by Sara Bennett
Rhona took a steadying breath. Why did he disturb her so? What was it about him? She had manipulated many men, teased them into doing as she’d wanted and, occasionally, when it had been absolutely necessary, gone further. Her body was but a counter that she used to play the game, and hopefully win it. She did not allow her feelings to interfere in such matters; her father had taught her that when he had callously offered her maidenhead in return for land. Her purity as a Norman lady for a portion of the Welsh Marches.
The experience had not been as unpleasant as she had feared—she remembered her own sniveling terror and the man’s kindness. But Rhona had learned a lesson from that; she had learned that she had a very strong stratagem if she wished to use it. And if the use of her body would mean the difference between winning or losing, the difference between her father’s rage and his smiles, then Rhona felt she had no choice.
It did not matter anyway. It was just flesh. Those men might hold her and mold her to their hands, but they could not touch her heart or her soul. She remained free, she remained Rhona. At least that was what she told herself over and over again. Until she almost believed it.
This particular game she planned now was probably the most important of all, the most desperate that she had ever played. If Alfric failed, then her father would likely kill him. And Rhona did not think she could bear to be at Hilldown Castle all on her own….
“Surely ’tis too chilly out here for a fine lady like you.”
Ah, he had found her.
Rhona wiped the smug smile from her mouth and turned to face him. Jesu, he was bigger than she had thought! But then Rhona herself was small. Many people, particularly men, underestimated her for that very reason.
“And who are you, churl?”
His onyx eyes glittered a moment. Rhona couldn’t tell if her rudeness annoyed him or amused him.
“My name is Reynard, my lady. I am Lord Henry’s man, his servant. Before that I was a mercenary, and before that I worked with my father, who was…well, you do not want to hear about the life of a churl.”
Rhona lifted a thin, dark brow. “Why would I not want to hear? I am curious about all manner of creatures, great and lowly, kings and churls.”
He shifted on his feet, settling himself. The cold did not seem to affect him, while Rhona could barely contain her shudders. “My father was a shipwright in Brittany, and then here at Gunlinghorn. His ships sailed for ports as far away as Genoa. He always said his work would live on, long after he died, and so it has. His ships still follow the trade routes. Few men can claim that, my lady, be they kings or churls.”
The pride in his voice surprised her, threw her off balance. She had little pride in her own father, and certainly no love. For a moment she was actually envious of him, this servant with the intense gaze.
“Then why is his son a servant to Lord Henry of Montevoy?” she asked him coolly, hoping to sting him into a retort.
His dark eyes narrowed, but he was only considering whether or not to answer her question. She could see the exact moment when he decided nay—she had had practice herself in telling lies. Strangely, she was disappointed, which was plainly foolish. Why should he tell her the real story of his life, and why should she care?
“He pays better,” he said with a shrug of his big shoulders and took a step closer. His body gave out heat and the rare scent of cinnamon, such a pleasant combination it made Rhona want to move closer. Snuggle up against him. There was something about Reynard that made her feel safe.
To feel safe is dangerous. There is no safety in men. They are all of them out for what they can steal. And if they steal a woman’s self-respect, her pride, her virtue, even her life, so much the better….
“I can pay you, Reynard,” Rhona said quietly and gazed directly into his eyes. He was watching her now with rapt attention, and that was good. In a moment she would have him in the palm of her hand.
“In what coin, and for what purpose would you pay me, lady?”
“In whatever coin you wish, and for the purpose of passing on news from Gunlinghorn.”
He snorted. “Spying, you mean.”
“No, sharing what you hear. I need to know the situation between Lord Henry and Lady Jenova. My brother”—she sighed, and cast up her eyes in pretended despair—“he loves her still, and he wants to continue to woo her. At the moment she spurns him, but there will come a time, I am sure, when she will view his person with more favor.”
He watched her, reading her, and she awaited his answer as if her breath had not quickened and her heart was not tapping urgently against her ribs.
“Do the men you ask usually agree to your demands?” he said quite coldly.
Surprised, Rhona raised both slim eyebrows. “Usually, Reynard. Do you object to me asking? There is no law that I know of to stop me asking. And whatever answer you give is entirely your own.”
He ignored her measured response. “So money is enough for them?”
“Of course.”
He looked away, across the snowy ground to the wall that surrounded the garden. She thought he did it to gain time, so she held her peace, waiting, wondering what he was thinking. Some men found it more difficult than others to be bribed, but it was rare for any to refuse her. She tended to choose her victims well.
“I prefer my payment in flesh.”
Her breathing stopped, and then restarted with a gasp. “What did you say, churl?”
He was staring down at her now, a burning expression in his eyes that made her feel quite dizzy. “You said you would pay me in whatever coin I wanted. I want you, my lady. I will spy for you, aye, but only for the payment of my choice. For each piece of information I give to you, I want your body in return.”
Rhona gave a laugh, but it had a forced sound. “You are a servant, Reynard, and I am a lady. Do you not see something amiss in your request?”
“I see a man and a woman.”
“With a great chasm between them. Our positions, our birth, Reynard. There is no comparison.”
