Knight of Seduction

by Cheryl Holt

  She’d sneaked out the rear gate, the one for milkmaids and others who carried supplies down to the village. Apparently, it had never occurred to Hugh that there was a back gate or that she would use it.

  The weather was simply too balmy, and the atmosphere in the castle too oppressive, so she’d had to flee.

  Blodwin and Rosamunde had cornered her, demanding to know what information she possessed regarding Rosamunde’s betrothal. Anne had shared the news Hugh had provided—that he was mulling a wealthy knight from a good family—but they didn’t believe her.

  Weary of their harangue, she’d left before they could harass her further.

  She skirted the village and continued on to her mother’s cottage. The quiet spot always calmed her, and if she lingered in the overgrown gardens, smelling her mother’s flowers, her distress would ease. She’d return to the castle, fortified with the energy necessary to swim against the tide of bitterness Blodwin and Rosamunde threw at her.

  As she approached the house, two horses—that she recognized as those of Hugh and Henry—were tethered in the grass. To her delight, the door was open, as it never was, and the two men inside. She would be able to enter the place that had been barred to her for so long.

  She crept up and peeked in. Her mother’s furniture was still there, but the colorful tapestries that had lined the walls had been pulled down and used to cover it. The room looked abandoned and forlorn, underscoring her mother’s death and all the sad years that had followed.

  The gloomy vista had her wishing she hadn’t seen it in its dilapidated condition. She’d have been much happier with only her memories, and she hoped she could eventually block the dismal scene from her mind.

  Hugh and Henry had their backs to her, and she almost announced her presence, when Hugh stunned her by saying, “Marriage makes everything so complicated.”

  “It certainly does,” Henry concurred. “A man takes vows and swears to be true, but there are so many beautiful women in the world. How can a fellow settle for just one?”

  They were discussing her! They were discussing her marriage to Hugh! They were talking about…adultery?

  Her ears began to ring, her pulse to pound.

  While in many ways, she remained a stranger to Hugh, he knew the most important fact about her: She would tolerate no infidelity.

  Better than anyone, she understood the hurt it caused. Never to the man involved. A man could do whatever he wanted and get away with it.

  No, it was the wife who suffered. The family. The children. Shame. Anguish. Feelings of being inferior, of not being good enough.

  She’d told Hugh she couldn’t bear it if he was unfaithful. He was aware of how it would wound her, and he’d insisted he wouldn’t.

  Yet she was watching them laugh and jest about it.

  To her dismay, it dawned on her that, on the night in the bathing room when she’d caught them with the two whores, Hugh hadn’t agreed to refrain from philandering. He’d never begged her pardon or pledged to behave. She’d accused him of being a liar, and he’d admitted it was his worst fault.

  She’d carried on with their marriage as if they’d never quarreled over the issue, as if he had promised to be faithful when he hadn’t promised, at all.

  Apparently, he couldn’t promise. He had no intention of honoring his vows.

  “How do you suppose,” Hugh asked Henry, “Anne would react if she knew about Charmaine?”

  “You’re not going to tell her, are you?”

  Charmaine…Charmaine…Charmaine…

  The woman’s name hammered in Anne’s veins, wedging itself into her head so she would never forget it.

  Her heart was breaking. Couldn’t they hear it cracking in half?

  Every moment since Hugh had arrived at Morven, she had arranged her life to accommodate his. She’d given up her dream of entering the convent. She was learning to manage the castle for him. She’d been trained to her wifely duties in the bedchamber and performed them to the best of her ability.

  Through it all, she’d tried to remain cheerful, to remain optimistic and loyal.

  And for what? So that he could bring his paramour to live in her mother’s house? So that he could humiliate her as her father had humiliated Blodwin?

  A vision flashed—of herself many years in the future—bitter, hardened, beaten down by his betrayals and calculated disinterest. Rosamunde might be Blodwin’s daughter, but Anne was the one who would end up just like her.

