew she should look away, especially since the Norman was taking perverse satisfaction in watching her watch him. He wanted her to squirm. As though reading her thoughts, the slightest hint of a smile played at his lips while his fingers brushed lazily across the woman's stomach.

Heat rushed up Aleysia's neck, toward her cheeks. She lifted a brow, and the side of the Norman's mouth curved slightly. His large, long-fingered hand moved up the woman's belly slowly, to a breast. Aleysia swallowed hard. He cupped the small mound, his fingers rolling over the nipple in a way that had the servant arching her back. The Norman's fingers plucked at the extended buds, pulling, pinching, and to Aleysia's horror, her own nipples tightened beneath her tunic.

Everything within Aleysia rebelled. How could a woman shame herself so, right in the middle of a hall full of roughly one hundred people? She had no shame at all, her hand slipping into the band of de Wulf's braies, cupping his prominent sex.

Aleysia's cheeks burned and though she wanted to flee, pride kept her rooted to the spot.

The woman turned on de Wulf s lap and kissed him, her fingers reaching for the cord of his braies. She tugged for a moment, but seemed to get nowhere. But she would not be deterred. She slipped her hand inside his braies, and for a heart-stopping second Aleysia saw the head of his large cock, swelling up past his navel.

The Norman flashed the servant a wolfish smile, breaking the kiss for just an instant as he whispered something to her. No doubt some poetic nonsense.

Shifting in her seat, Aleysia watched the kiss increase to a frenzied mating of tongues. The woman's hands wove through de Wulf s hair, and she rubbed against him, much as a cat would brush against a person for affection.

And for an instant Aleysia wondered what it felt like—to kiss like that, to desire like that. She had never kissed a boy in all her years, though she had wondered what it would feel like to kiss Duncan once they married.

She remembered how her parents kissed—gentle pecks on the cheeks or lips. Full of affection, but never a long, searing kiss like the Norman and the servant wench were sharing. God's breath, the woman's tongue was damn near down the man's throat.

And it didn't look like they would be stopping anytime soon. Indeed, the way she stroked de Wulf made Aleysia wonder if he would take the wench right there in front of everyone.

A man's laughter caught her attention, and Aleysia turned to the right to find a knight, well into his thirtieth year, watching her. No doubt he had sensed her shock at the servant and de Wulf s public fondling. He brought the tankard to his lips and drank heavily, the brew flowing over the cup, slopping onto his tunic.

Did the man have no manners? Apparently not, for he proceeded to slurp the stew from his bowl, much in the same fashion he drank his ale. The majority of which had ended up on his tunic and lap.

Disgusted, Aleysia looked away, toward the nearest door where a guard conversed with a servant wench. If she were careful, she could slip out the servant door toward the kitchens, and at least find peace for this night, away from the damned Norman who looked ready to take the wench right here and now, no matter who watched.

Mayhap Aleysia could sleep in the stables, high in the loft, away from everyone, especially de Wulf.

She took another glance at the Norman to find him fully occupied with the servant, who now straddled him, her skirts hiked up about her hips. Worse still, de Wulf's hands were planted on her plump, bare bottom. For all Aleysia knew, the servant could be impaled on de Wulf's large staff.