by Geri Borcz
A flash of color and Rhys shifted his gaze over Roger's shoulder. There, Juliana spun as the golden-headed lackwit parried, twirling her messy gown with a force that revealed a tantalizing length of calf. The lad tweaked her flying braid, and sunbeams lit the unraveling strands like dark fire.
The hair escaped its confinement, gleaming like a waterfall to cascade around her in rich, umber waves. The untamed mass fairly screamed soft and silky to Rhys, and without thought, he rubbed his thumb against his fingers on a sudden itch to feel the locks curl around his fist.
He was surprised by his betraying action, so stilled his fingers. Instead, Rhys crooked his thumb in his belt, near his scabbard, and dragged his gaze away from the intriguing sight, back to Roger.
"We've business to settle," Rhys said.
Roger's gaze darted to the hand that moved nearer to the sword, then back to Rhys's face again. Gray eyes hardened to steel blades, sharp and deadly.
"What business?"
A voice shrieked through the noise, an irate female condemning some poor lout to all manner of purgatory.
"He's not receiv--?" Rhys caught the gist of her oath and turned his head to the side to feign a cough. Sudden laughter, no doubt, would set Roger off.
From the corner of his eye, Rhys stole another glimpse toward Juliana, just in time to see her change tactics.
Despite the young man's larger size, she whacked the bow tip hard across his head. While the lackwit considered this emphasis to her view point, his twin rescuers exploded with laughter. Rhys wanted to do the same.
Instead, he swallowed his smile, cleared his throat, and looked again to Roger.
"Your pardon," Rhys said. "He's not received the king's order?"
"As I said, Monteux, he's now returned, but his wife is taken sick. He's yet to speak with his clerk. 'Tis a pity you came for naught."
Roger took the step and shoved past Rhys. In the entry, he turned, his chin coming even with Rhys's shoulder.
"If he wishes, I'll send to Adington. Perhaps in a sennight." Then Roger bellowed for a stable hand to fetch Rhys's squire and horse.
Rhys shook his head.
"I'll wait. I'm for Scotland after I settle with your father."
A muscle twitched in Roger's scarred jaw, and the hate directed to Rhys enveloped him like a shroud.
"'Twill be a long wait, then."
Deviousness lurked in his hard eyes. Rhys stared back, until Roger relented.
"As you wish," Roger said, "but stay out of my way."
He turned into the dim interior, then pivoted, the shade hiding his good side and revealing only the frightening, twisted flesh to the light.
The thought sliced through Rhys's mind that Roger stood at an angle on purpose, and he could well imagine the usual response to the grotesque sight. This time Roger wasted the intimidating effect.
"And Monteux," he added with quiet promise, "stay clear of my sister."
A cold grin curved Rhys's mouth. Let Roger stew.
It'd take the combined forces of King Henry and King David to persuade Rhys's interest toward any female in this castle. And, if she were the last woman in England, especially toward the undisciplined ragamuffin that he'd dealt with earlier.
* * *
Juliana, near tears with frustration that her intentions went awry, expended her anxiety over Oliver's head and deserted him to her feckless brothers.
Disregarding anyone in the courtyard who might notice, she hiked her wilted skirts. She mounted the keep's entry stairs at a run, not bothering to wait until her eyes acclimated to the dim after the intense brightness outside.
Her clammy skin welcomed the shade's cooler air. A jumble of men's voices met her ears. Before her gaze, white points of light sparkled in a black field, but she hurried on, familiar with every cranny and squeaky board in her father's home.
A dozen chores flew through her mind: Head to the kitchen first. Get a meal underway. Dash upstairs. Check on the countess. Greet her father. Avoid Roger. Bathe and change...
"Ooomph!"
She collided with something blocking her path.
A wall?
With both hands, Juliana groped the obstruction that shouldn't exist, until her fingertips grazed something hard. Perplexed, she willed her vision to clear.
"Not that I mind," the wall said, "but 'tis common to ask first."
Juliana gasped, dropped her hands as if burned, and widened her eyes upon hearing the rough-velvet tone. Pray God, 'tis not him again.
The blinding stars slowly receded, and the hall's interior materialized. Her wall focused into a broad back and midnight hair outlined by the lazy glow of flickering torches.
She swallowed a groan. Angled toward her were a grin to melt the bones and inquiring blue eyes.
The abused messenger turned and faced her directly.
"My lady," he said. "Your desire surprises me."
Potent. Expressive. Twin pools of azure lured her, stealing rational thought. She fell into their inviting depths. Again, the rich texture of his voice washed over every nerve in her body, creating a whirlpool in her stomach. Snared again by the beautiful angles gracing his too perfect face, Juliana decided she could look at him all day.
He smiled. "But then mine is no doubt larger than what you've seen."
All day, she thought, until his words hit her with the force of a wave crashing against rock.
"Wh-what?" She jerked her spine straight.
He thought her touch a crude invitation? It should come as no surprise, for hadn't experience taught her that, in dealing with a woman, few men used the head riding above their belt? Still, she doubted anything matched the size of a man's arrogance.
"Is that a confession or a boast?" she said in her most scathing voice.
