Sal reached up with one hand and captured a lock of her hair where it spilled across his chest. He wound it around his finger like a rich thread of silk and watched the unique colors gleam in the late afternoon light. "And how is it that you learned to manage?"
She laughed drowsily. "When a person is isolated for most of their childhood they learn to do things for themselves, not to rely on others."
"Isolated?"
"My mother attempted to escape my father's tyranny when I was a baby. She ran away with her lover. But sadly she did not get far. My father had her lover killed, and she was shut away from the world to repent her sins. I too was shut away, but not allowed to go to her. It was part of her punishment that she would never see me again. My father did not care, of course, that I was punished too by never being allowed to see her. I suppose, in his mind, I was a part of her and therefore I too was guilty. Whenever he looked at me— which was not often —he must have seen my mother and felt the pain of her betrayal again. At least," she sighed, "that is how I learned to forgive his lack of interest. There is always, so I find, a reason why people behave the way they do. It is not born in them to be bitter and cruel, like my father, or sad and helpless like Robert."
He pondered all this while twisting her hair around his fingers, then letting the silken coils tumble against his chest. "Then how do you explain me?" he said, his voice low in that quiet, peaceful chamber. "How did I grow to be so fine and strong and invincible?"
She lifted her head from his shoulder and laughed huskily. "You are not human, therefore you are different."
"Not human?"
"That is what folk say." She smiled, resting her chin on his chest. "The d'Anzeray are descended from the daughters of Satan, are they not?"
"You know who wrote that? A monk with an axe to grind. He misinterprets for his own cause, naturally. 'Tis a pity history will be written by men like that. There will be little truth and most of it skewed to tell a tale that favors those they support. Yet the folk who read it, many years from now, will think that is how it was."
Her head tipped to one side, she replied, "Then you should write you own account." She paused. "You can write?"
He smiled. "In three languages, Hellion."
"Oh?" Surprise lifted her voice and the arch of her brows.
"See? Never believe everything you read or hear."A gentle chuckle rumbled through his chest. "And as for my inhumanity, I think you will find I am quite the same as any other flesh and blood man." He winked. "Just much, much better, at everything, of course."
She didn't argue with that. Instead she laid her head down again on his shoulder. "Tell me about your brothers and your childhood."
"It was very different to yours. While you were alone, I was surrounded by my brothers and their noise."
"I would have preferred that," she muttered.
"You do not like to be alone?" He thought she managed there so well that she must prefer it.
"I'd like the choice," she replied. "When I was a child I had none and I was left alone so long I had to make up imaginary people. At least you had brothers to keep you company, and when you wanted to be alone I'm sure you could find somewhere to go. As you do now, having your fortress apart from them."
He thought of Helene as a little girl so bereft of companionship that she imagined her friends and his heart ached for her.
But she was not alone now was she? She had an entire manor of people and she would soon have another husband.
Now would be the time to mention Gilbert de Vernon. While he was still thinking of how to raise the matter, however— words not being his strong point—she stretched, yawning, and then slid out from his embrace.
"Back to our usual lives then," she said softly. "Don't let me keep you from yours."
Through narrowed eyes he watched her use the washbasin and then slip back into her thin gown. "Will I see you tomorrow?" he demanded, hitching up onto one elbow. Her damn bed was so comfortable he didn't want to leave it.
She swept her hair over one shoulder and began to braid it quickly but sloppily. "Perhaps."
Perhaps? This he did not like. Sal wanted to be sure of seeing her every day, not merely hoping for a glimpse.
But he couldn't let her know how he was at her mercy, like a weak fool. Like a man in love.
Pah! Soft beds and soft hearts were for idiots. So he leapt off her bed and pulled on his chausses, not washing her scent off. He hadn't gone to all this trouble to have her, only to wash her all off again, had he?
She was watching him with a bemused eye as he tugged his tunic back over his head. "I hope I didn't wear you out for your many wives."
He smirked, dropping to the bed while he pulled on his riding boots. "It's never been a problem before."
"I wouldn't want them to be disappointed. Poor things."
"They won't be."
She turned away, reaching for her wimple where she'd thrown it over a chair earlier, and Sal took one last look at her beautiful tresses before they were covered again. He rubbed one hand over his chest where it felt tight suddenly. "I will see you tomorrow, Hellion."
Her eyes flared.
"If you don't come to me, I will come to you," he added crossly.
She licked her lips. "Perhaps. Mutt."
Difficult, obstinate woman! He couldn't imagine what he saw in her.
* * * *
When the "Boar-walker" was gone, taking his beast with him, Helene realized she was ravenous. She ate her supper that evening with more appetite than she'd shown for a long time and the food tasted better than it ever had. It was as if he'd awoken all her senses from a thick fog of carelessness. Every color was brighter and more vibrant, every bite of a plum sweeter and juicier than before, every joke she heard was funnier, prompting hearty laughter of the sort she could never remember hearing from her own mouth.
The world had changed because of him. There was no way around the fact.
