The Mistress Of Normandy

by Susan Wiggs

  From the sounds emanating from the grande salle and bailey, she realized her disappearance had been discovered. She’d have to move quickly.

  Perhaps she should have waited for a more opportune time. But, their senses dulled by drink and revelry, the sentries assigned to watch her had lowered their vigilance. Excusing herself to visit the garderobe, she had seized her chance to escape now, before the wedding night.

  Because she did not trust her response in the nuptial chamber.

  She hated Rand for making her believe he loved her, even as he’d plotted to abduct her and steal her home. Still, some undisciplined part of her responded to his touch, his nearness, the warmth of his smile, and the scent of sunshine that clung to him. The feeling of desire was so strong that, in spite of her hatred and hurt, she feared she might yet succumb to him.

  But not now. There would be no wedding night, no consummation of this sham marriage.

  He already gave you a consummation such as most women only dream about, said a traitorous voice in her heart. And the proof of it lives within you.

  With a convulsive grip she clutched at a rocky outcrop. She pushed the thought from her mind. Babe or not, she would never submit to Rand.

  Shouts rang from her chamber window. A renewed sense of urgency seized her. She hugged the curved wall and prayed the eaves and the night shadows would conceal her. She held her breath until the voices faded. Relieved, she moved on. Mortar crumbled beneath her fingers. The ledge narrowed. Sweat and fear left her cold. Only when her dangling foot found purchase on the edge of an arrow slit did she pause for breath.

  She glanced down. The moat lay fifty feet below, she gauged. Her eyes avoided the murky waters, avoided the thought of what she must do. Scaling the wall seemed but child’s play when compared to the trial head. She could not swim. Pray God she could steal across the flimsy rope bridge that spanned the moat.

  Voices drifted up from the bailey. She started moving again and found a series of iron loops and stone corbels protruding from the wall. Put there to aid masons at their repairs, they now helped her to freedom. The footholds lay few and far between. The stone and mortar grew more difficult to grasp, and her muscles began to scream with fatigue. Keep moving, she commanded herself. You are the daughter of Aimery the Warrior. You’ve made more harrowing climbs in search of sulfur deposits.

  The shadowy bailey disappeared as she rounded the tower.

  And made an alarming discovery.

  Moss, slickened by the sea air, coated the stones.

  May you roast in hell, Enguerrand Fitzmarc!

  Her mind barely registered a scraping sound. She scrabbled wildly for a purchase. Her hand found an iron loop. She grabbed at it desperately, only to find it, too, beslimed with moss.

  She curved her fingers around the loop, her feet dangling. Loosened by her weight, the mortar crumbled. The rung began to move.

  As her anchor gave way, Lianna had time for but one unthinking, throat-tearing scream.

  “Rand!”

  Ten

  Her frantic scream echoed in his ears. Horror leaped in his throat as he saw her handhold loosen, felt a shower of mortar on his face. Had he found her only to lose her?

  His chest tight with dread, he teetered precariously on the topmost rung of a scaling ladder. He reached for the flailing, falling figure, grasped her waist. His heart pounding wildly, he held her against him. Motion and impact nearly overset the ladder. But for his steel grip and iron will, they both would have pitched into the moat.

  Rand pressed against the wall, steadied his feet on the ladder. He buried his face in the cool, fragrant silk of her hair and thought, Thank God. Thank God Burgundy guessed her escape route in time. “I’ve got you, love,” he murmured.

  Far below, torches bobbed, casting long, eerie shadows against the tower. Shouts of victory and scattered applause drifted from the banks of the moat.

  She made not a sound for a moment; her fall into his arms had knocked the breath out of her. Frantically he touched her face, her neck, dreading to find her injured. His own breathing came in sharp, tense gasps.

  “Sweet lamb of God,” he said, “you might have been killed.” He grasped her more tightly as she sucked in her breath with a great whoosh. Revived, she struck out at him. Her elbow landed on his ribs.

  “Let me go!” she cried.

  Alarmed, he leaned into the wall. “Cease your squirming, else you might kill us both yet.”

