Defy Not the Heart

by Johanna Lindsey

  Reina listened to this quite calmly, and then con­founded the man by smiling at him. "If you believe that nonsense, you have been duped. My betrothed died two years ago, just before my father left for the Holy Land. There was no time before he left to ar­range another alliance. He charged me to see to the matter, and through correspondence with him, I had two men he and I both approved, and 'tis one of these I would have been wed to within the week."

  "Who?"

  "That is hardly a concern of yours, other than this Rothwell you mention is not one of them. I have never even heard of the man, and if he says he has a con­tract, he lies."

  "Or you do."

  Reina's chin came up sharply. "I have my father's letters to prove what I say.''

  "Then produce them."

  "Idiot!" she hissed in exasperation. "The letters are at Clydon."

  "So you want me to believe, but I would be an idiot the day I take a lady at her word," he snorted.

  Her eyes narrowed on him at that left-handed in­sult. "Then you still intend to take me to your lord?"

  "He is not my lord, but aye, for five hundred marks, you most definitely will go to him. What I want to know from you is why my task was made so easy. Why were you so poorly protected?"

  Reina was still reeling over the paltry sum he had been offered to ruin her life. As for his wanting an­swers from her now . . .

  "Go to hell, Fitz Hugh. I am done talking to some­one so unreasonably pigheaded. For that matter, I am done suffering his presence."

  So saying, she took flight, and with no one stand­ing between her and the front of the tent, 'twas not difficult. That she blundered into the midst of his en­tire camp gave her only momentary pause. The thun­derous roar she left behind was incentive enough to quicken her step; and, barefoot or not, she raced straight for the nearest horse she spotted, sending up a word of thanks that it was a gelding rather than a war-horse, and still saddled, too. The men lounging all around her, under trees and in front of cooking fires, merely gaped at her as she sped through them, too surprised to do anything.

  For not having planned her escape, she was doing remarkably well, and even believed she could actually make it now that she had reached the horse. The cover had to go in order for her to hoist herself into the saddle without a boost up, but that was a small sac­rifice to make for success. The horse was not that many hands tall, and once her foot found the stirrup, she managed to pull herself up the rest of the way.

  But there her problems began. That her shift rode halfway up her thighs as she sat astride was the least of them. The horse did not care for her light weight on its back and made haste to let her know. That was not her main problem either, for she was not inex­perienced with difficult mounts. Her biggest problem was that every man in camp had stood up by then, fully aware now what she was about. There was a solid wall of them blocking the three directions that would take her away from the enraged knight, too close for her to pick up the speed to break through them. The only opening available was back the way she had come, right though the heart of the camp. As long as she could generate enough speed to knock away anyone who tried to stop her, there was still a chance.

  She wasted no more time thinking about it, but drew the horse about and dug her bare heels into its sides. Disdainfully, it would not budge, and after all its sidestepping and head tossing until then! Furi­ously, Reina gave it a sharp taste of the reins she had gathered in one fist, then almost lost her seat when it bolted. But that was the speed she needed, and the first few men who dared get in her way dived for cover when they saw she would run them down rather than stop.

  Unfortunately, the closer she got to the end of the camp, the braver they got, reaching for the reins, banging into her knees as they missed, trying to frighten the horse with wildly waving arms. One fel­low succeeded in latching onto her arm, but a sharp twist made him loose his grip before she lost her bal­ance. And then she saw Walter de Breaute coming at her, taller than all the others, more able to reach up to her because of his extra height, and she steered away from him, only to find herself riding right at Fitz Hugh on her other side—too late. He did no more than hold out an arm as she passed, and she was plucked right off the horse, the animal riding on with­out her, while she felt as if she had run into a stone wall.

  She lost her breath at the impact of his arm with her belly, and that it still squeezed her while holding her to his side did not make it easy for her to start breathing again. But once her lungs finally filled with air, she let out a screech of outraged fury, half for being stopped, half because she was being hefted back to the tent rather than being allowed to walk.

  "Cretin! Devil-spawned lout! Put me dow—"

  The word ended on a whoosh when he tightened the iron band about her waist. She started to struggle then, kicking backwards at him, hammering at his arm and the shoulder she could reach. But he seemed not to notice her efforts at all, just kept marching along, with her practically sitting on his hip, her feet a long way from the ground.

  When he did set her down, it was directly in front of the tent opening. She got a look at his face then, and it was thunderous.

  "Lady, you are more trouble than you are worth," he rumbled out.

  If he had not said that, she might have become truly afraid of him at last, for his visage was terrible to behold. But those words rubbed her on the raw. And besides, if he ever did strike her with one of those clublike fists that he was clenching at his sides, she would not be alive to worry about it ever happen­ing again.

  "Nay, that is where you are so stupid, Fitz Hugh," she said with contempt. "My worth is well known and makes your Judas fee insignificant. Clydon earns four times as much in just one year. Your friend Roth-well knows it, even if you do not. Well he will laugh at how little he had to pay to steal a fortune and the power behind it."

  For that she got a light push on her shoulder that sent her stumbling backwards into the tent. "Five minutes you have to dress yourself ere this tent comes down. In ten we ride out."

