Commanded by the French Duke (Harlequin Historical)
Page 9
Rounding the last step to climb on to the landing, she ran straight into her stepmother.
‘Alinor!’ Wilhelma screeched. ‘How many times have I told you, watch where you’re going!’ Her stepmother was tall, taller than her, her expensive garments hanging from her thin, elegant frame. She wore a barbette, a length of white linen that wrapped tightly around her face and chin, secured on the top of her head. A cloth-covered circlet, heavily embroidered with gold thread, further secured the barbette and also held her veil, which fell to a point beyond her shoulders.
‘Sorry!’ Alinor gasped. ‘But...’
‘Where have you been? Helping out those crusty old sisters again? Really, Alinor, I—’
‘Stop, Wilhelma, listen to me!’ Alinor’s voice took on a deadly urgency. She clutched her stepmother’s stick-like arm and shook it slightly. ‘I had to bring someone with me, he’s in the great hall...’
‘I saw him. Who is he?’ Outside the arrow slit, a pigeon cooed softly, then flapped away.
‘Bianca’s brother, Guilhem, Duc d’Attalens.’
In the shadows, Wilhelma’s face sagged visibly. The dark grooves beneath her eyes became suddenly more pronounced. ‘Wh-what?’
‘Bianca’s brother!’ Alinor hissed. ‘He’s come to see her. What are we going to tell him?’
‘Oh, Lord!’ Wilhelma staggered slightly, clutching on to the curved metal banister.
‘You should have thought of this before you asked me to poison her! Did you know she had a brother?’
‘Her family are all in France. I never thought we would see any of them here.’ Wilhelma’s voice took on a frantic edge. ‘The Queen arranged it all.’ She poked Alinor in the arm, narrowing her eyes. ‘None of this would have happened, my girl, if you had agreed to marry Eustace. That way the Queen could never have interfered, could never have sent such an—such an inappropriate girl to marry my son! It’s all your fault, Alinor.’
Alinor reeled backwards beneath her stepmother’s vindictive words. Was this the way it was going to go? Her stepmother had been extremely careful to avoid any implication of being involved in killing Bianca. If they were ever questioned, only Alinor was to blame. Only Alinor had Bianca’s supposed blood on her hands. Would Wilhelma openly denounce her for Bianca’s death? At least the girl was still alive, she thought miserably.
‘She is dead, isn’t she?’ Wilhelma said sharply. ‘You did do what I asked of you?’
‘Yes,’ Alinor lied, a sense of dread coiling around her heart.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m not about to reveal what you have done.’ Wilhelma’s voice grew in strength, the colour returning to her cheeks. ‘We’ll simply say that we haven’t seen her, that she never arrived. He’ll believe that, surely?’
Alinor bit her lip. For all their sakes, she hoped so.
* * *
‘Duc D’Attalens! My lord!’ Wilhelma slid gracefully into the hall, her skirts slipping across the flagstone floor, Alinor following nervously in her wake. The servants had spread clean rushes; loose strands caught on the embroidered hem of Wilhelma’s dress as she moved forward, her arms outstretched in greeting towards Guilhem. ‘Welcome to our humble abode!’ She tossed her head back and gave a small, tinkling laugh; she didn’t believe anything of the sort. Claverstock was a vast, wealthy estate and Wilhelma knew it.
Pushing upright out of his chair, Guilhem bowed low to his hostess. ‘My lady,’ he said, straightening up. ‘No doubt Alinor has told you of the reason for my visit.’
A tiny frown crinkled Wilhelma’s brow, creasing the thin, dry skin on her forehead. ‘Yes, but I don’t quite understand...’
‘She is here, isn’t she?’ Guilhem rapped out, suspiciously. He took one step forward, towering over Wilhelma.
‘She is not.’ Wilhelma’s voice was abrupt, final. ‘I’m sorry, my lord, but she never arrived. When the Queen suggested the marriage, we all thought it was an excellent idea, so did Eustace, but when she never appeared, we assumed that she, or the Queen, had changed their minds.’
‘Did you ask anyone?’ Guilhem’s blue eyes darkened dangerously. ‘Did you send a message back to my mother, or to Queen Eleanor, asking where she was?’
