by Jo Beverley
“Ah,” he said, sobering. “You feel compassion for those two wretches, do you? That is Christian charity.”
Imogen was being made to feel in the wrong, when she knew she wasn’t. “Being drunk is not praiseworthy, but hardly calls for such brutal punishment.”
He was no longer laughing, but very serious. “Imogen, I am at times harsh, but never brutal. I permit no man of mine to drink more than weak ale on duty, and they all know it. Those men were not only drunk, but guilty of rape while wine-mad. One of their victims was a mere child, who died of it. I would have been in my rights to hang them, but I wanted the lesson to the other men of like mind to be more memorable.”
Imogen didn’t know what to say. Rape. A child. How young a child?
He shrugged, misinterpreting her silence. “Unless you see the victim, I suppose such punishment does seem cruel. I assure you, I have no intention of punishing those people I just brought in. That would be to dissuade the others.”
“They will come as soon as they hear,” she protested. “Doubtless the news of events here is slow to travel.”
“News of events here is traveling faster than wildfire, Lady Imogen. I hardly feel you need to send a message to the king. He’ll already have heard. Doubtless your more optimistic suitors will be pounding on the door any day, too, including the worthy Lancaster. Am I to admit them?”
That was dragging the conversation to the point with a vengeance.
“What alternative is there?” she asked dry mouthed, hoping to make him take the first step.
She saw recognition flash in his eyes like green fire and her nerve almost faltered. “Me,” he said softly. “Better the devil you know . . .”
He was still very controlled and yet she could tell from his eyes, from a minor change in his breathing, that he wanted her—or more precisely, wanted Carrisford—very badly indeed.
That put her in a position of power.
She took a deep breath. “I want Carrisford,” she said, striving with all her will to match his control.
He came closer, three steps, to stand at the end of her bed. “What do you mean?”
“I rule in Carrisford after we are wed.”
He considered it and her intently. “Will you raise your own force?” It was not a taunt. It was a straightforward negotiating question. At last he was taking her seriously.
“No,” she said crisply. “As my husband you will do that for me, and command it. But it will be paid separately out of Carrisford income. Land grants will be Carrisford land. Everything will be kept separate, and here I will administrate.”
He nodded slightly as he considered. “Are we to live together?”
She heard “sleep together” and knew she had colored. “Of course. It is no great distance between our castles. I expect we will move between them. It will be easy to go from one to the other in time of need.”
Imogen’s heart was pounding, but it was with excitement, not fear. He was listening, really listening. He was not angry that she was setting terms. The power was like wine to her senses.
“And I want vengeance,” she said. “Vengeance against Warbrick.”
“His head on a platter?” he queried, then shrugged. “I’ll kill him for you, Imogen, never fear.”
“Kill him?” Imogen echoed, taken aback.
“You don’t want him dead?” he asked. “You do have a forgiving nature, don’t you?”
“It’s not that,” Imogen said, unsure how to put her concern into words.
She could swear a smile hovered on his face before being controlled. “You’re worried about my safety,” he declared. “That’s quite endearing. I can’t think who last has been concerned about me in that way.”
“You’re not much use to me dead,” Imogen said defensively, though in truth she had been appalled at the thought of him facing mighty Warbrick, and was touched by the genuine pleasure he had almost shown at her concern.
No one had cared . . . ?
“How true,” he said, without apparent offense. “So those are your conditions. That you administrate Carrisford, and that I kill Warbrick for you.”
It sounded so cut-and-dried. “Yes,” said Imogen, “but I don’t expect you to kill Warbrick immediately. I’ll take your word on it.”
“Good, because I can’t find him at the moment.”
“You’re looking?”
“Would I ignore such an enemy? He hasn’t returned to his castle, nor does he appear to be close by. It’s possible that he’s gone to Belleme at Arundel. There’ll be fighting soon between the king and Belleme. I have to point out that it’s possible that the matter of your vengeance will be taken out of my hands, or that Warbrick and Belleme will flee beyond my reach.”
“You’re being very honest,” said Imogen, almost suspicious at this goodwill.
“I told you, I always am honest if I can be. I intend to deal honestly with you if you will allow it.”
That was reassuringly convincing. “Then I won’t hold you to your word about Warbrick if circumstances make it impossible.” She was amazingly comforted by her decision now it was done. “Now,” she said briskly, “if we’re to wed, there are a number of matters to be seen to. We must discover how Carrisford was invaded and punish the traitors. Have you made any progress? And, of course, the entrance to the passages must be sealed—”
“Not so fast, Imogen. What exactly did you mean by ‘administrate at Carrisford’?”
Imogen was knocked off balance. He wasn’t going to refuse the plum that was falling into his hand, so why this quibbling? “Running the household,” she said, “taking in rents, allocating labor, and dispensing funds as needed.” That was the easy part. She threw in the extra like a challenge. “Justice.”
Still no outrage. “And if a tenant refuses due rent, or is attacked by outlaws or another lord? If a malfeant needs to be apprehended?”
She met his eyes unflinchingly. “Then the men you provide will obey my instructions and go to enforce my will. Won’t they, FitzRoger?”
