Master of Desire

by Kinley MacGregor

  “Oh, forgive me for my discourtesy!” Christina said, rising instantly to her feet. “Come, let me fetch a maid to prepare your room and you can rest in my solar until it’s ready.”

  Emily rose and followed after Christina. They waited until the women had left the hall before retaking their seats.

  Draven sat in silence for several minutes as he thought over what he’d heard. And the sad, heartbroken look Emily had on her face at the mention of Anna.

  “Who is Anna?” he asked Orrick.

  “She was one of Emily’s sisters who died about nine years back.”

  Draven nodded. That explained the sadness, but he suspected there was more to the story. However, now wasn’t the time to dwell on the matter.

  Draven looked back at Orrick. “Well, since we know this isn’t a social visit, shall you have your steward fetch your accounts?”

  “Now?” Orrick asked in a panicked voice.

  Draven stared at him stoically. “Now is as good a time as any.”

  Orrick swallowed as he fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. “Aye, then. I’ll show you to my council room.”

  Orrick rose from his chair and looked about nervously. He set his tankard of ale on the mantel and patted at his purse before he removed a brass key and led them from the room.

  “He’s guilty,” Simon whispered as they followed Orrick across the hall.

  “I know,” Draven answered, sickened by the thought. All in all, he had no quarrel with the baron, who had always appeared a decent enough fellow.

  But if he had in fact swindled Henry out of his due, there was nothing Draven could do to save him.

  Chapter 8

  “Do you think me foolish?” Emily asked as she sat in the bower seat of Christina’s room. She hugged a small red pillow to her breast as she poured out her scheme to her lifelong friend.

  Christina sat across from her in a heavily carved chair that looked like a cross between a dragon and a winged frog. Christina glanced up from the needlepoint in her lap.

  Her face pensive, she met Emily’s gaze. “Not for wanting to marry. I’m just not so sure he is the one you should choose. He’s just so…”

  Emily waited for several minutes. When it became apparent Christina wouldn’t speak, she offered a word for her, “Forbidding?”

  “Aye,” Christina agreed.

  “And moody?”

  “Aye.”

  Emily waited, watching her friend struggle to find another word to describe Draven. “And distant?”

  “Aye.”

  Impishly, she added, “Strange?”

  “Definitely.”

  Emily tossed the pillow at her. “No aye?”

  Christina smiled and tucked the pillow behind her back. “I was growing bored.”

  Emily laughed. “He is not so strange.”

  “You think not? Orrick says in battle Lord Draven becomes crazed. That he plows through men like a plowshare over snow.”

  “I would think in battle that would be a virtue.”

  “In battle mayhap, but what if he does it at home as well?”

  Emily arched her brow. “What, plow snow?”

  “Emily! You’re being obtuse.”

  “I know what you’re saying,” Emily said with a sigh. “But I have never seen him lose patience with anyone.”

  “You just met him,” Christina reminded her.

  “I know. It’s just there’s something about him that makes me feel all…” She bit her lip trying to think of the words. “Tingly inside.”

  Christina gave a knowing smile. “You’ve not been around many men, Em, and I doubt you’ve ever been around one such as he.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “You have an infatuation, I suspect.”

  “Infatuated? Me?” Emily asked with a laugh. “Now who’s being ridiculous?”

  “I’m not being ridiculous,” Christina said, stabbing her needle through the linen. “It’s that tingly, warm, giddy feeling you get when you look at a handsome man.”

  “I know the definition of it.”

  “Aye, but you’ve never felt it, I wager. How could you? Your father has never allowed a handsome man into his castle for fear of it.”

  That was true enough. Niles looked more like a woolly beast than a man. He was two inches shorter than Joanne and about as thick as an oak tree, with wiry brown hair and a thick beard. She’d never understood her sister’s attraction to the man.

  Emily frowned as she considered Christina’s words. Could her own feelings be something as simple as a mere infatuation? “Perhaps. But what of you and Orrick?”

  Christina shrugged.

  “Nay, don’t you dare get tight-lipped.”

  Christina laughed. “Forgive me.” She returned to her sewing. “Orrick is good to me. Very good, in fact, and I have no reason to complain.”

  “But you’re not entirely happy. I can see it in your eyes.”

  Christina gave a reluctant nod. “It’s just hard going to bed every night with a man older than my father. In truth, my stepchildren are older than I am.”

  Emily sympathized. She’d known numerous women who had the same complaint. “At least you have a husband,” she said wistfully. “And soon a babe.”

  Christina looked up at her. “I know how much you want a child. And maybe Lord Draven isn’t so bad, as you say. And knowing your father as I do, you’ll like as not have another chance to find a husband.”

  Emily’s chest drew tight at the words. She didn’t want to think about living her life alone, unwed.

  What would she do if she returned to her father’s?

  “I have to make this work,” Emily whispered. “I have to.”

  For the next two days Emily saw no sight of Draven as he scoured Orrick’s accounts. Countless times she and Simon walked past the closed doors, listening for a sound from within.

  Nothing. Not a snore, not a curse. Nothing.

  It was downright eerie.

  Orrick sent food inside, and back it came untouched.