  Cynical. Cruel. Spiteful. Vindictive.

  Anne would not become that woman. Anne would not allow Hugh to turn her into that woman.

  “What’s it to be, Hugh?” Henry said. “Will this be Charmaine’s home or not?”

  “I’m considering,” Hugh casually replied.

  Anne actually thought she might swoon. There wasn’t enough air in the sky, and she couldn’t breathe. Blindly, she staggered away, in the process bumping into a flowerpot and toppling it over.

  Hugh and Henry whirled to see who was in the doorway, and Anne was delighted to note that Hugh’s cheeks flushed with chagrin. Not over his dastardly plan, she was sure, but at the realization that he’d been caught as he was implementing it.

  She’d convinced herself that happiness might be possible for her and Hugh. She’d convinced herself that she could grow to love him, that he could grow to love her, too. Stupidly, pathetically, she’d begun to believe that they could have the companionship and joy others never found in their marriages.

  Oh, how wrong she had been!

  She spun and ran. Hugh shouted her name, but she kept on.

  Why heed him? What could he have to say that she would want to hear?

  His paramour was coming to Morven. She would live in Bedelia’s house, the house Ranulf had built for her, because he’d adored her beyond all reason.

  The perfidy of it, the gall of it, was more than Anne could bear.

  She reached the village and raced through. Vaguely, she sensed people gaping and pointing. In her mad dash, her veil had fallen off and her braid come undone, her red hair flying out behind her like a witch’s cloak. She knew she must look a sight, but she didn’t care.

  A horse’s hooves pounded in her direction, and she supposed it was Hugh. She ignored him, which was futile. He was bigger and stronger and faster. He could do what he liked to her, and she couldn’t prevent him, couldn’t protect herself.

  He trotted up so that his horse was beside her. The animal nudged her, and she stumbled, but retained her balance and increased her speed.

  “Anne! Stop!” Hugh commanded, but she didn’t listen. “Anne!”

  He leaned down to grab her, but missed and clasped only fabric. Her sleeve ripped, exposing her shoulder so that it appeared they’d been fighting, as if he’d been beating her, and she felt as if he had. As she had just discovered, a husband could pummel his wife into the ground without laying a finger on her.

  He extended his hand, but she simply glared at it.

  “Get up on the horse with me,” he quietly ordered. “We’ll return to the castle.”

  “No.”

  He might have reached for her again, might have yanked her up onto the saddle against her will, but they were next to the blacksmith’s barn. The blacksmith and several other men had come outside to watch what was happening.

  They studied Anne’s torn sleeve, studied Hugh’s angry expression, but didn’t dare intervene. How could they have assisted her anyway? No one could help her. No one could save her.

  She was all alone in the world—as she had always been.

  “If you won’t ride with me,” he murmured, “I’ll follow you to see you safely there.”

  “Yes, my lord Hugh,” she furiously retorted.

  She whipped away and continued on through the village, then up the road to the castle. He hulked after her, his presence like a dark cloud of menace. Along the way, they passed dozens of people, and they silently stepped aside to let her by. They all frowned and stared, their con
cerned scowls cutting into her back.

  She walked through the gates, across the bailey and into the keep. Hugh dismounted and stomped in after her.

  The great hall was busy, the midday meal about to be served. Servants were rushing around, readying the tables, while hungry onlookers loitered in anticipation of the moment when they could sit down and dig in.

  Dorag noticed her and hurried over. “Lady Anne,” she started, “I must ask you about…”

  Her voice trailed off, and she scrutinized Anne’s disheveled clothes, her unbound hair, Hugh lurking behind her.

  “What is it?” she inquired. “What’s happened?”

  “I have been to my mother’s house,” Anne coldly explained. “Lord Hugh has decided to open it for his paramour.”

  She hadn’t thought she’d spoken at an elevated volume, but there was a lull in the conversation so her words echoed off the ceiling. Dorag gasped, as did many others.

