Truly, she couldn’t believe he meant to harm her now.
Swiftly she sorted through various tactics, words of flattery she could say to defuse the tension crackling between them. “Whatever…misunderstanding may have arisen between us, you’ve always been a man of honor, as suits your high station. If you’ve something to discuss with me, surely we may resolve it with Rafael’s involvement.”
A wistful expression chased across his features. He smiled within his beard. “Have you ever known a man with the will to refuse you, Katrin? You’ve twisted my difficult brother like a ring around your finger.”
Unnerved by that smile, she felt her control slip. “God’s mercy, Borovic, will you let me pass? If I don’t return soon, Rafael will surely grow concerned.”
His face turned as smooth and inscrutable as unwritten parchment as he looked down on her anxious features. “You must not upset yourself. By the Rood, you’re all but fainting in this murderous heat. I think you should return above, and take some rest before you continue your journey.”
“I would, my lord,” she said doggedly, “but my husband will be displeased if I don’t return by nightfall.”
“Then we’ll dispatch your woman with a message,” he said smoothly, “telling him you’ll remain here tonight, for the sake of your health. I won’t have you fainting in the road.”
“I’m not a child who needs coddling, Borovic!” Frustrated by his obstinacy, she tried to brush past him, but his brawny arm lifted casually to block her passage.
“Go upstairs, Katrin,” he told her firmly. “I’ll come to you soon to resolve this business between us—once and for all.”
* * *
Hours later, the horizon pulsed with the sullen red of sunset. Clouds massed against the heavens, muttering with the threat of thunder.
The cavalier tower was an airless oven, hot fitful breezes puffing through the casement. At first she’d harbored mad thoughts of escape; she’d bribe or bluff her way past the sentries, leap from the window, scale the wall. But one glance at the sheer drop brought a swift end to that lunacy.
At least Gwyneth had escaped the trap. From the casement Katrin had watched the wain clatter down the road in a cloud of dust. The sight turned her weak with relief, for she’d feared the worst after that scuffle on the stairs. Then she’d thought that surely Rafael must come before nightfall. When the massive gates boomed shut at twilight, those hopes had been dashed.
Her throat itched for water, but they’d brought her nothing—nor even a chamber pot, though her bladder was aching. For very life she couldn’t fathom what Borovic hoped to achieve by holding her.
Impossible to judge by his words, since he’d barely spoken beyond curt commands to his guard. She’d chosen not to engage in an undignified physical scuffle before his staring men.
Again she leaned from the casement to peer along the curtain wall where the sentries paced. She could still scream, yet she grimaced at the scandal that would ensue if she did. Besides, Borovic’s well-cowed men would probably ignore her.
Surely Rafael will come—unless he believes I’ve betrayed him, and abandoned him by choice. God knew she’d given him little cause to trust her.
A sound from the outer chamber brought her flying around to face the closed door. She clenched her fists in her moss-green kirtle, striving for composure—a vain hope, given her desperate countenance and the damp tendrils clinging to her neck. Still, she stood straight and proud as the door swung open. She would manage that much at least, not to cringe before her captor.
In the darkness, the bloom of torchlight nearly blinded her. A guard thrust his brand into the wall-bracket and ducked out, making way for a giant mastiff and the shaggy-haired bear of a man who followed—her nemesis.
Borovic had replaced his soiled hunting leathers with an earl’s finery: blazing crimson tunic with Celtic knotwork, greatsword strapped to his back, sandy hair curling against his broad shoulders. The sight of his grandeur angered her nearly to speechlessness—she, who’d not even been given water all day. Well, not for nothing was she Goda of Grayhaven’s daughter.
Katrin lifted her chin. “By what right do you hold me captive?”
On the threshold he paused, eyes burning with a hunger that made her shiver. He looks as though he owns me—like one of his hunting hounds.
“I could have wished for a warmer greeting.” He bent his powerful frame in a bow, face creasing in a rueful smile. “Katrin, you misunderstand my intent. But I suppose I should be accustomed to that.”