He ignored that as if it had no bearing. “’Tis said that you are no maid.”
Heat burned her face, and her hands trembled violently as she gripped them together beneath her cloak. She meant to berate him, to answer him with anger. Instead she heard herself say in a small voice, “Do they?”
“’Tis said your father used your maidenhead as payment for some land on the Welsh border. He would have sold you as a wife, but the man was already wed to some other woman.”
Rhona felt cold, colder even than the air around her. The fur lining of her hood brushed her cheek as she drew it closer, trying to feel warm again. Jesu, how had he heard that? It was supposed to have been secret, something never to be spoken of, hardly ever to be thought of. And now Reynard was stating it out loud, as if it was common knowledge. That her father had bartered her maidenhead when he could not use it in marriage, all for the price of some land on the Welsh Marshes….
“I wonder then that you want me at all,” she managed, her voice husky with repressed emotion, “if you believe such lies about me. Not that it matters what you believe!”
He took a step right up to her. That heady scent of cinnamon again filled her senses. Tugging at them in a way she had never felt before. She was no longer sure she was in control of herself or the situation.
“I do not care what you have done, or what you have been, Rhona. Such things do not matter to me. I want you, and I will tell you all my secrets, and Lord Henry’s, too, if you will pay me as I ask.”
His voice was quiet and compelling, and she found herself believing him. Almost. But he was a servant. She shouldn’t even contemplate granting his request. Men of wealth and power and breeding were different, and she had bartered herself more than once to get what she’d wanted. It had meant nothing to her, she had told herself, and she had felt nothing. Another arrow in her quiver, that was all—she repeated the well-worn phrase. But suddenly it did seem so tempting for her to tell Reynard yes. Her cool, s
cheming mind was in a great deal of conflict with the emotions she kept locked up tight inside her.
It is because he is a servant.
The words repeated in her mind. She had never stooped so low before—to sleep with a servant to gain what she wanted. And yet, as Rhona looked up into Reynard’s strong, handsome face, it didn’t feel like stooping. It felt like want, like need. There was a sensation inside her, warm and liquid and pleasant. It felt like desire.
Rhona had never desired a man before. She had never allowed herself to do so. Far too dangerous. But now she wanted to smooth her fingers over his skin, brush back the untidy lock of hair at his brow, lean into his big, strong body and feel his arms close about her. She wanted to taste his mouth and have his hands cover her breasts. She wanted to have him naked in her bed.
For the first time in her life she wanted a man in her bed for her own pleasure rather than for the sake of some cold, calculating scheme.
“No,” she said and stepped back, putting distance between them. “No, I will not pay you in such a way. It is coin or nought, make your choice.”
She had lost him. She knew it the moment she spoke. He would not bend, he would not change his mind. His way was the only way. Well, so be it! There were plenty of other servants in Gunlinghorn.
But none others so well placed.
“Well? What is your decision?” she asked coldly, pretending indifference when her body felt as tense as a harp string.
Reynard stood before her, big and bold, the look in his eyes telling her he was his own man and not hers. She had thought to bully him into doing her will; she had thought a smile and a gold coin would be enough. It always had been before with such men as he.
“Nay, Lady Rhona. I will not sell myself for money. The deal can only be struck if both of us give up something that matters. Something that is part of ourselves.”
“You are handing me information, Reynard, not the keys to paradise!”
“I am handing you my soul, my lady. You must give me something comparable in return.”
“My body?” she said, louder than she meant. “Where is the glory in that, churl?”
His black eyes slid down her and back, and he smiled. A shudder ran through her, and this time it was definitely not from the cold. “Oh, there would be glory, my lady. Do not doubt it.”
“The answer is no, now let me pass.”
He did not move, continuing to stand in her path. Just as Rhona thought she would have to back down and step around him, he moved aside with a low, mocking bow. Rhona hurried off, her cheeks hot and pink despite the winter’s day.
Churl! She would find someone else. He was not worth the effort. How dare he…how dare he…. Rhona lost the thought halfway through. Her anger was keeping her warm, but beneath it something else lay, cold and hard as ice. Regret. For a moment she had so wanted to say yes.
Reynard watched her go, his gaze lingering on the furious sway of her hips, the arrogant tilt of her head. She was a little beauty, no mistake, and it was a shame she had refused him. That she was also a liar and a cheat, and wanted to bring down Lord Henry and Lady Jenova with her manipulating ways, bothered him not at all. He could see past that to the possibilities that lay deep in her heart.
He had looked into her brown eyes and seen something proud and stubborn and wounded. It had made him feel almost protective. He did not want to hurt her, but he could not allow her to hurt others. He hadn’t really believed that comment about selling her maidenhead, although the man who had told him had been one of Lord Baldessare’s former grooms, now come to work for Lady Jenova.
What father would do that to his daughter?
Evidently Baldessare would—there had been no mistaking the dismayed acknowledgement in her lovely face. Probably that was where she had gotten the idea that she could have anything she wanted if she was prepared to offer herself in return. To men of breeding with plenty of money, that is. The groom had also been keen to impart other gossip, tales of Lady Rhona’s activities, which, even if exaggerated, still caused Reynard to wonder if she was truly the lady she pretended to be.
