by The Vow
As if sensing her reaction, Luc kept his distance. It was Giles who received the brunt of her anger, his leering smirks and suggestive comments pushing her to release her pent-up fury.
“Norman swine,” she hissed when he demanded she keep her mount at a pace with the rest, “do not speak to me of haste. Nor more of your apish friend Alain. I have no regard for him, so do not tell me of his affection for me.”
Giles’s jaw set, and behind the metal nose guard of his helm, his gray eyes were flinty. “I told Alain he was mad, but he would have me give you his message. A pity Sir Simon did not slay you instead of the messenger.”
“He had not the courage to do that,” she retorted with narrowed eyes. “Just as you have not mettle enough to deal with a woman, but must run to Sir Luc at every chance. I vow, within the hour you will be whining to him of your ill treatment at my hands, and how I abuse you.”
Giles tightened his hold on one end of the chains about her waist, lifting them with a slight, threatening clink. “If I were Sir Luc, instead of binding you with these chains, I would have you riding in that cage with the wolf, for the two of you are like.”
“You are not half—nay, one quarter—the man Sir Luc is, so do not prate to me of what you would do. No doubt you would be trembling beneath a hawthorn hedge at the very thought of facing Sheba.”
“Sheba.” Scorn dripped from the word. “A noble name for a scruffy, ill-kempt beast. Sir Luc should have slain it at once. It makes the horses nervous.”
“You mean it makes you nervous.” Ceara gripped her reins tightly in both hands to keep from slapping Giles with them. Luc had warned her she must not strike the soldier again.
Luc. Sir Luc. Lord Luc. Aye, he would be lord of Wulfridge once William granted him the lands as he had promised. And she would have no claim on a stone of it, nor a blade of grass, nor even a clod of dirt. The land that had been in her family since the time of the Romans would belong to an invader. Danes, Scots, and Vikings had been repelled time and again, and now the Normans had succeeded.
Giles nudged his mount close, until he was level with Ceara and his face was just inches from hers. “When you reach the king, he will give you your just reward, I hope. And I will see that Alain receives the message you sent him. You will lose all, putain.”
Luc’s stern warning forgotten, Ceara slashed out, catching the man-at-arms hard across his mouth with the straight edge of her palm. The blow caught him by surprise and he reeled backward. As his spurs grazed his mount’s sides, the startled beast sprang forward with a shrill whinny of alarm. Dropping the end of Ceara’s chain, Giles grabbed for his reins and let out a bellow of dismay that spurred his horse even faster. She watched with grim satisfaction as the floundering soldier tried to regain his balance and control of his horse, half on, half off the beast, one rein dragging as the panicked animal fled down the narrow path in a thundering rush of hooves and damp earth.
It was vengeance enough that Giles looked the fool, and she kept her mount at an even pace, watching with feigned innocence when Luc turned in his saddle to see the cause of the commotion behind him. He glanced immediately from Giles to her, the expression on his face relaying his irritation.
Turning his mount, Luc rode past Giles—who by this time had managed to right himself and control his horse—reaching Ceara much too quickly. “What have you done to him this time, or need I ask?”
She shrugged. “The reports of fine Norman horsemanship are greatly exaggerated, I believe. Giles is an excellent example of how one should not believe rumors.”
“You try my patience, Ceara.”
Though his tone was level, it held an edge of controlled anger that left her uneasy. She switched to another tactic. “I most humbly beg your pardon, my lord. I was provoked by Giles to reckless behavior. He called me a whore, and that privilege I reserve for you.”
Behind her words lay a double-edged sword, as she well knew. Luc had declared her inviolate to his men, and for one of them to overstep the boundaries required action. Yet had he not set her up as a whore? Every man in camp must have heard their struggle that night in the tent, heard the cry that would be correctly interpreted. And worse—by insulting a lady under Luc’s protection, Giles had insulted Luc. What sweet vengeance.
Luc’s face reflected his immediate grasp of both the insult and the violation of his authority. But there was no time for her to savor her triumph, for he leaned from his huge destrier to snatch her horse’s reins and the end of the chain dangling from her waist.