  On the third day, she and Simon were partaking of the midday meal with Christina and her husband.

  “Does the man never sleep?” Orrick asked as he cracked his boiled egg with the side of his knife.

  Simon snorted. “You’d be amazed how long a body can go without rest.”

  “Obviously,” Orrick muttered. “I’ve never seen anyone apply himself so diligently.”

  Nor had she.

  Well, then again, she herself could be pretty single-minded when the occasion warranted it. But going over accounts and taxes?

  Quite honestly she’d rather be tied to a stake by her hair and drowned in pickle juice.

  Seeking to dispel the moroseness of the diners, Emily turned to Simon. “Since Lord Draven seems content to live out his visit in the council room, is there any chance we might visit the fair today?”

  Simon glared at the closed council room door across the foyer as if he despised it every bit as much as she did. “I don’t see why—”

  “Father!”

  Emily jumped at the drunken shout that came from the doorway as the door was thrown back against the wall with a resounding thud.

  All activity in the hall ceased as all heads turned to the foyer.

  A man about four years her senior stumbled into the room with the help of two very frighteningly large men.

  At first glance the two mountains appeared twins, until one looked closer. The man on the right had brown hair, brown eyes, and a scar that ran the length of his face. The other man’s hair wasn’t so much brown as it was an unwashed dark blond. Each one well muscled, they had stern, angry faces that promised a sound thrashing to anyone foolish enough to approach them.

  The man in the middle she deduced as Orrick’s son. With features similar to his father, he was as handsome as Christina had told her. He wore his dark brown hair clipped short and neat, but his clothes were wrinkled and stained.

  The two hulking men brought him to stan
d before his father’s dais. Orrick’s son propped his left arm up on the table and gave a loud belch.

  “Reinhold!” his father snapped. “What are you—”

  “Not now, old man,” Reinhold said disrespectfully as he rolled his head to look up at his father. “Let me introduce you to Fric.” He clapped the man to his right on the shoulder. “And Frac,” he slurred, pointing to the man on his opposite side.

  “My name is Frank,” the first one said in a thick Teutonic accent.

  “And mine is Fritz,” the other responded.

  “Does it matter?” Reinhold asked, waving his hand dismissively. He scratched at his unshaven face and looked at Orrick. “I need twenty silver marks to pay them.”

  Orrick held his lips tight as he perused his son. Though Orrick sat tall, his spine stiff with pride, she could see the embarrassment on his face as he glared at Reinhold.

  “Pay them for what?” Orrick asked.

  Reinhold snorted. “Not killing me for one thing.”

  “He owes debts to our master,” Frank said as he crossed his beefy arms over his chest and narrowed a vicious glare at Orrick. “Tam the Scot wants to be paid in full or else we’re to make sure your son doesn’t welsh on any more debts.”

  “Tam the Stewholder?” Orrick asked Reinhold in disbelief. “You swore to me that you’d never go there again.”

  “Well, here’s a big surprise, old man, I lied. Now be a good boy and pay up.”

  Orrick’s breaths came in short, sharp pants. One vein pounded at his temple.

  Christina reached out and touched his hand, but he shook off her touch.

  He looked first to Fritz, then Frank, and lastly his son. “I don’t have it.”

  “You what?” Reinhold bellowed.

  “You heard me, boy. I told you last time that I can’t keep this up. You promised me—”

  “Bullocks!” Reinhold shouted, slamming his hand down so hard on the table that it shook Emily’s bowl. “You keep up your whore without complaints and yet you can’t spare a copper for your own son?”

  “Reinhold, please,” Orrick begged. “I have company.”

  Reinhold looked at Emily and curled his lip. “You can afford to feed them, yet you have no money for me. Fine,” he said, turning to the mountains. “What say the two of you take my stepwhore to work off my debt in the stew?”

  Christina gasped as Orrick reached an arm out protectively.

  The two men actually looked at each other as if considering the terms.

  “All right,” Frank said. “She should bring in enough in six months or so.”

  “Nay!” Orrick shouted, coming to his feet.

  Fritz pulled a knife from his belt and angled it at Reinhold’s throat. “Choose, my lord,” he sneered. “Your wife or your son.”

  Suddenly, Fritz’s eyes bulged.

  “Since we’re playing a choosing game, how about I give you a choice?”

  Emily breathed in relief as Draven stepped around Fritz, and it was only then she saw the sword he had held to the giant’s back. “Your life or the knife.”

  The giant dropped the weapon.

  Draven kicked it across the floor, then sheathed his sword.

  Fritz took one look at Draven’s surcoat, then crossed himself.

  Frank’s face blanched. “My lord earl of Ravenswood,” he said, cringing from Draven’s presence. “We have no quarrel with you.”

  The look on Draven’s face bore all the promise of hell, wrath, and brimstone.

  “Don’t you?” Draven asked in a voice so cold it actually sent a shiver down Emily’s spine. “You come into the hall of my host, threaten him, his son, and his wife, and you think you have no quarrel with me?”

  They gulped in unison.

  “We just do as we are told,” Frank said, his voice unsure and wavering.

  Draven approached Fritz, who fair shrank before him. Like a wild wolf herding bulls, he backed them away from Orrick’s table and Reinhold.