  “If I had died, know that it would have been you, Englishman, who forced me to it.”

  The remark drove a shaft of guilt into him. But now was not the time for explanations. “Not I,” he said, wrapping her arms against her sides to stay her movement. “But your own recklessness. By the rood, will you be still?”

  “Never! I’ll never stop fighting you, Englishman.”

  “Will you force me to subdue you again? Do you relish another swim?” He knew not how else to convince her of the peril she courted in struggling on the rickety ladder.

  “Ha!” she said, twisting to face him. “I’d like to see you climb down with my dead weight in your arms. You’d probably nigh drown me as you did before.”

  He met her hostile glare with a look of hard-eyed determination. In the past he’d held her as a lover. Now he gazed upon her as an adversary. His lover’s heart gave way to the cold implacability of a soldier’s discipline.

  “Listen well.” Steel edged his words. “I once climbed a scaling ladder with Greek fire burning my back and a hail of missiles raining down on me. If I survived that, I can survive your resistance.”

  She went still. He felt blood welling hotly from his wounded arm; the struggle had opened the arrow gash.

  Heedless of his pain, she demanded, “How did you find me?”

  His stare calm and steady, he said, “You called my name. I’ll always hear you, no matter how faint your cries.”

  “I’d have succeeded if the loops had held,” she said peevishly.

  He shook his head. “You might have fooled a stranger.” He brushed a wisp of moon-silk hair from her brow; she flinched from his touch. “But I am not a stranger. I know every inch of your body and every corner of your mind.”

  Her shoulders drooped. Feeling the fight go out of her, he knew, with infinite regret, that his reminder of their intimate past hurt her deeply. “You knew me well,” she stated dully. “Let go of me, and I’ll follow you down.”

  He searched her face for a trace of deception but saw only weariness, resignation. Still, the latent fire in her silver eyes reminded him of Jack’s admonition: You can’t trust a word she says or a move she makes.

  His eyes never leaving her, Rand climbed to the bottom of the ladder. She followed. Jagged pain seared his arm, but worse, his heart ached with the knowledge that she loathed him enough to endanger her life escaping him. God, he’d almost lost her; he’d nearly gone insane looking for her. The waiting damsel assigned to her chamber doubtless still shook from his rough interrogation; the man-at-arms who’d fallen asleep at his post probably suffered a cracked rib when Rand had kicked him awake.

  He reached the bank of the moat, stepped into the boat tied there. The vessel rocked as he took her by the waist and turned her. Clinging to the ladder, she stiffened. Through the darkness, the heat of her resentful glare burned him.

  “You needn’t...” Her eyes widened when she spied the boat. “I won’t get into this leaky skiff.”

  Impatient, he pulled her down from the ladder and into the boat. “Had you not tried such a foolhardy escape, you’d be safe in your bed,” he snapped. Her gasp, ragged with terror, reminded him that once she’d trusted him enough to confess her fear of water. His annoyance lessened; he lowered her gently. “You’ll come to no harm. You have but to stay put.” He wanted to kiss the frown from her pale face. “How would you have crossed the moat if I’d not come?”

  She tossed her head. “By the same means by which I’ve lived my life. Sheer determination, Englishman. I’d have crossed th
e rope footbridge.”

  “The bridge is down,” he said.

  “I’d have found a way,” she insisted. Her haughty expression, her confident posture, convinced him that she would have braved her greatest fear in order to flee her husband.

  Angry, his pride wounded, Rand took up the oars and began to row. She suffered the brief voyage in silence, her knuckles white as she gripped the sides of the boat. When he took her hand at the other shore, her flesh felt cold, bloodless.

  As soon as they reached the top of the bank, Lianna scrambled ahead. With annoyance and dismay, he realized she meant to flee him yet. He gained her side with an easy bound and caught her wrist.

  She glared. “Unhand me.”

  His gaze flicked to the crowd of avid watchers gathered on the bank. “You’ll come willingly, else I’ll drag you.”

  She began to twist in his grasp. “Drag me, then,” she spat. “Show yourself for the abusive coward you are.”