“How do I misunderstand, my lord?” She fought to keep her voice level. She’d gain nothing if her fragile control shattered into screaming hysterics. “I’ve been shut into this stifling cell, not offered so much as a drop of ale—”
“You must lay that at my castellan’s feet.” Absently he ruffled the hound’s fur. “Perhaps he’s been overzealous. You’ve only to tell me what you desire, and I’ll see it done.”
“Marry, I should think that obvious. Release me from this cell!”
Malice sparked in his hazel eyes. “What, and deny my brother the glory of riding to your rescue?”
Rafael. A jolt of awareness arced through her. Borovic must have known Gwyneth would run straight to the baron—indeed, he’d wanted it.
Suddenly she was shivering despite the oppressive heat, gooseflesh crawling beneath her dusty kirtle. It took all her courage to ask the question calmly, without bleating like a frightened lamb.
“Why don’t you simply summon him? Gladly would he answer. Sweet mercy, he’s your own brother!”
Thunder growled as darkness gathered. His gaze consumed her, poised with her back to the wall, ready to bolt at the first threat. Surely he wouldn’t assault her, even now. He wanted her willing, but if that had changed, she still had her belt-knife—and the courage to use it.
Despite her resolve, she flinched when he moved. Surreptitiously she wiped damp palms on her skirts as he opened the door and uttered a low command, ordering bread and fruit and ale for the lady, chiding his captain for discourtesy. She’d never be able to choke down a morsel, but the ale at least would be welcome.
Closing the door, he hitched his bushy brows. “There now, you’ve no cause for alarm. Will you sit?”
She slanted a cautious look at the naked mattress, the only stick of furniture that remained in the chamber. Trapped between two extremities, and neither of them easy: her knife at one hand, the bed at the other.
She stayed where she was, and clasped her hands to still their tremor. “What crime have I done to warrant such shabby treatment? I should be looking to you for protection. You’re my good-brother, my husband’s liege—”
A shadow darkened his features. “Am I?”
The fine hairs rose on her nape. In the shifting torchlight, Borovic’s good-natured countenance twisted into malevolence. Then he shook his head roughly and flung out a hand.
“Look around you, my lady. My brother the war-hero, my brother the bishop, that sanctimonious scholar who swore to my service has fled like a thief in the night, without even the courtesy of a farewell! By the Rood, Katrin, I swear to you if Belmaine betrays me, he’ll pay a heavy forfeit. I want neither his false fealty nor his scholar’s sword.”
“Betray you? Borovic, he is sworn to you! The notion never crossed his mind.”
Without humor, the earl chuckled. “You sound scared to death, good-sister. Do you fear I’ll devour you both like some monster from a children’s tale?”
Wary of offending him, she shook her head.
Now he spoke gently, as if coaxing a spooked horse. “Come here, Katrin, so we may speak with greater ease. ’Tis a black night, and a storm is rising.”
Getting closer to the lustful earl was the last thing she wanted. As if voicing her reluctance, the hound keened mournfully.
�
�Come now. He craves your attention,” Borovic murmured. Bowing her head to hide her thoughts, Katrin inched forward and bent to pet the dog. She trailed her fingers along the hound’s torso, stroking the russet fur, feeling the mighty ribs rise and fall with his breathing.
Glancing up, she found the earl staring at the sweep of her caressing fingers. Face flooding with heat, she straightened swiftly. The hound whimpered with disappointment.
Borovic looked up from under his thick brows and smiled. “He likes you.”
The sight of his wolfish smile made her pulse spike with alarm. Play for time, she thought wildly. Surely Rafael must come.
She made her voice reasonable. “Your brother and I do regret our hasty departure. We were impulsive, I grant you. But we meant no treachery. Sadly, I’ve not been at ease within these walls.”
His boot heels rang as he closed the distance between them. “Christ, who would threaten you beneath my roof?”