  That was all he said, or rather shouted in at her. No comment on what she had said, just change before the tent was dismantled. He really was a loutish bear, in size as well as intelligence. Jesu, he could ask for anything and she would give it, just to get out of this fix. His bargaining power was unbelievable, because she was at present in his possession. But did he see that? Nay, all he saw was the five hundred marks he would be earning, and unfortunately, that was the one thing she could not offer him, thanks to her father having emptied their coffers for King Richard's Cru­sade.

  Chapter Twelve

  The march that day seemed longer than usual to Ranulf, though actually they made good progress consid­ering the slow pace they kept to accommodate Rothwell's men, none of whom had been supplied with horses, and the supply carts. Ranulfs own thirty men, who had been with him now for four years, some longer, had mounts he had bargained for long ago, not the best or the youngest in horseflesh, and not nearly as expensive as the destriers he had sup­plied for Searle and Eric when they were knighted, but adequate to their needs. The thirty horses had not come cheap; had cost him four months' service to a northern horse breeder beset by Scottish reivers, but having his men all mounted made the difference in getting certain jobs where speed was a necessity.

  Usually, the time in the saddle sped by quickly for Ranuif, spent in planning the current job or even the next one, or on thoughts of the future when he would finally achieve his goal and have his own keep, rich fields to support it, his own villeins to care for. He had learned where he could about farming and animal husbandry, and about baronial court laws, for he had not received a proper education.

  He had spent the first nine years of his life with the village smith, the brutish man his grandfather had given his mother to wed when she claimed the lord's grandson had been planted in her belly. She died the year after he was born, so the smith got no bargain, only a babe to raise who was no use to him until he could learn the craft. This was sooner than
he was ready, which accounted for Ranulfs overdeveloped muscles at a tender age.

  Known to be the future lord's bastard had made his lot harder, not easier, for the village youths shunned him, the smith resented him and worked him until he was ready to drop each night, and his father, a youth himself at six years and ten when Ranulf was born, cared not what happened to him. His lordly grand­father came around from time to time to check on his development but never offered a kind word or a hint of kinship, and his father was seen rarely, and only at a distance.

  He did not even meet his father until the day he was told he was being sent to Montfort to become a knight, and that likely came about only because his father had been wed five years by then, yet had pro­duced no legitimate child in all that time. He had another bastard, one he had already made his heir in case a true heir was never born, which had indeed come to pass, for his wife was barren and yet still lived. But Ranulf did not know that at the time. For many a year he had thought he was being groomed to inherit, which was why he never complained about the hardships of being trained by a man like Mont­fort, and why it had been such a bitter blow to him when he did learn his bastard brother would inherit all instead.

  His education at Montfort was only in the use of arms, with a bare smattering of knightly courtesies thrown in, for Lord Montfort was nowise a chivalrous knight himself. But Ranulf was knighted, had in fact earned his spurs on the battlefield when he was only six years and ten, during one of Montfort's petty wars. That he stayed on to serve Montfort for another year was only because Walter, a year older than Ranulf, had to wait that extra year before he was knighted, too, and they had already vowed to seek their fortunes together.

  If his manner bespoke his baseborn heritage, as she claimed, it was partly a result of his particular "ed­ucation," but partly deliberate, too, his dislike and distrust of ladies in general coloring his attitude to­ward any he must deal with. And it was his dealings so far with the Lady of Clydon that made this day drag out, for instead of pleasant thoughts of the future to occupy him as he rode along, he was plagued by anger, bewilderment, and horror over the events of the morning, or, more specifically, over what he had felt when he saw the lady up on that horse.

  She in no way looked like a lady with that cloud of raven locks flowing down her back and over her shoulders, whipping about her hips. The too short shift had become shorter still, revealing legs that should have been spindly on a woman so narrow of build, yet were too shapely by half, and longer than he would have imagined them to be. Or was it that he saw so much of them?

  She sat the horse with shoulders thrown back, head high, with a skill no doubt learned from the cradle, and while she galloped across the camp, she had ap­peared beautiful somehow, when he knew very well she was not; but more bewildering than that, she had aroused his lust.

  'Twas no doubt because he had seen that breast of hers. No, that in itself had not done it. He had seen too many breasts for one to fire his blood just because it happened to be staring him in the face. And yet that single moon-white globe of hers was different. 'Twas barely a handful, though quite perfect in shape, without the slightest droop to it, as was common with larger breasts. But it was the rose nipple that made it unique, so large for such a small shape, and so sen­sitive! His mouth had gone dry when he saw it pucker as it was scraped by the cloth. After that, to see her with her legs spread wide in the saddle was enough to inflame his senses to lust.

  And yet he still could not understand why, when she was everything he did not like, and he was hor­rified that it had happened at all.

  He stole glances at her all day where she sat in the supply cart, just to make sure that, since she was completely clothed, there was nothing about her that was desirous, and there was not. Covered from head to toe, she was the lady again, prim and stiff, wrapped up in haughty pride, and shooting venom at him whenever their eyes should meet.