  Given no choice, he gritted his teeth, scooped her into his arms, and strode toward the bridge leading to the keep. The crowd parted. Torchlit faces grinned; English and French voices murmured lusty suggestions. She felt stiff, unyielding, and oddly fragile. Her face shone white and immobile as polished alabaster.

  “I’ll never forgive you for this,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Burgundy gave you a choice.”

  “Ha! A choice between my home and a nunnery is no choice at all. Never,” she repeated peevishly.

  “Never is a long time.”

  “Eternity is not long enough to prove my hatred.”

  Pain sat as cold and hard as a stone in his gut. Even the warmth of Lianna, held fast against his chest, failed to thaw the feeling. He crossed the yard and climbed the stairs of the Tour du Roi. A much chastened man-at-arms stepped aside to let them enter the bedchamber. Within, a waiting damsel folded away Lianna’s discarded wedding finery. One fierce look from Rand sent the maid scurrying outside. He closed the door with a backward kick.

  An oil lamp ensconced on the wall and two tapers on a polished oak table lighted the chamber. A private wedding supper lay in readiness: roasted capon, apples, dates, nuts, and cheese, a pitcher of wine.

  Lianna, however, seemed disinclined to celebrate her marriage with feasting and toasting. As soon as Rand set her down, she lurched away, leaving him standing against the door. Before he realized her intent, she ran to the table. Frantic hands plundered the crockery and cutlery. With a strength belied by her size, she hurled a wine goblet at him.

  He ducked the sailing disk of a salver. “Lianna, stop that, listen.” An earthenware ewer shattered just to the side of his head.

  “I’ll not listen to you!” She threw the bowl, still filled with apples. “Damn you!”

  A knock sounded. “My lord,” someone called through the door, “is aught amiss?”

  “Leave us,” he roared.

  His bride stood amid the jagged shards of glass and pottery littering the floor. With a sweep of her hand she knocked aside the tapers, plunging the chamber into half darkness. As she picked up the second goblet, her slippered feet danced perilously close to a piece of broken crockery. “Lianna,” he said, “have a care, you’ll cut—”

  The clatter of breaking glass stopped his speech. Hearing her gasp, feeling a slicing pain, the wetness of blood on his brow, he realized her missile had found its mark.

  He wiped the blood from his eyes. The motion scraped a sliver of glass into his cheekbone. He flinched at the pain. By the time his vision cleared she was at the window, one leg slung over the ledge.

  “Devil take you, woman,” he yelled, “you are twice a fool?” Grinding glass beneath his boots, he crossed the chamber with long, swift strides. Closing his hand around her arm, he yanked her back into the room.

  She kicked, struggled, pummeled. His wounded arm throbbed, his eyes stung, and his patience reached its limit. He jerked her to the bed and flung her down.

  “Since you wish to play rough, my lady,” he said, “then I must oblige you.” Pinioning her wrists with one hand, he ripped a cord from the bed curtain.

  She squirmed. “What are you doing?”

  “Protecting us both from your temper.”

  “You’re barbaric.”

  “You haven’t always thought so.”

  Incensed by the taunt, she kicked at him.

  He sucked a deep breath. “You’re beyond any Christian’s control.” Using two of the curtain cords, he bound her, arms splayed, to the posts of the bed.

  * * *

  Lianna bit her lip to keep from weeping. The warrior looming above her was a stranger. His golden hair wild, his face flecked with blood, and his mouth grim, he looked as fearsome and merciless as Helquin the Huntsman.

  She clamped her jaw against a plea for mercy. She would never plead with him, never show him anything but contempt.

  After jerking the second cord tight, he withdrew into the shadows of the chamber. She heard the crunch of glass and twisted her head to glare at him. He put aside his sword; then his fingers worked at the lace points of his baldric, unfastening the belt.

  Alarm raced through her. “What are you doing?”

  His mouth curved into a heartless smile. “I’m coming to bed, Baroness.”

  “This bed?”

  “I see no other available.”

  “Stay away,” she breathed. “Plea—just stay away from me.”