But he had six wives and he shared them with his brothers. He was a man who refused to live by rules. He had no scruples, no religion.
And she would soon have another man to worry about.
She shouldn't be sitting at her table, filling her belly, sipping wine and laughing. Really, she ought to be on her knees praying for her soul after her sins that day.
He had turned her into a wicked creature just like him, because all she wanted to think about was seeing him again tomorrow. Oh, she'd tried to be off-hand, didn't want him thinking he had her at his mercy.
Helene was quite proud, in fact, of her calm demeanor when she saw him off. Good thing those fierce dark eyes of his couldn't see inside her to where her heart was beating out of all sensible rhythm.
Harold made her laugh again when he tried a tumbling trick and landed on his backside in the floor rushes, but her laughter only urged him to try so hard he hurt himself and then she had to leave her food and see to his bruises.
When people got carried away, someone inevitably was hurt. It was a swift and timely reminder.
She got down on her knees and prayed that evening. Gilbert de Vernon was said to be a very devout man, the complete opposite of her dark lover. What would he think if he knew what she'd done? This must end now, before there was terrible injury to one, or all of them.
* * * *
Sal enjoyed a pleasant meal with his brothers and wives, but his thoughts drifted constantly to his Hellion. She'd crept under his skin and he couldn't get her out again.
He found himself wondering what she was doing that night. The damn woman was keeping information from him, he thought crossly. Would she ever deem it necessary for him to know about her new husband? Perhaps she would get what she could from him first with her sexual trading. Aye, she meant to take more of his land, borrow his labor and his animals, and then another man would calmly ride up and take over. Oh, no, no, no. If that was her game, she would be sorry she ever tried to play it.
"You seem distracted, brother," said Sebastien, flopping down onto a pi
llow beside him as they watched sixth wife, Jessamyn, dancing with her veils after supper. "Anything troubling you?"
He growled, "Not for long."
Dom sat on his other side and asked how his little milkmaid was coming along.
"She comes along very well," he replied sternly.
"I think you have a great fondness for her."
"And how do you reach this conclusion, brother?"
"I saw the way you looked into her eyes and even now, I think, those are the eyes you see, as you sit here with us."
He shrugged. "'Tis something new. She is...different. A novelty. It will pass."
"And if it does not?"
Sal flared his nostrils and huffed loudly. "It will. Soon enough."
"Mayhap you should marry her."
He shot his brother a scowl. "Just because you have all fallen under the influence of pussy, doesn't mean I must do the same. I like my life the way it is now. I have my own fortress to which I can withdraw and be alone as I desire it. There the time is my own. When I want the company of wives, I can come here." And leave again when life felt overcrowded, he thought, remembering what Helene had said.
Yes, he was fortunate to have that choice— to come and go as he pleased, as the need arose. And thus, once again, his thoughts had turned to Helene. He thought of her being a lonely child, locked up in a tower somewhere, forbidden even to see her mother, no sibling with which to quarrel and laugh. It was no wonder she had grown up so strong and capable, but there was a sad child still alive in her, waiting for a playmate.
When Jessamyn had finished her dance, Sal went up to see his father. Guillaume d'Anzeray lay in his bed in a private chamber where he was tended each day by an ill-tempered old nurse in nun's robes. Nobody knew why he allowed a nun within his presence, why he — a proudly, self-proclaimed "Godless heathen"—tolerated her incense and chanting. But he did.
Guillaume had believed himself near death now for several years, but if anything he seemed to gain strength as time passed. Sometimes Sal wondered if his father merely enjoyed the attention, and, of course, getting things done the way he needed them done—without argument from his sons. The marriages, for instance, and the creation of a harem. Had he not been lying ill in his sick-bed, clutching his chest as if his heart might stop at any moment, his seven bastard sons might never have roused themselves into action and set off to find brides, but Guillaume insisted he must hold his grandsons before he died. He wanted to see the next generation flourishing before he closed his eyes for the last time, so he said.
Salvador had always read his father's moods better than anyone. He'd felt Guillaume's steadily growing frustration with his bastard offspring, over the years since they first arrived in England, and he'd known a change was brewing. The d'Anzeray cubs enjoyed life at full-tilt, whoring, drinking, gambling and fighting to their hearts content. Guillaume had raised them to be skilled warriors without mercy, which made them invaluable to the king and kept them in high demand among the wealthy nobles who wanted rid of their enemies. But they were not made for times of peace, and Guillaume was cunning enough to know that King William wanted men who could not only fight, but could help settle this conquered land. Men who could thrive in peacetime as well as in war. So Guillaume had urged his sons to grow up, leave their reckless youth behind and marry. To procreate and set down roots in their adopted land. It was his hope that by the next generation his family would be rich landowners, powerful and respected.
For some, the change to peace from war was a harder transition than for others. Sal had sat back and watched his brothers bring home wives, one by one for their father's approval. But he kept his life as separate as possible, and while the population of his father's manor grew with women and noisy babies, he was increasingly grateful for the fortress he'd begun to build. It might be cold, drafty and grim in the eyes of some, but it was his sanctuary.