  “Her name is Charmaine,” Anne said. “She’ll be disappointed with its current condition, so please send a group of maids down to prepare it for her arrival. Have it washed and polished to a shine. Let’s impress her with our hospitality.”

  The crowd glowered at Hugh, their gazes shocked and condemning as Anne went to the stairs and climbed.

  “Anne,” Dorag called to her, “may I help you? What do you need?”

  Anne glanced over her shoulder, studiously avoiding her husband where he prowled behind Dorag.

  “I will be in my room,” she said. “I don’t know when I will come down again. Have someone deliver my food. Other than that, I don’t wish to be bothered. However any of you choose to run this castle, I don’t care to be apprised.”

  She kept on. To her great relief, Hugh did not follow.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Hugh tried the latch on Anne’s door, but it was barred.

  He’d been hoping she’d cheerily admit him, but in his heart, he’d known it wouldn’t be that simple. She’d had the entire day to calm herself, and again, he’d hoped that she’d attend the evening meal, but she hadn’t.

  Hugh had sat at the head table with Henry. Neither of them had mentioned the incident at Bedelia’s house, and Hugh had forced himself to eat, to ignore the accusing glances shot at him as he studiously pretended naught was amiss.

  While he was the lord and master of Castle Morven, and the people in it had grown to esteem him, he couldn’t deny that they probably loved Anne more. After years of suffering under Blodwin’s cunning thumb, Anne’s management had been a breath of fresh air.

  No one could believe he’d hurt her in such a terrible way.

  He couldn’t believe it himself.

  “Anne?” He knocked and listened, but received no reply, and his temper flared.

  He actually considered kicking in the blasted door, but he’d caused enough trouble, and he refused to exacerbate matters by bullying her.

  “Anne, open up,” he murmured. “I must speak with you.”

  To his surprise, he heard her approaching, and he held his breath, waiting with incredible anticipation for the moment he would see her.

  He wasn’t an articulate man. She knew that about him, but he thought he could explain himself, thought he could make her understand. He thought he could move them beyond what had transpired.

  But if he couldn’t, what then?

  Without a word of greeting, she pulled the door wide and stepped aside to allow him entrance. He hesitated, recognizing that he wasn’t welcome, but it was his castle and she was his wife.

  He watched as she went over to a chair by the hearth and sat down. He felt bumbling and discomfited, confused about where to start. As he assessed her livid, aggrieved countenance, he might have been looking at a stranger.

  “We must talk,” he told her.

  “If you’ve come to exercise your marital rights, I’m afraid I can’t oblige you.”

  “We get along better when we’re engaging in love play. Perhaps we should go to your bed. It might be easier to discuss what needs to be said.”

  He tried for a grin, but couldn’t manage it. He was teasing, assuming that a reference to the many wonderful nights they’d spent together might lessen her fury, but he’d misjudged.

  “If your masculine drives require tending,” she responded, “I suggest you walk down to the kitchen and ask the maids. I’m sure there are several who would be glad to service you.”

  “That was uncalled for,” he scolded.

  “Was it?”

  She was seated, and he was standing, which he hated. Their contrary positions too starkly underscored their differences, and it seemed as if he was lording himself over her. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but he didn’t dare, so he braced his hands behind his back, his fingers linked to keep them away from her.

  “I’m sorry you overheard me when I was with Henry this morning. We’re men; we’re used to being crude. I apologize.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “I’m not bringing Charmaine to Morven.”

  “Bring her or don’t. It matters not to me.”

  “Anne,” he scolded again.

  Things weren’t proceeding as he’d envisioned. He’d planned to announce his separation from Charmaine, to beg Anne’s pardon—receive it—and then, they’d go on as they had been.

  Anne was a tolerant person, a perceptive person, a smart person. He’d persuaded himself that, if he reminded her of all that had happened to him in the past year, of all that had changed, she’d comprehend his reasoning and choices.