  He made no reply. His eyes, alight with sensual promise, raked her splayed-out form. Kicking a path across the littered floor, he found an unbroken cup and filled it with wine. He indulged in a long, unhurried pull, then wordlessly offered her the cup. She jerked her head in sharp refusal.

  Her gaze crept back toward him in time to see him unlace the full murrey sleeves of his tunic. She yanked her gaze free of his powerful arms, only to feel her attention immediately drawn back. An ugly, bleeding gash marred the smooth muscles of his upper arm.

  “You’re wounded,” she said.

  He glanced without interest at the bloody cut. “A moulinet from one of Gaucourt’s crossbows.”

  She remembered the hissing sounds that had dogged their flight the previous night.

  Noticing her stare, he smiled slightly. “Think you an Englishman does not bleed?”

  Suddenly, absurdly, tears gathered in her eyes. “How can he, when he has no heart?”

  The smile vanished. “I have a heart, Lianna. I feel it breaking when I see the contempt in your eyes.”

  “What in the name of God did you expect? How long do you mean to keep me trussed on this bed?”

  “Until you agree to cease fighting and running.” He dipped a corner of his sleeve in a fingerbowl and wiped the blood from his face and arm.

  He finished his task. Then, the rowels of his spurs whirring, he approached the bed.

  A sense of familiarity pricked at her, the memory of the dream that had plagued her since she’d wed Lazare. The husband coming to her bed had had Rand’s face, Rand’s eyes. Always the dream had filled her with longing. Now the reality filled her with hopelessness, for the device emblazoned on his tabard was the leopard rampant.

  With swift, easy movements, he discarded the cotte d’armes and his undertunic. She tried to shrink from him, but the cords held her tight. The low light picked out details of a body she used to cherish with her own. She shuddered at the remembrance. A glow from the oil lamp struck golden highlights into the fine hairs on his musclebanded chest. Shadows carved the powerful bone structure of his face into a visage so compelling, she ached just looking at him. His mouth, tender yet firm, curved into a smile. Heat pounded through her; she shifted restively.

  As he bent to remove his spurs and boots and hosen, she closed her eyes. A gentle hand stirred the hair at her temple. Flinching, she clenched her eyes all the tighter.

  “I’d have you look at me, Lianna.”

  She opened her eyes, glaring. “I look upon a scoundrel and a betrayer.”

  “You look up
on a man who loves you with a power stronger than eternity. A man who is ready to forgive your deception.”

  “Prate not to me of love. You love only your usurping sovereign and your foul ambition to steal my castle.”

  He shook his head. “I love you without regard for King Henry or Bois-Long.”

  “You lie,” she said, battening fury against the awful hurt that clawed at her heart. “You knew who I was all along. You deceived me with coy questions about my ‘mistress’ and false declarations about your hallowed knight-errantry.”

  He drew back, his eyes wide with shock. “What’s this? Do you truly think I realized you were the demoiselle?”

  She strained against the cords binding her. “Why else would you have met me day after day, plagued me with sly questions and half-truths?”

  He touched her cheek. She recoiled from the caress. “You know me. You should trust what you know. I did not mean to spin such a web. It started innocently, and with you. Remember, you asked me if I hailed from Gascony. It was then that I decided, for both our sakes, to let you believe I was a French knight-errant. I didn’t know who you were. When I learned I was betrothed to a French lady of twenty-one years, I pictured a woman too flawed to have married at a proper age.”

  “Aye, I am flawed,” she said bitterly. “Flawed by an uncle who cares more for intrigue than for me.”

  He laid his hand on her shoulder. She fought against the comfort offered by the warm, steadfast pressure of his fingers.

  “I went in secret to Bois-Long,” he said. “I spied a black-haired woman riding across the causeway. I now know her to be Macée Mondragon, but I mistook her for you.” His jaw grew taut with distaste. “Do you wonder that I did not connect the fair pucelle in the woods with the dark woman beating a servant?”

  The cords chafed her wrists. “Even if that were true, that disrespectful valet you sent should have given you a rudimentary description of the demoiselle.”