Tonight, as he climbed the stone steps to his father's chamber, Sal realized that just as that half-built fortress on the next hill was his refuge, this private chamber high in the tower was his father's.
Guillaume wanted grandsons; he just didn't care for the mess and ruckus that so often came with them.
From up here, in his eagle's nest, he could oversee his expanding family from a comfortable distance, and still keep them close enough to shout at when he felt the need.
"Well, I see you still have no wife, Salvador," were the first words from his father's mouth as he entered the candlelit room.
"And I see you are still clinging to life, father."
"Aye, we're both holding out, eh? You are disappointed, no doubt, to find me still breathing each time you come back." Although Guillaume butted heads with all seven sons, he did so most of all with his eldest. Salvador was the brother most like their father. They were both deep thinkers, rebels, defiant —sometimes just for the sake of being so. The old man leaned back against his horse-hair bolster, attempting to look frail. "But it will not be long now before I am gone and then you can rejoice."
Sal glanced over at the nun who sat on a stool in the corner this evening, enjoying a little breeze through the open shutters. She had her eyes half closed, her gnarled hands resting on her knees and she paid no heed to Salvador. Perhaps she was praying, he mused.
"My daughters-in-law tell me you do not rut with them lately," said his father, "that you take yourself off to sulk. What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing is the matter with me, sir. I have much work to do on my manor. I can't sit about idle as my brothers do."
His father's eyes were the color of silver moonlight and they glistened with amusement as they took Sal in slowly and thoroughly. "None of the wives please you lately, eh?"
"They please well enough. But my time is needed elsewhere."
Guillaume clicked his tongue against his teeth and shook his greying head. "And of all the women in the world you still can't find one to wed. You always were a picksome fellow. Had to have the best horse, the best dog."
"That's how you raised me."
"Oh no!" Guillaume chuckled. "You raised yourself, boy. A silent, stubborn child, you always went your own way. When I said black, you said white." He paused, shook his head. "Just like your mother. She never stopped fighting me either."
Sal felt his lip turning up at one corner. "At least seven times she stopped fighting you, father."
"Don't you believe it! Even fucking with your mother was like fighting. Temper to rival a wild cat. And she gave me the claw marks to prove it more than once."
"But you kept going back."
"Yes." His father looked wistful suddenly, staring at the candles in iron holders near his bed. The flames fluttered and smoked, making his eyes water. At least, he could blame the redness on that, thought Sal. "I couldn't seem to stay away from the wench. She was my one weakness. I would have married her, if I didn't need a rich bride. She never forgave me for taking a wife, but women are addled that way. They never understand the importance of land and wealth. They think love conquers all. Poor, simple creatures. Love is entirely separate from marriage. Has naught to do with it."
"Not in your case, no." Salvador had seen his father's wife once— a haughty Norman lord's daughter with a pinched, peevish face and an icy temper. Guillaume had married her for her dowry and a large chunk of land, of course. There was no love between Guillaume and his lawful wife; there was not even the most basic of affections. They knew each other three days before they were wed and spent no more than a week under the same roof before he was back in the bed of his Spanish mistress who would bare him seven bastard sons.
Salvador remembered the days when his father was expected to visit; his mother's nervous excitement and the extra time she took to brush her hair. How she would pace at the window, watching for him. And then be angry with him by the time he arrived.
Once, when he was about eight, Salvador had walked up to Guillaume and demanded that he marry his mother and stop people from calling her a whore.
His father had laughed heartily. "Your mother has as much of me as she wants, boy. You ask her. We would destroy one another if we lived together permanently. She'd take my head off with the wood axe."
Yes, his mother was a strong woman with a hot temper, which Guillaume used to say their eldest son had inherited from her. But Sal had also seen the days when his father did not come and then she crumpled and wept, declaring in Spanish that he trampled her heart.
She showed Guillaume her resilient side and hid the fragile, broken parts. Only her eldest son saw those.
"I might have known the idea of sharing wives would be hardest for you," his father was saying. "Had your mother not birthed six more little brats and given you no choice, I daresay you would have grown up to be a solitary and cut yourself off from all society."
Sal walked to the window and looked out. The day's heat, thankfully, had sunk into the ground when the sun dropped and slowly, bit by bit, the air was cooling.
What was Helene doing now? Did she think of him and of the afternoon they'd spent in her bed?
Did she show him only her hard edges and keep the vulnerable side hidden for fear he would hurt her?
"Perhaps I have not found a wife, sir, because I want something...different."
"Something with two heads, you mean?"
He shook his head, smiling while he had his face turned away and his father couldn't see. What he thought of wasn't the sort of thing men talked about. And his father knew that as well as he did. They wouldn't even admit to one another that it existed.
But he suddenly felt a cool whisper across his face— one that did not come from the narrow window, but from the old nun seated in the corner. She was not praying now, but had her misty eyes fixed upon his face and she had seen him smile.
Hellion (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 7) Page 10