“We will discuss this with Giles when we reach York. Until then, you will ride at my side, and I do not think you foolish enough to try with me the tricks you’ve played with him.”
“You do not know the whole of it, my lord.”
“I will soon enough. If you think to try my patience, you have succeeded. Enjoy the fruits of your labors, demoiselle.”
The wealth of anger in his words was enough to keep her wisely silent, even when they passed Giles and Luc snapped an order for him to fall into rank. “See if you can manage your horse better than you can an unarmed woman,” he added in scathing French. “And pray that you did not ignore my commands, as she claims.”
“Dieu m’en garde.…” Giles’s protest came out in a choked moan that Luc ignored, and the man-at-arms flashed Ceara a furious look that none could misinterpret.
Ceara thought that honest hatred was much better than his pretense of friendly conspiracy, his whispered words repeated from the squire Alain that left her filled with loathing and disquiet. At least now she would no longer have to counter his vague suggestions, nor suffer his resentment for her well-placed contempt. He was a worm, just like the squire who had assigned him to guard her, and she trusted neither of them. Had Giles not been Sir Simon’s man? Yea, and no doubt he too thought that Saxons were to be used and discarded at will, like old shoes.
Ceara gripped the high pommel of her saddle, uneasy at Luc’s swift pace. He did not look at her, but held tightly to her reins so that the fat little gray mare had to work hard to keep up with the longer strides of the huge black destrier he rode. Even when they reached the front of the line, Luc slowed his pace just enough so that the mare no longer sounded winded.
A brisk breeze was blowing, chilling her cheeks and exposed hands and tugging at the loose edges of her cloak. She tucked one edge of the material beneath her knee, keeping a hand firmly on the pommel so that she did not tumble from the saddle, and then secured the other edge. It kept her cloak from blowing wildly behind her, and kept her legs warmer. Though as she rode astride like a man, her skirts now came up almost to her knees.
There was a sharp tug around her waist from the chain and she looked up to see Luc staring at her. His dark eyes regarded her with something akin to conjecture. Her heart thumped against her ribs. Would he admit to his attraction for her and agree to take her to wife? If her eavesdropping was a guarantee, he was not wedded and she would eagerly agree to marry him if Wulfridge was the prize. Of course, it was no longer her dowry, but to be assured that she could return to her home.…
Luc looked forward again, and released his tight hold on the chain so that it did not pull on her. Ceara chewed her lower lip, clinging to the saddle and wishing she knew what to say. God help her, she was as attracted to him as he was to her. If he was anyone but a Norman—but that was foolish. He was what he was, just as she was what she was. He had told her plainly that lust meant nothing more to him than release, even when the woman was virgin.
Though he had not touched her since, nor betrayed by word or glance that he wanted her, she knew differently. He had already broken his own rule to have her, and despite what he vowed, there was an invisible bond between them, a tension as charged as a lightning bolt. She felt it as palpably as she felt the jolting pace of the mare she rode.
Time was closing fast upon her. She must make Luc admit his desire for her before he delivered her to the king, and she might yet see Wulfridge again. But if he would not, another p
lan had come to her in the early hours before the sun rose.
She glanced at him, studying his dark profile and rigid pose. He was still angry, of course. That was hardly conducive to achieving her goal. But at least she was riding with him now instead of Giles, a distinct improvement. If only she were one of those women adept at flirtation, with lowered lashes and winsome smile, the cajolery that seemed to come so naturally to some but eluded her understanding. It was not in her nature to be vague, for she was better suited to directness. Still. She must find a way to charm him, or at the least disarm him.
“My lord? A moment please … my cloak has become tangled and I am like to fall.…”
Luc swiveled to cast a frowning glance toward her. He eased the pace as Ceara indicated the cloak tucked beneath her leg. “It does not seem so dire as to dismount you, demoiselle.”
“But I can hardly keep my balance, as both sides are caught … please assist me, my lord.”