‘Of course!’ Wilhelma protested, but it was a lie. She had done nothing of the sort. Bianca had arrived and that very night Wilhelma had asked Alinor to use her most dangerous plants to poison Bianca. ‘Maybe, maybe, your sister decided that marriage was not for her.’
‘But why would she do that?’ said Guilhem, his tone threaded with steel. He turned towards the fireplace, resting one hand on the stone mantel. ‘My mother certainly believes she is here. Where else would she be?’
Alinor watched the rigid line of his back as he stared into the flames, the strong swathe of muscle at his neck. A thread of meanness crept through her; withholding the truth about Bianca made her feel cruel. But if she told him, would he drag Bianca back to Claverstock and force her to go through with the marriage? Doubt coiled in her heart.
‘She must have changed her mind,’ Wilhelma stated, with an air of closure. ‘Now, can I interest you in any food? The kitchens will be preparing for the evening meal quite soon, but there is always something...’
‘Where is she, then?’ A taut muscle jumped in Guilhem’s jawline. ‘Where is she?’
Wilhelma shrugged her shoulders, apparently indifferent. ‘My lord, I haven’t the faintest idea.’
Irritated by the woman’s evasive answers, Guilhem glanced over at Alinor, hanging back in the shadows. Her arms banded tightly across her chest, as if warding him off, her whole body taut, like a harp string under tension. Catching his eye, she shrank back visibly, her expression stricken, white.
She knew something.
‘Yes, I’ll stay,’ he answered slowly, keeping his gaze pinned to Alinor. A look of dismay, swiftly masked, crossed her face at his reply. Oh, yes, the chit was definitely hiding something, and he aimed to find out what it was.
* * *
Yanking off her veil and wimple, shedding her nun’s habit, stained and dirty from the day’s exertions, Alinor stood miserably in front of a bowl of steaming water. One of the servants had brought it to her chamber after she had fled the great hall. Clad in her underdress, she lifted her left arm, staring at the ruined material of her sleeve, the broken buttons, recalling Guilhem’s horrified expression as he viewed her mangled arm. Why was he staying? Why hadn’t he left when he discovered that Bianca wasn’t here? Releasing her side-lacings, Alinor pulled the fabric over her head, adding the gown to the pile beside her.
Shivering slightly in her gauzy linen shift, her feet bare against the polished elm floorboards, Alinor dipped her fingers into the warm water, splashing her face. She knew why. She had caught the gleam of interest in Guilhem’s face earlier, when they were in the great hall. He was not convinced by their flimsy story. Such a man would not give up easily in discovering the truth.
Drying her face and hands on a fine linen towel, she drew out the pins securing the plaited bun at the back of her head, scattering them on the coffer. The long braid snaked down over her shoulders. A leather lace secured the plait; she undid it, shaking out her hair, running her fingers through the golden tresses. A comb, fashioned from horn, lay on the oak chest beside the earthenware bowl of water. She picked it up, pulling the comb through the shining filaments of her hair, half-closing her eyes with the rhythmic action. Exhaustion flowed through her, her limbs aching from the awkward, tortuous ride with Guilhem, her fall from the slope in the forest. His mouth on hers.
She ran her tongue tentatively across the plush skin of her bottom lip, remembering. The hush of his breath, ragged against her cheek. Solid thighs grinding into her soft curves. Her belly hollowed out, jolting with sweet anticipation.
‘Alinor! Are you in there?’ A sharp rap at the door, followed by a thump.
Too late! The door burst open, thudding back against the plastered wall. Guilhem filled the doorframe, stooping beneath the thick, oak lintel.
‘No! Go away!’ Alinor shouted, backing away. His eyes shone over her, ruthless, determined, tawny hair falling in haphazard strands across his forehead. She hopped from one cold foot to the other, acutely conscious of her bare legs, the scant covering of her chemise. ‘Get out!’
Guilhem slammed the door behind him. ‘Not until I get some answers!’ he said. The words died in his throat.