  And that was another thing that aggravated his fury. Why had he not been able to intimidate the tiny shrew into giving him no trouble? He had certainly given it his best effort. Grown men quivered like jelly when he turned his wrath on them, yet not her. She threw insults at him whilst she was within his reach. No one, no one, had ever dared such a thing before.

  "Dowe stop at the abbey again, Ranulf?" Walter said as he rode up next to him. " 'Tis just ahead."

  "Nay, not with the little general among us."

  "The little—oho. Her. But she can be left in the camp whilst we—"

  "And let her get to another horse with no one to stop her next time? Nay, I am not letting her far from my sight or hearing, though the latter is like to drive me crazy."

  Walter chuckled, recalling what he had overheard before Ranulf had sent the lady back into the tent. "She does have a forceful way with words."

  "You heard only a small sampling."

  "Know you, then, what she meant about Rothwell stealing a fortune?"

  "She claims he has no right to her, that he is not nor ever was her betrothed."

  "Did you not have that doubt yourself from Roth-well's craftiness?"

  "It matters not," Ranulf replied stubbornly. "We are not being paid to discern who has what rights."

  "But—God's wounds, Ranulf! Do you not realize what that means? If the old man has no true claim to her, why give her to him? You have her. Why not keep her yourself?"

  "Bite your tongue!" Ranulf snarled, horrified. "I want no lady to wife, least of all that one."

  "Not even for Clydon?"

  For a fraction of a second, Ranulf hesitated, but that was all. "Not even if she offered the whole king­dom."

  "Clydon is just as nice," Walter noted with a grin, only to earn a black look before Ranulf spurred his mount ahead, refusing to listen to more.

  But the notion had taken root in Walter's mind, and he turned about to find Master Scot, Rothwell's master-at-arms, arid brought his horse to a walk be­side him. "How did your lord learn of Roger de Champeney's death, Master Scot?"

  "Like as was in that letter he had from his nephew, the one who went crusading with the king. I heard him mention the man's name just after the messenger arrived with it."

  "Had you ever heard of the betrothal with Reina de Champeney before then?"

  "There was no betrothal," the man snorted. "All I heard was Lord Rothwell saying as how the girl would be easy pickings with her liege lord still in the Holy Land."

  "Do you not think that is something you should have mentioned ere now?" Walter said irritably. He had not expected exact confirmation, just more doubt to offer Ranulf.

  Master Scot shrugged. "The doings of barons is no concern of mine, but I did not see as how it would matter, when you had already been paid to deliver the lady."

  "Ah, but you see, Sir Ranulf has not accepted pay­ment as yet."

  Master Scot stopped walking on hearing that. "Then why are we taking an innocent young lass like her to a devil like Lord Rothwell?"

  "A good question," Walter replied and rode off to walk his horse alongside the supply cart where the "innocent young lass" was suffering a bumpy ride due to Ranulf s annoyance with her and refusal to let her ride a horse again. "I thought you would like some company, my lady."

  She gave him only a single cold glance before look­ing away from him. "Not from any friends of his, thank you."

  Walter flinched, but tried again. " 'Tis true Ranulf is not easy to deal with when you know not his ways, but compared to your betrothed, you will remember him as a saint."

  "Not likely, de Breaute."

  Walter shrugged for her benefit and said no more, but still rode along beside her. He was waiting for her curiosity to get the better of her, unless of course she had lied about there being no betrothal. Then again, even if there was not, she still might know of Rothwell and so have no questions about him. In that case, he would have to try a different approach to set his idea before her.

  But his ruse did work. She finally glanced toward him again, and her expression was not so frigid t
his time, though not openly friendly either.

  "Have you met this—this craven lord who means to steal my inheritance?"

  Walter had to bite back a smile at her choice of words. "Aye, I have met him. But tell me something, demoiselle. If he is not your betrothed, who is?"

  Her eyes fell to her lap and she did not answer for several long moments, making him think she would not. Then she did, but 'twas not what Walter was expecting to hear.

  "I have no betrothed."

  "You mean the Earl of Shefford means to keep you as his ward, as old as you are?"

  ' 'Nay, I have his blessing to marry, and would have seen the matter done within a sennight if you and your friends had not interfered."

  She was controlling her anger well to say that with only a little bitterness, but Walter still did not under­stand. "How can that be? If Shefford is sending you a man, then he has made contract for you, so the man must be your betrothed."

  "Nay, Lord Guy is sending no one. Not that it makes a difference now, but he had it from my father before he died that the matter was taken care of, when in truth 'twas not yet settled."

  Walter was frowning now, still not understanding. "But Shefford had to have a name to give his bless­ing, as well as to make contract for you, if as you say 'twas not done by your father. How, then, can you claim to have no betrothed and yet claim you were to wed within the week?"

  Reina was loath to admit the unthinkable, that her father had allowed her to make her own contract. Fitz Hugh had not bothered to pick apart what she had said to him. Why could his friend not leave it alone?

  "What does it matter the why or how of it, Sir Walter? The fact remains you are taking me—"

  "Wait! If you have no betrothed, then you have no contract as yet. And with Shefford not here, who then will make it for you?"