Leaning from his mount, Luc grasped the edge of her cloak and gave it a sharp tug that freed the red wool. The hem of her blue kirtle had ridden up to expose her leg and thigh. His hand lingered, eyes riveted on the sweep of bare flesh. She did not attempt to push down her skirt, but pretended interest in the clasp holding her cloak at the throat. The horses’ pace had slowed to a walk. Luc slowly straightened, removing his hand as he glanced up at her face.
Ceara smiled and lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug. “The pin has jammed on my cloak, and is sticking me. Do you mind, my lord?”
Luc’s mouth thinned, but he silently halted the horses and leaned forward to repin the brooch. “If your cloak causes you this much trouble, perhaps you should remove it,” he muttered, but there was no anger in his voice. His large hands fumbled with the pin for several moments. Soldiers passed them on the narrow road, directed onward with a jerk of Luc’s head.
“Bon Dieu!” he grumbled. “I am not a lady’s maid. The pin seems to be bent—ah, I have it.”
He fastened the pin and straightened, hands grazing the swell of her breasts as he smoothed the cloak. He stilled, eyes flashing up to her face, then dropped his hands.
“God’s mercy for your kindness, my lord.” She smiled, but did not attempt to flutter her lashes. He would see through that ruse right away. “I do not deserve your kindness when I have caused you so much trouble.”
“True.” His brow lifted. “But I think that Giles also is to blame for the dissension.”
“I fear that is true, my lord. He—”
“Not now. As I said, I will learn the truth when we reach York.”
Her disappointment must have shown, for he laughed softly and leaned close again, taking up her mare’s reins. “If this was to sway me to your side, demoiselle, all it has done is remind me how soft your skin is, and how you taste of lavender.”
She managed not to show her delight, but feigned a resigned shrug. “You are much too clever for me, my lord.”
“You should have realized by now that I am well accustomed to the teasing tricks of a woman.”
As they eased back into the line of soldiers, Ceara regarded him curiously. “You must have known many women, my lord.”
“Not as you mean.” His voice hardened, and a muscle leaped in his lean jaw. “The women of my acquaintance are for one purpose only.”
“No fond memories of mother or sister? No first love?”
The look he sent her was cold and hostile. “None.”
Taken aback, Ceara retreated to silence. There was a wealth of undertones in that one word and she did not care to examine them too closely. It could only hurt her purpose to remind him of unpleasant companions at this time. So she managed a faltering smile, a shrug of one shoulder, and a flash of bare leg as she daintily arranged the folds of her skirts. It did not go unnoticed.
Luc angled a glance in her direction before turning to stare straight ahead again. There was a tense set to his shoulders and a taut slant to his mouth that could mean anything, and Ceara wondered if she had made a misstep again. It was possible.
When they reached a bend in the road, Luc broke from the ranks and rode to the front, bringing Ceara with him. She glanced back once to reassure herself that the cart bearing Sheba was still with them, and glimpsed the supine form of the white wolf behind wooden bars. The glimpse of her loyal friend imprisoned renewed her determination to win back Wulfridge and a semblance of her former life.
Her hands trembled slightly. The closer they drew to York, the nearer they came to the moment when her fate would be decided. Yet how could she win Luc’s assistance when every step she made was wrong? It was agonizingly clear that he did not intend to wed anyone—much less the woman who had held his men at bay, then put her sword to his throat when he gained entry to the castle.
Distress brought tears to her eyes, and she bent as if to tie a boot lace so none would see her weakness. Under guise of straightening her cloak, she surreptitiously wiped away a shameful tear. Stupid to weep for what could not be changed, futile to wail for what could not be won.
When she straightened, she saw the outline of York beyond broad fields. Her chest tightened as they drew closer. Blackened, charred hulks thrust skyward, and when they entered the city, she saw the remains of a more recent fire. Tumbled stones lined the streets, and splintered wood with jagged, scorched edges pointed upward. A desolate scene that not even the few untouched houses could lessen.
She could not keep the bitterness from her voice as she remarked that not even prosperous cities were safe from Norman depredations. “But perhaps Normans find more value in burned wood than live merchants,” she added angrily.