But Reynard had seen enough of the world to know that sometimes, out of desperation and despair, people found it necessary to act in a manner they would not otherwise have contemplated. Mayhap Lady Rhona was desperate? Or mayhap she despaired?
Or mayhap she just enjoyed men?
Reynard remembered how she had looked at him, as if she had certainly enjoyed the thought of him and her, together. She had made much of the fact that he was a churl, but he did not think that would have mattered if he had held her in his arms.
He shook his head to clear his mind. She was entangling him in desire and he hadn’t even had her yet! But he would, oh he would. Although Reynard considered himself an experienced ladies’ man, and with justification, he knew when to take a step back. His senses were giving him that warning right now.
Lady Rhona had an air of danger about her. She thought she had his measure. Reynard smiled. She was an apprentice compared to him. He could read her as his father the shipwright had read the weather. She had said nay to him for now, but she would be back.
Chapter 13
The great hall at Gunlinghorn rang with merriment. The castlefolk ate, drank, chattered and enjoyed the entertainment. Raf cuddled close to Jenova, sleepy-eyed, his little warm body reminding her of how fortunate she was. And how fortunate Raf was, never to grow up with a father like Baldessare!
She glanced at Henry where he sat contentedly, listening to something Agetha said. He had made Jenova blush once tonight already, with his praise of Agetha’s violet soap. His charming smile and words had been all for Agetha, but the hot glint in his eyes had searched for and found Jenova.
I will never be able to smell violets again without growing hard, he had told her after their bath together. Jenova had laughed and retorted that next time he must try her own rose-scented soap. As if he would be with her a long, long time. As if they had forever.
He was not like Mortred, she admitted that now. In her heart she had known it all along. He was honorable and noble and trustworthy, all the things she cherished in a man. And he was kind and generous and protective of her and Raf and Gunlinghorn. He was all that and more. And she did not want him to leave.
Jenova sighed. She had a strong urge to tell him about her growing doubts where Baldessare was concerned, but she stilled her tongue. Henry might think she was telling him simply to keep him here, with her. He would know she was quite capable of looking after herself—she was the Lady of Gunlinghorn after all. But it was true, she was anxious, and she was beginning to think she had reason.
That reason was Alfric.
Earlier, he had managed a few words alone with her despite her machinations. Agetha had left to see to an errand—the girl no doubt believed herself to be helping her hero—and Alfric had begun a long speech about loving her above all others. Jenova had stopped him and reiterated her former declaration. “I will not change my mind. I am sorry, Alfric. Forgive me if I have hurt you.”
His face had paled. “I may forgive you, but my father never will. He will force us into marriage, lady,” he had added, urgently. “Believe me, ’tis better if you wed me of your own free will. You will not like my father’s way of doing things.”
Jenova had stood up, staring down at him. “Are you threatening me, Alfric?”
Alfric had shaken his head, his eyes bright with tears. “Nay, my lady, I am trying to help you.” Without another word, he had also risen to his feet, bowed, and left her.
Jenova had remained standing, feeling increasingly uneasy. She still felt uneasy, many hours later. It sounded as if Alfric thought Lord Baldessare would force her into marriage with his son. He could not be so foolish. And yet Alfric had seemed to think he would—he had looked sick with fear.
Jenova shifted restlessly, causing Raf to murmur in complaint. Why had she said she would marry Alfric in the first place? What had she been thinking? She had seen enough
of what marriage could do to women who were unhappy in their choices, or the choices made for them. Foolish, foolish Jenova. She had thought to revenge herself on Mortred’s memory…instead she had put herself and all who depended upon her at risk.
“Jenova?”
Henry was leaning toward her, his blue eyes curious. “You look so serious,” he said. “What is wrong?”
“There is nought wrong.” She shook off her introspection, determined to put on a brave face. “Do you like the mummers?”
Henry glanced at the players dressed in their outlandish costumes. They were meant to be Saracens, but they looked more like bundles of rags. His brilliant gaze came back to her, seeming to delve into her very soul.
“I like the mummers. I like everything about Gunlinghorn.”
Did he mean it? Was he no longer pining for London? She thought he did mean it—there was an openness in his face. Mayhap Gunlinghorn had wound its spell upon him at last. But was it strong enough to hold him?
“Will the Baldessares return?” he asked her, interrupting her thoughts. “I thought they had gone for good last time. Have we really seen the last of them?”
He had not known of their visit until afterwards, and then he had appeared, outwardly at least, to be amused by Alfric’s persistence. But now there was a spark of irritation in his blue eyes, a touch of impatience to his smile.
Jenova shrugged. “They are my neighbors. I cannot refuse them entry to Gunlinghorn just because they annoy me.”
“Why not?” Henry declared. “Put a sign upon the gate; a list of persons not to be admitted because they are bores.”
“Henry…”
Raf giggled. “You could put Master Will’s name on it, Mama. He talks too loudly and doesn’t listen to a word you say.”
He was clearly repeating something Jenova herself had said, and she shook her head at him, biting her lip on her laughter.