  “Then I tell you this, as you value your putrid lives, you will leave here and make whatever lies you wish to your master. Never”—Draven paused effectively—“darken Lord Orrick’s doorway again. For if you do, there is no corner of hell you can find to hide that I won’t come seek you out. And I promise you, your master’s wrath is nothing compared to mine. Do you understand?”

  If they didn’t they were too foolish to live, Emily thought. For Draven’s deadly calm voice and heated glower sent chills of terror up and down her body.

  “We understand,” they said simultaneously.

  Draven gestured to Orrick. “Then make your apologies to the lord and lady.”

  “We beg your pardons,” they said, bowing before Orrick.

  “Now, leave.”

  They bolted from the room.

  Lord Draven raked Reinhold with that same menacing glare, then looked to Orrick. “This is the reason you’ve swindled the king?”

  Emily saw the shame on Orrick’s face. “Aye,” he said simply. “For all his faults, he is my son and I would never see him harmed.”

  Draven took a deep breath. “And you are willing to give the king your life to save his?”

  “Aye.” Orrick pushed his chair back from the table and rose to his feet. “If you will give me but a moment in private to say good-bye to my wife, I shall go peacefully with you.”

  Draven stood there staring at Orrick. Emily couldn’t read his emotions or his thoughts, and she couldn’t imagine what terror Orrick must be feeling.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but Simon touched her forearm and shook his head in warning.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Draven said at last. “For your crime, I will extend your service to the king from two weeks this year to eighteen months.”

  Orrick sighed in relief and nodded. “Then I shall have my squire fetch—”

  “I’m not finished,” Draven said dispassionately.

  “Forgive me.” Orrick cast his gaze to his feet.

  “Since your wife is with child, I think it best that your son serve the king in your place.”

  “What!” Reinhold shouted.

  Draven turned to him and Reinhold shrank back from the heat of his glare. “I think eighteen months in London under the care of Master William will teach you the discipline you need to respect a man and woman who would risk their lives to shelter you. And were I you, boy, I would be grateful to them, for they are the only thing that prevents me from turning you over to Fric and Frac.”

  Emily bit her lip at Lord Draven’s mercy. She exchanged a relieved look with Christina.

  “Alexander?” Draven called.

  One of his knights stood up from the lower tables. “Aye, milord?”

  “Reinhold is in your custody. Come morning, I want you to escort him to London, and if he gives you any trouble, handle it as you see fit.”

  “Aye, milord.” Alexander, whose size made mockery of the two mountains who were there before, came forward and took Reinhold by the arm. “If it pleases you, milord, I shall see him sobered forthwith.”

  “It would please me much.”

  Alexander nodded and led him away.

  Orrick took a deep breath. “What of the money I owe the king?”

  “What money?” Draven asked.

  “The money I—”

  “My Lord Orrick,” Simon interrupted, his tone thick, “you misunderstood my brother’s question. What money?”

  Tears gathered in Orrick’s eyes as he cleared his throat. “You would do that for me?”

  Draven didn’t answer; instead he turned on his heel and left the room.

  Orrick sat down and wept.

  Emily sat there in silence as Christina comforted her husband. Ill-at-ease, Emily excused herself and went to find Draven.

  He had returned to the council room across the hall. She pushed open the door he’d left ajar and stepped tentatively into the room.

  He stood with his back to her, closing up the ledgers he had been reviewing.
>
  “Milord?”

  He paused upon hearing her voice, then continued closing the books without turning to look at her. “Aye, milady?”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “He’s a good man who loves his family. Why should I see him dead for it?”

  In that instant, she realized that this was not a man who would raid a village and slaughter innocent people in their beds. Her father was sorely mistaken about Draven. “You didn’t attack my father’s village, did you?”

  He turned around to face her, his expression aghast. “You think I would do such a thing?”

  His look was too sincere to be feigned. “Nay, but my father thinks so.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, milady, but your father is a fool.”

  “Tell me, milord,” she asked with a smile. “Is there a right way to take that?”

  He didn’t smile back. Instead, he turned back to the books and finished putting them away.

  Emily moved to help him. She saw the dark pain in his eyes. Something about all this troubled him.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “What is what?”

  She tilted her head and looked up at him with a frown. “There is a thought on your mind that you haven’t voiced.”

  “There are many thoughts on my mind that I never voice,” he said evasively.

  “This one troubles you.”

  “They all trouble me in one way or another.”

  Oh, the man was frustrating! Why couldn’t he simply talk to her?

  “Well,” she said, trying again. “My mother always said that you should share your troubles. If you let them out, then they are less likely to burden you, whereas if you keep them inside they fester your blood and taint your soul.”

  “Perhaps I like my tainted soul,” he said simply.

  “Perhaps. But you really should speak your mind. My father says it keeps one healthy.”

  His look droll, he spoke, “Then you are the healthiest person I know.”

  She laughed. “He says that too.”

  She handed him the book she held, and as he took it their fingers brushed. He froze and stared at her fingers. Something warm flickered in his eyes, brightening the multiple blue tones.

  Kiss me, she begged silently, longing to feel his lips against hers.