Her hair. Glistening filaments of pure gold cascaded past her neat waist, the curling ends tickling her hips. Like rippling water. His fingers tingled, desperate to touch each shining strand and press it to his face, to savour its soft caress against his bare skin. Her chemise was of a sheer gauzy stuff, hanging to mid-thigh, exposing slim calves, dainty ankles. Beneath the diaphanous cloth, he glimpsed the shadow of her breasts rounding delectably, nipples dark and rosy. She stood before him like something magical, a goddess from another world: luminous, enchanting.
Desire clawed his solar plexus; his muscles tightened ominously. His loins gripped with longing, ripping like wildfire through the dry kindling of his soul. He drove his fingernails into the calloused flesh of his palm. He averted his gaze, staring hard at the window, the bowl of water, the pile of her clothes on the floor, anything to distract him from the magnificent beauty who stood before him. Skipping across to the bed, Alinor hoisted up a blanket, revealing a veiled glimpse of her hip, a tantalising thigh. Jerking the blanket around her shoulders, she shook the folds out over her chemise, covering her semi-nakedness.
Thank God. He let out a long, tremulous breath. He had to leave. He couldn’t trust himself.
‘You shouldn’t be here, Guilhem.’ Her eyes leapt with emerald flames. Her feet were blue with cold, the small half-moons of her toenails pearly, like the insides of seashells. ‘What do you want?’
I want you.
Self-control teetered on the edge of an abyss, lust galloping through him unchecked, driving away the numbness around his heart, chasing away the demons that plagued him. If he stayed much longer, he would fall. His hands balled into fists at his side.
‘No, I shouldn’t,’ Guilhem agreed. His voice was gruff, oddly disjointed. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’ He turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter Eight
‘Where did you find that old rag?’ Wilhelma glanced critically at her step-daughter, her small eyes a curious colour: a pale wash of brown and olive. ‘Is it one of your mother’s?’ Her tone was scathing, judgemental. As she leaned forward, her loose, bony fingers gripped the stem of her pewter goblet, brimming with red wine. She lifted it to her narrow lips and took a restrained sip, dabbing fastidiously at her mouth with a linen napkin.
‘Yes, it was my mother’s,’ replied Alinor, her tone neutral. Wilhelma’s cutting remarks had little effect on her; she had endured so many years of them since her mother had died. She smoothed her palms down the faded violet-coloured wool across her thighs. Her lovely mother, who had striven to soften her father’s harsh treatment towards her, who had fussed and spoiled and loved her. How Alinor missed her.
‘Are you listening to me, Alinor?’ Wilhelma dug sharp nails into Alinor’s forearm, plucking at her sleeve.
‘Sorry, what did you say?’
Wilhelma tutted with irritation, clicking her fingers at one of the servants to come and pour her some more wine. ‘Do you think that man is going to join us for dinner?’ she asked. ‘I’ve sent one of the servants to tell him the food is ready.’
‘He will,’ replied Alinor hollowly. Guilhem wanted answers, hence the reason he had appeared in her chamber at full tilt. But why had he disappeared so quickly? His behaviour seemed inexplicable, meekly following her request for him to leave. In the short time that she had known him, it seemed completely out of character.
Wilhelma moved her plate to the left slightly, adjusted the position of her eating knife, then her goblet on the pristine white tablecloth. ‘I cannot believe you brought that man here, Alinor, how stupid...how completely foolish of you after what you did!’
‘I didn’t have much choice,’ she responded bleakly. A shudder rippled through her veins as she remembered Guilhem’s firm hands on her waist, the rush of air as he threw her up on to his horse. The broad frame of his chest nudging her spine.
‘Oh, really.’ Wilhelma’s response was scathing. ‘It’s not like he dragged you here by your hair!’
If she had put up any more resistance, it might have come to that. ‘It would have looked suspicious if I had put up too much of a protest,’ Alinor replied. A servant placed a steaming platter of freshly baked rolls in front of the two women; the warm yeasty smell rose up to join the hazy fug emitted by the smoky fire.
‘Knowing you, you probably didn’t try hard enough.’ Wilhelma’s eyes flicked upwards, towards the curtained doorway. ‘Here he comes.’