He smiled. There was distinct admiration there and it warmed her like a fierce fire. “Assuredly they will,” he promised. Then added, “Under my advice.”
It was like a spray from the Irish Sea. “What?”
“You may administer Carrisford as your own, Imogen, but you will heed my advice. My men will obey you, but they will still be my men. If you say ‘Go’ and I say ‘Stay,’ they will stay.”
She found herself kneeling up on the bed facing him, sore feet or no. “That’s not fair!”
“That is reality.” He grasped her shoulders before she could pull herself out of range. “It’s not a bad deal you’ve negotiated. Are we to be wed?”
“No!”
He shook his head and waited. Imogen’s mouth twitched with the desire to tell him to go to hell and take his men with him. Still and all, she would have Carrisford, which was more than Lancaster, or probably any other man in England, would give her.
“Yes,” she said.
His eyes flashed victory and his hands tightened. Imogen pulled back, but he drew her closer anyway. She was held against his body, feeling his warmth through his soft shirt. She smelled herbs from the chests in which his clothes were stored, but he’d been out in the sun most of the day and there was a tang of horse, sweat, and fresh air that weakened her knees so that she suspected he was holding her up.
“What are you doing?” she protested, but faintly.
He smiled down at her. “I’m not going to throw you on the bed and ravish you, Ginger. Don’t you think a kiss is in order?” His hands slid around her, one to curve around her nape, the other to rest like fire in the small of her back.
“No,” she said, but rather unsteadily. “This is a practical, dynastic arrangement.”
He tilted up her chin, laughter in his eyes. “Just practical?” he teased.
“I wouldn’t have chosen you,” she said firmly, “if you weren’t a neighbor with a strong right arm.”
He was unoffended. “Then we’re well suited. I wouldn’t have chosen you if you didn’t own a large chunk of England.”
Before she could spit out her offense at that, his lips were on hers. His hand cradled her head and there was really nothing she could do about it except submit.
Kissing was very strange, she decided. It was a silly business of lips to lips, and yet it made her feel soft and warm, like a hot herb-scented bath, or a potent wine. The feel of his body against hers, only thin silk and fine linen between them, somehow made it worse. Or better.
At least it wasn’t a sin anymore. . . .
She found her arms had gone around him—for support, she told herself, so she didn’t fall off the bed.
The hard, resilient muscles of his torso flexed against her hands. She could almost feel the leashed power humming in them, humming into her so that she tingled all over. A shudder rippled through her. . . .
He drew back and dropped a kiss on the end of her nose. He looked quite different. Younger. Warmer. His voice was softer when he murmured, “As I said, Imogen, we’re well suited.”
That brought her grievance back with a thump and she raised her chin. “Very well suited. You’re strong and I’m rich.”
He laughed and let her go, once more his old, hard-edged self. “I’ve proved my strength, Ginger. Why don’t you prove your wealth?”
He was after the treasure again. She gathered her scattered wits. She’d not give him a sniff of it until he’d signed the marriage contracts giving her control of Carrisford.
He took in her silence and shook his head. “I wonder if you’ll ever fight me about something that really matters. You’ll lose, Ginger.”
Imogen knelt up straight as a spear. “I will not. I am Imogen of Carrisford and you are nobody!”
At the look on his face she quailed inside, though she wouldn’t let herself retreat.
“If we fight,” he said quietly, “I will win, because you are Imogen of Carrisford and I, until recently, was nobody. I know how to fight in ways you’ve never dreamed of. You don’t know what the world’s like, Ginger, and if you’re a good girl, I’ll make sure you never find out.”
He left before she could reply, his footsteps light down the spiral staircase.
“I hate you, Bastard FitzRoger!” she screamed.
The footsteps stopped.
Imogen froze, her heart pounding. She’d never used that name to him before.
After a heart-stopping moment the footsteps started again, going down. Imogen collapsed back onto the bed. He wasn’t going to take retaliation.
A little part of her was disappointed.
A short time later Renald de Lisle came up with a sheet of parchment, ink and pens.
“What are they for?” Imogen asked suspiciously.
“Your marriage contract. Ty suggested that since you’re the one with most leisure, you should write it out.”
Imogen blinked. “FitzRoger’s leaving me to write it as I wish?”
“Apparently,” said de Lisle with a grin. “Ah, I wish I had spun gold hair and deep blue eyes. I’d have a castle out of him in no time.”
“Only if you married him,” said Imogen tartly.
“True. And only if I had a mighty castle in the first place.” He gestured to the blank parchment. “It is for you to state your terms as you wish, little flower.”
When he had gone Imogen considered the space and what she could write. But in the end she wrote what they had agreed on—excepting the matter of Warbrick—even including his supervision of her rule of Carrisford. It was the way of the world, and he doubtless wouldn’t sign it otherwise.
Chapter 8
Lady Imogen! Did you hear the king is coming?” Martha’s round face was rosy with excitement.
“What?”
“The king’s heard of the wickedness here and he’s coming to your aid. An armed party of knights came with a messenger.”
Imogen shut her gaping mouth with a snap. “And nobody told me? Get FitzRoger up here!”
Martha’s eyes were like saucers at this tone, but she scuttled off.