He sounded honestly perplexed, blast the man! Couldn’t he recall the ugly threats he’d uttered when she spurned him? Anger sparked within her, but she smothered the flame. He was the wolf now, and courage her only weapon.
She strove for a placating tone. “A woman craves her own place, my lord—her own larder, where her word is law.”
“But that’s madness,” he growled, “with the Forkbeard free to rape and plunder at will. Don’t make the mistake of thinking Belmaine has gotten rid of him for good.”
She couldn’t dispute that, so she shifted tactics. “Would you hear them say the earl of Argent locks up women for sport? What will your wife make of this?”
“My wife has worse troubles to occupy her.”
Fighting frustration, she employed another tactic. “I demand an audience with the dowager—”
“Gone to her bed. An old woman like that, she needs her rest.” He offered a regretful smile. “You wound me with these suspicions, Katrin. I have only your welfare at heart.”
Fear and panic fluttered wildly in her breast, but she refrained from hissing a furious reply that would only antagonize him. Clearly Borovic had shifted in his own mind from her captor to her gallant protector.
To himself he must always lie.
“Surely you know Belmaine will act if I fail to return.” She squared her shoulders. “Why do you hold me here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” His voice thickened. “I want you in my bed, Katrin of Courtenay, and I intend to have you there tonight.”
The chamber was suspended in time and silence, but for the uneven scrape of breath pushing through her lungs. “I…cannot understand you.”
“Try,” he said, baring white teeth within his beard. Inexplicably he looked angry, although at whom she could not fathom. “’Tis a simple enough arrangement. I’ll bargain for your favors like a merchant. Come to my bed tonight, and I’ll let my thrice-damned brother live. How’s that for a bargain?”
“And otherwise you’ll kill him—your own faithful brother?” Beneath the buffer of shock she was stunningly angry. She was the king’s own niece and Belmaine’s Christian wife, yet the earl threatened him and propositioned her crudely as any wench—then had the colossal arrogance to complain that she made him argue for it.
She struggled to rein in the billowing sail of her emotions before it swept her into the shoals. “For the love of God, Borovic! I’m your own brother’s wife. I cannot believe you mean what you have said. Let us agree that you never suggested it, and that I never heard it—”
“It’s no suggestion!” His voice rose to a shout. Seeing her start, he sighed, making a visible effort to quiet himself. “I swore to it once, don’t you remember? I swore I would have you. Did you think I meant it lightly?”
“I prayed you had abandoned this madness,” she whispered, pressing fingers to her struggling features. “By all the saints together, he’s your own brother! Think what you are saying. Even if you forced me to this perversion, how do you fancy Rafael would react?”
For a heartbeat his face betrayed everything: the frustrated malice and jealousy that consumed him, utterly unleavened by affection.
“My brother!” His mouth twisted. “There was never love between us. He came here a stranger, a smooth-tongued angel cosseted by his mama, always laughing at the rest of us behind his sleeve. Perhaps I could have suffered him to fill Bannan’s place—Bannan whom we all loved, whom I loved like a son.” His voice roughened with grief. “But then he dared come between us—between you and me. And that I will never forgive.”
He is mad. Katrin knotted her hands in her skirts to conceal their tremor. God’s mercy, he meant every word.
Yet beneath her horror, she felt a tiny stirring of understanding. Aye, he still mourned Bannan, the brother he’d loved. His pain oozed like an open wound, rubbed with the salt of grief for his first bride, his stillborn children, even the little sister he’d doted upon. His mother had perished when he was still a boy, his father likewise. She thought he even felt grief for Aelfwydd, the barren bride he must put aside.
In a way, she and Borovic had a great deal in common. They’d both lost everything they ever loved. But now she had Rafael, and she would do whatever she must to keep him.
Forcing back her pity, she fixed her eyes on his features. “Your brother risked himself for his duty to Argent. Your duty as his overlord demands you honor him in turn.”
“Oh, I intend to honor him.” He smiled. “I honor him with my regard for his bride. ’Tis no trifling thing to share an earl’s bed. I’ll devote myself to ensuring you enjoy it.”