Guilhem strode past the trestle tables, heading towards the high dais on which Alinor sat with her stepmother. The few peasants who were eating in the lower part of the hall glanced at his tall imposing figure with interest. He climbed the wooden steps to the dais two at a time. Instinctively, Alinor shrank back into her chair, wanting suddenly to be invisible. Her heart knocked at her ribs with...what? Was it fear of this man? The way he erupted into a room, a powerful, dynamic force filling the space with light and energy—how could she possible contend with such a person? But she had to, if only for Bianca’s sake. She had made the girl a promise not to tell her brother where she was and it was a promise she intended to keep.
Guilhem halted beside Wilhelma’s chair, bowing from the waist, the blue material of his surcoat stretching across the rounded bulk of his shoulders.
‘Please, my lord, sit.’ Wilhelma twisted a smile at him.
He slid into the chair next to Alinor, his arm bumping companionably against hers. She hitched away at the unexpected contact, the movement agitated, jerky. Her lungs contracted, breath squeezing. She was afraid, afraid of what he was going to say, of what he was going to do next.
Keen and predatory, his blue eyes mocked her, drifting over her flushed cheek, the silk veil across her shoulder. How could he ever have mistaken her for a nun? Spine pulled rigid, her nose in the air as she fixed her gaze on some indefinable spot in the lower hall, Alinor was every inch the noble lady: costly pearl buttons fastened the tight sleeves of her underdress; her sleeveless over-gown was constructed from fine, supple wool, the colour of lavender, embroidered around the neckline and hem with silver thread. The scent of roses percolated from her skin. He sensed the agitation rippling beneath her brittle, unyielding stance, the dance of fear that widened her beautiful eyes and made her hands shake.
Wilhelma clicked her fingers; in moments, platters of steaming fish, roast meats and vegetables had been placed before them by the servants. ‘Please, help yourself, my lord,’ She swept one hand, knobbly-fingered, over the food.
‘Should we not wait for your menfolk? Will they not be joining us?’ Guilhem enquired.
‘All away, fighting on behalf of the King in Wales,’ Wilhelma replied. ‘My husband, the Earl of Claverstock, is Alinor’s father, of course, and my son, Eustace, is with him.’ She waggled her empty goblet impatiently until a servant scuttled forward to fill it. ‘Try some of the beef, my lord,’ she suggested. ‘Alinor, lift this platter over to Guilhem, it’s too heavy for me.’
Alinor stretched her arms out, only to feel Guilhem reach across her and brush her hands away. ‘Let me,’ he said, as his upper arm grazed her chest, intimate, sensual. Her face flared at the brief touch. ‘It’s
too heavy for you, too.’ He raised the oval plate easily, setting it down in front of him.
His stomach growled. The porridge at the Priory seemed a long time ago now. ‘This looks good,’ he said, beginning to fill his plate. Beside him Alinor was silent. He glanced at her. ‘Are you not hungry?’
‘Not really,’ she replied woodenly. She reached out for her wine, nerveless fingers fumbling against the ornate stem, knocking it. The goblet tipped, red wine flowing out on to the tablecloth into a wide, spreading stain. She watched in dismay, wanting to weep. Guilhem’s knowing gaze was hot upon her, a touch of fire searing along her neck. Her blood thudded, treacherously.
‘Oh, Alinor! You clumsy girl!’ Wilhema shrieked at her. She turned to a servant, firing orders.
Guilhem inclined his head towards Alinor. Flickering candlelight burnished his thick, springing hair. ‘I know you know.’ His sculptured cheekbone was inches from her veil, the soft bloom of her cheek. The silver thread decorating her cloth-covered circlet winked in the candlelight.
‘Wh-what?’ Sweat prickled in her palms, and she laid them flat on the cool tablecloth, then picked them up and placed them in her lap.
‘Where is she, Alinor?’ Spearing a lump of cooked fish with his eating knife, he popped it into his mouth.
Her heart quailed at his menacing tone. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I’ve told you, we’ve told you, Bianca never arrived here. Your constant suspicion of us is irritating.’
‘It’s nothing compared to your constant evasiveness,’ he growled back at her. The iridescent blue of his gaze flashed over her. ‘Nothing about this situation makes sense. How can a fully grown woman completely disappear?’