Imogen fumed—at herself as much as anyone. It was nearly sunset and after writing out the contract she’d sat here for hours fretting about her marriage, when she knew she’d made the right decision.
Wasting time.
Imagining all the clever things she could have said to put FitzRoger in his place.
Wasting time.
Remembering that kiss. Wondering when he’d kiss her again.
Wasting time.
If she’d kept her attention on the bailey, she would have seen the king’s men arrive.
FitzRoger came in, a picture of knightly courtesy. “You want something, my lady? To come down to the hall for the meal, perhaps?”
“No . . . Yes . . . Maybe. What I want,” said Imogen, getting a grip on herself, “is to speak to the king’s messenger.”
He wasn’t abashed or ashamed. “Why?”
She hissed in a breath. “Because this is my castle, FitzRoger, and he is bringing a message to me.”
“No, he wasn’t. He was bringing a message to me, asking me to rescue the poor damsel in distress. It was only because the messenger heard I was already in Carrisford that he came here at all.”
“Oh.” Imogen felt like a pricked bubble. She rallied. It was, after all, still her castle. “I would still like to speak to him.”
“I’m afraid he’s already gone on with his escort to take “a message to Warbrick, summoning him for judgment.”
“A fat lot of good that will do,” snapped Imogen.
“We all know that,” he said patiently. “But the proper forms have to be followed.”
Imogen glared at him, thwarted. She was being ignored and circumvented but didn’t know what to do about it. Perhaps she would be better advised to marry the indolent Earl of Lancaster after all. She could run rings around him.
“So the king is to visit here,” she said thoughtfully.
“Yes. He should be here tomorrow. He can witness our marriage.”
“I’ll not be wed in such haste,” Imogen declared. She definitely wasn’t ready to commit herself yet.
“What point is there in delay? It will only tempt another man to try to seize you.”
Imogen smiled at him. “You don’t seem to have much faith in your ability to protect me, do you, Lord FitzRoger?”
He moved close to the bed. Looming again. “I can hold you fast, never fear, Imogen. But once there’s a chance you carry my child, you’re a less attractive plum. You used that device for your own protection, if you remember?”
“Yes,” said Imogen, and hated the fact that she blushed.
“So once we are married there will be less necessity for me to hover by your side. That will be a relief, won’t it?”
“Yes,” said Imogen again. What else could she say?
“And if we’re wed before the king and the great lords of the land, a marauder would have no hope of contesting the validity of the match, would he?”
She looked away from his challenging eyes. “I suppose not.”
“So we should be married tomorrow, shouldn’t we?”
Imogen fought it, but in the end she sighed and said, “Yes.” She felt a perfect fool again.
She looked up resentfully.
He smiled, almost kindly, and picked up a strand of her hair. She slapped at his hand, but this time he didn’t let go and her hair was yanked.
“Ow! Let go. I am not yours yet to do with as you please!”
“You mean,” he murmured, rubbing the strand of hair between his long fingers, “that by tomorrow night you will be sweetly acquiescent?”
Imogen had been trying very hard not to think about such things. . . . Tomorrow night! “If I marry you,” she said thinly, “I will try to be a dutiful wife.”
“If?” It was like the snap of a whip.
She forced herself to meet his cool eyes, but her throat was dry and her heart was like a wi
ld horse in her breast.
“We have an agreement, Ginger,” he said quietly.
“Then stop mauling me, FitzRoger, until I have to put up with it.”
He let her hair drift free of his fingers and moved away. Imogen didn’t know why she said these things. They were pointless and didn’t bring her any satisfaction. Rather, they seemed to cause a sick knot of misery to lodge in her chest, threatening to choke her.
He was looking at her soberly, but he suddenly smiled. “You’ll feel a lot better when you can fight me on your feet, you know.”
“But I’ll still lose—according to you.”
“Nothing is ever certain in war. You have some dangerous weapons, bride of mine. For now, however, I would rest if I were you, so you can walk to your wedding and make your curtsy to the king.”
“By Mary’s crown,” she gasped, other problems fading. “We are in no state to receive the king!”
“Don’t worry. I’ve sent for additional supplies and goods from Cleeve, and called in more from your people here.”
Don’t worry, don’t worry. What was she? A babe in arms? “That was for me to do.”
He sighed impatiently. “I hope you learn to pick your battles with more care, Imogen. I have no desire to run Carrisford, and if you want to take over the domestic organization of Cleeve, you’re welcome to that too. But you’re stuck in your bed. That does hinder things.”
“You could at least consult me,” she said, feeling in the wrong again.
“I have merely given everything into the hands of your seneschal. He seems competent.”
“Siward’s back?” asked Imogen in delight, and then found a new grievance. No one had told her that either, and Siward hadn’t come to see her.
“He’s been busy,” explained FitzRoger. At her startled look he said, “Your every thought shows on your face, Ginger.”
Imogen hurled a pillow at him.
He caught it. “Do I gather you don’t want me to carry you down to dinner?”
“I certainly do not,” she snapped, “and I am thinking of taking to wearing a mask.”
“Very wise. I wear one all the time.” He tossed the pillow back and left.