Luc gave her a narrowed glance. “I suggest that you do not remind the king of how York came to be burned, my fine Saxon lady, or you may wish you had been silent.”
Too late, she remembered the tales of Saxon earls rising up and seizing York, of Norman troops setting a blaze to storehouses that spread to the town, then dying in desperate battle outside the city gates. Yea, William would be loath to be reminded of that loss, she was certain, but the Saxon victory was for naught. Normans still held England, still held York, and though many had died, there was ample evidence that the townsmen of York had lost most.
Pinched faces stared at the soldiers riding through the narrow streets, some of them small children so thin they resembled the bare branches of willow trees. A pathetic reminder of what war could bring to both sides.
Yet there was rebuilding as well, the smell of new-cut timber and the sound of workmen. Atop an earthen mound above the city a new castle stood where the old one had been, with raw wood walls and sturdy ramparts protecting it. As they drew close, her stomach churned with apprehension and a sense of loss. Perhaps the king was not there. It was possible. He could be at Winchester, or London, or even in Normandy by now. Delay was her only hope for success. She needed time to sway Luc to her cause, time to persuade him that Wulfridge would fare better with a familiar mistress to supervise the people.
Luc urged the horses to a faster pace. Hooves clattered on cobbled stones, sounding like thunder to her ears.
Ceara glanced up when Luc exclaimed with satisfaction, “The king’s banner flies—he is here.”
Hope faded as she saw the waving banner of the Normandy lion, red against white, snapping atop a wooden tower in the late afternoon light. As she watched, the sun came out from behind a cloud and the red lion seemed to come alive, glowing like blood against a white field, ravenous.
Her heart sank, and she sat her mount numbly as they rode through a guarded gate and into the castle grounds. Perched atop a high mound of dirt the Normans called a motte, the castle dominated the site. Around the earthen mound were wooden walls. The outer courtyard teemed with activity, and Ceara clung to her horse with both hands as Luc dismounted into a knot of well-wishers. He still held the reins of her mare in one hand and turned casually to greet those around him, ignoring Ceara as if she were of no importance.
“Word came that you were successfu
l, my lord,” a tall, handsome man said in French, cuffing Luc lightly on the arm. “I suppose I must bow and scrape now.”
“I would like to see that, Robert.”
“I am certain you would.” The dark-haired man named Robert shifted his gaze to where Ceara stiffly sat the gray mare. One brow rose, and he eyed the chains around her waist with obvious amusement. “No, no, Luc, you have erred. You’re supposed to bring back the old lord in chains, not his nubile daughter!”
Luc glanced at Ceara. “If you knew this one’s temper you would not say that.”
Grinning, Robert shrugged. “Ah, she is so lovely that her temper should not matter. But what of Lady Amélie?”
Ceara’s blood chilled, and she suddenly felt as if there were a huge stone in her throat. She tried not to look, tried not to betray that she understood them, but it was almost too difficult, especially when Luc laughed softly.
“The lovely Amélie means as much to me as ever she did, Robert, you know that.”
Ceara blinked. She should have guessed. He may not be wed, but he was promised. His denials meant nothing. He was as all men were, faithful only when his loved one was a foot away and keeping an eye on him. Why had she not remembered their true nature?
“Luc! Luc!”
The high female voice rose above the babble of stewards and soldiers, and Luc half turned as a small woman with shining dark hair and a piquant face flung herself at him. He caught her in his arms, muttering something as she curled her arms around his neck and drew his head down for a kiss. Laughter rose, and men applauded as the kiss deepened, but Ceara could only stare with rising anguish. It didn’t help that Luc was the one who broke away, firmly removing the woman’s arms from around his neck, his voice slightly rough.
“Not now, Amélie.”
Amélie.
The courtyard blurred, and for a horrified moment, Ceara thought she would burst into tears. The sudden ringing of church bells was almost deafening. But hadn’t they passed a burned church? How could the bells be ringing so loudly? They would not stop clanging, a thousand at once, while around her everything went from blurred to dim, then to nothing at all. There was the oddest sensation of falling before she was enveloped by a soft, dark cloud.