Disgusted, she whirled and paced to the casement. She hugged her elbows, seeing her haunted features staring back from the clouded glass, as tragic as a lost soul.
Behind her, his measured tread approached, stalking her. But the long hunt was finished, and he’d chased her to earth. Her nerves stretched to tingling awareness.
On either side of the window his hands appeared, blunt fingers curling into the wall to prison her. Rigidly she stood her ground.
His bearded features materialized above hers in the dark glass. To rein in the turbulent pitch of her emotions, she tried to look at him objectively. Physically, at least, he was no monster: square-featured and strong-jawed behind his silver-threaded beard. He smelled of hounds and wood-smoke, but not strongly enough to stink. He towered over her, impossibly broad through the shoulders, tunic stretched tight across his cavernous chest.
Trepidation knotted her stomach. Beyond a doubt, he was one of the most physically imposing men she’d ever seen.
He leaned close, not yet touching her. His breath brushed her temple like a kiss. “Belmaine didn’t take very good care of you, Katrin. But I intend to keep you safer than my own soul.”
She sensed the iron control that gripped him. He had an older man’s dogged patience, his ability to wait until the time was ripe to seize his moment.
“Christ’s Rood, I’ve wondered how you would feel in my bed,” he breathed, “for a very long time. Since the day I beheld you at the tourney, do you remember? Proud and fearless as a lion, with your hair on fire from the sun. I dreamed of you that night. God’s love, what a dream that was.”
She gripped her elbows until they ached, nails digging into tender flesh.
“I awakened in a frenzy, Katrin. I knew somehow I must contrive to have you! Tell me truly, are you the witch they call you? Did you cast the Devil’s spell to bind me?”
“Nay, my lord.” Firmly she rebutted that dangerous charge. “Perhaps the Devil sent you that dream, but I assure you I played no part in it.”
“And there was Belmaine,” he mused, as if he hadn’t heard her, “standing between us like a wall I couldn’t breach. I couldn’t imagine him likely to conceive any lasting interest in a woman. How should he? My brother the bishop,” he jibed.
“But I was mistaken. From the
moment he laid eyes on you, Belmaine was as determined to have you as I was. I burned in Hell for months, to think of you warming the bed of my sneering brother, with his pretty face and his pious ways—my brother who deserved none of the blessings heaped on his head in Bannan’s place. You’re wasted on him, Katrin! Tell me now, were you ever satisfied in his bed?”
“You know nothing of his love nor mine!” Driven to her limits, she wielded her last weapon, but for the knife—or the bed. “The king signed the wedding contracts in good faith. What do you fancy he’ll say when he hears how I’m treated?”
“Ethelred is a practical man. I’ll offer him terms he can’t refuse.” His bristly beard scraped her temple. “As for you, Katrin of Courtenay, no queen will live in greater comfort. Silks and jewels, hounds and horses, an army to indulge your every whim. When I ride for the king’s witan, I’ll even take you with me.”
“As your paramour,” she said bitterly. God save me, that it comes to this! “Do you truly think Belmaine will allow you to humiliate him this way?”
“Oh, I’ll send Belmaine back to his bishopric—belike he’ll be glad enough to go. Hell, the man doesn’t even value you enough to come after you. He must have water running through his veins instead of warm red blood! What man leaves his wife in another man’s keeping?”
The unspoken promise of the bed loomed behind them. “Nothing good can come of this, Borovic. It’s not too late—”
“It was too late the day you came to Argent, my sweet, already betrothed to my brother.”
He stood so close she scarcely breathed, supremely conscious of his size and power looming over her like an avalanche.
The candle of her time had burned down to nothing. When his calloused hands spanned her waist, she shivered. The knife or the bed, those were her choices—and there would be no turning back.
His hands grew bolder, curving beneath her breasts. She squeezed her eyes closed.
I must act now, or all is lost.
“My lord?” she whispered.
“Aye?” His ale-scented breath tickled her ear.
By Royal Command Page 32