  But he hadn’t factored in her being a female, being a romantic sort. He’d never previously fretted over a woman’s feelings, had never been close enough to a woman for feelings to develop, and he hadn’t a clue how to sweep away the upset she was experiencing.

  “I was introduced to Charmaine in Normandy, and I—”

  “Don’t speak her name in my presence.”

  Contrite, he bowed his head. “When I invited her to join me, I didn’t know you yet.”

  “Long before you arrived, you had decided to wed in Morven.”

  “Well…yes.”

  “Your bride could have been me or Rosamunde or any of a number of girls in the area.”

  “Well…yes,” he repeated more slowly.

  “You came here, intending to insult your bride—be it me or another.”

  He gnawed on his cheek, wanting to defend himself, but not sure how.

  When he’d left Charmaine in London with instructions that she would soon follow him to the country, it had all seemed so simple.

  He’d never peered down the road to this hideous moment, where he’d be caught in a transgression of his own making. How was he to get himself out of it?

  “I wasn’t going to bring her to Morven,” he insisted. “Not after I met you.”

  “Then what was all that I heard in my mother’s house today?”

  “That was Henry and me talking in a ribald fashion—as we’re wont to do. You shouldn’t think anything of it.”

  She snorted and gazed down at her lap.

  “Would you permit me to enter the convent now?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “I don’t mind leaving. I’ve always yearned to take the veil, and it would be the best result for you, too. If I am sent away, you can behave however you wish.”

  “I’ll never let you go,” he vehemently said. He walked over and grabbed her hands, squeezing tight, trying to imbue his grip with the firmness of his resolve to keep her with him.

  She looked up, and tears seeped from her eyes.

  “I can’t do this with you, Lord Hugh. I can’t live like this.”

  “Like what?” He couldn’t conceal his exasperation. “I told you she’s not coming. I penned a letter, advising her to return to Normandy.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “I wanted to, Anne. I wanted to save you all this anguish.” He swiped the tears from her cheeks. “Don’t be sad. I can’t bear it when you are
.”

  “Why force me to stay at Morven?” she pressed. “Why force me when I am so unhappy?”

  “You haven’t always been upset with me. We’ve been content, haven’t we? It hasn’t all been awful.”

  He’d supplied an opening for her, where she could say yes, they’d had some pleasant times and would have many more in the future.

  To his consternation, she didn’t agree with him.

  “Lord Hugh, I have known you but a few weeks, and in that short period, I’ve been confronted twice—not once, but twice—with your attempts at adultery.”

  “I didn’t proceed!”

  “Only because I thwarted you. I can’t be with you constantly. I can’t be there to intervene, to beg you not to, and I will not be that person.”

  “There will be no other women, Anne. I swear it to you.”

  “You’re a liar, remember? You confessed that it’s your worst trait.”

  “I’m on the mend.” He smiled down at her. “Since I met you, I’m trying to be a better man.”

  “You don’t have to change because of me. You’ve been a bachelor for many years, and it’s blatantly apparent that you weren’t ready to abandon the indulgences you enjoyed. It’s all right with me. You should be free to carry on however you like. Just don’t drag me into it. I’d rather not have to watch.”

  He sighed with frustration, wondering what to do. He might have leaned down and kissed her, but she slid from her chair and went to the door.

  She gestured to the hall, indicating that he should leave, but he couldn’t make himself go. There was the strangest sensation in the center of his chest—as if his heart was breaking.

  In her current state, it was futile to continue the conversation, but the oddest sentiment plagued him, that if he departed he might never see her again. Which was silly. Of course, he’d see her again. She was mistress of Castle Morven. She was his wife. There was nowhere for her to go.

  Still, he felt horrid. He hadn’t said what he’d meant to say, hadn’t been clear, hadn’t been cogent in his persuasion. He really could be quite a fine man, but he’d provided her with scant reasons to believe it.

  He approached until they were toe to toe.