His brow arched like a raven's wing. A leer? Or misunderstanding? She couldn't decide.
"'Tis weighty in my one hand," he said. "You'll need both of yours to hold it."
Jesu, the king of arrogance. First, the clod laughs at her in the courtyard, and now the oaf thinks to utter coarse suggestions?
"And humble, too," she said. "I can see why few women would refuse you."
Lines creased his forehead, telling her that her sarcasm flew over his head.
"None before you," he said, "have shown an interest."
"I'm little surprised. You are truly a braggart and display the manners of a goat."
She shot a glance to his side and spotted Roger, but he had his back turned toward her as he talked with the priest. No matter. Far from helpless, Juliana saw no need to make a scene. She'd handled this lecherous kind before.
"My lady," the messenger growled. "A simple nay would suffice."
"Very well," she said, gleaning from his frostiness that she'd hit a nerve. "Leave it, if you wish its further use, or By the Saints, I'll rip it off!"
Juliana watched a dark cloud overlay the puzzlement and added obtuse to his growing list of faults. Wasting no more time, she stepped past him in a huff, but strong fingers closed around her arm and caught her off guard.
"Who are you to lecture me on manners?" he said, twirling her to face him.
She all but felt the cold blast from his icy glare, yet she met his challenge.
"Release me."
"Answer me first."
Vexation and outrage at his gall sliced through her, yet fear never entered her mind. The hall teemed with her father's rough minions, and one yell would bring their fury down around his ears. Then, like an invisible lightning bolt, the true reason that curbed her tongue startled her when she recognized it--the intuitive sense that at the core of this dark mountain beat a heart offering no threat.
Nonetheless, her strained patience wore thinner. She tugged, but his firm, though not painful grip tightened.
"Nay, my lady, not until you tell me what has piqued your anger this time."
"Have you a name, Sir?"
"'Tis Rhys--"
"Sir Rhys," she said, slipping into the formal address
most underlings recognized as her prelude to a scathing lecture. "Though I've met less subtle, your arrogance, Sir, truly astounds me. Do I look like--?" Her free hand dismissed that ill-chosen thought. "Nay, mayhap I do. Holy Mary and Joseph, what possible reason made you assume I've the least interest?"
"Why, I saw you outside," Rhys said. "Unlike other women, you're familiar with weapons." His eyes narrowed. "Or did the sorry whim enter your pretty head to use my sword, rather than inspect its workmanship?"
"Inspect your, your. . ." Her eyes widened, her mouth formed an oh, and a sinking feeling attacked the pit of her stomach. "What sword?"
"I wear but one," he said, clearly exasperated.
Juliana lost her bluster and mumbled an oath, the heat of stupidity creeping up her face. To herself, she questioned if this man were sent as a penance, because she'd proven an addled fool with each encounter.
"What sword did you think?" Rhys asked.
She wouldn't answer that, not even if he begged.
At a loss for a good lie, Juliana dropped her gaze from his piercing glare and, without conscious thought, glanced down his front until her embarrassed stare pointed low on his surcoat, beneath his belt.
Her eyes betrayed her.
He followed her gaze and paused.
"You thought I meant. . .?"
She saw it coming and resigned herself to the inevitable.
True to her thought, Rhys erupted in a roaring laugh, cutting across the noise, and turning heads in their direction.
"Oh, do be quiet," she snapped. "'Twas a natural mistake."
She blew the wayward hairs from her face along with any pretense of pride. It seemed an easier task to hold the moon than to try to retain any dignity around this man. Something about him brought out her worst.
He still detained her, but relaxed his grip.
Tingles shot up her arm. Juliana doubted that he realized his thumb caressed her skin. One jerk would win her freedom, but her perverse body ignored her mind.
"Your honesty is refreshing," he said, quieting to a smooth chuckle. "However first intended, I defer to your estimate and gladly accept your compliment."
Juliana knew her face burned brighter than the hearth fire. Chagrined, she closed her eyes. While the lout thought her embarrassment highly amusing, she intended to get the last laugh this time.
"Compliment?" she mumbled. "Chuckle over this."
She lifted a slippered foot to kick him for his boorishness and returned her gaze to his, so as not to miss his reaction. Juliana stared him straight in the face, then lost the thread of that nasty intention.
His features brightened into a smile of genuine pleasure. Infectious laughter sparkled in all too fascinating eyes. He tossed his head back and forth and splayed a lock of ebony hair onto his forehead.
The boyish sight on a man of such enormous proportions so enthralled her, Juliana forgot her embarrassment and the curious eyes trained upon them.
He'd called her pretty.
She curved her mouth in an answering smile and stood a willing captive to the disorienting sensations he provoked. No doubt, the man exuded charm when he chose to.
"Unhand her," boomed Roger, a few steps from them. "By God, I warned you, Monteux."
Juliana sucked in her breath.
Rhys's body tensed and he dropped her arm as if he held a firebrand. As though carved in Scottish granite, a cold mask etched his features.
The man who turned to her brother, as dark and large as before, now loomed bigger, his demeanor forbidding. The coloring that she'd found so suited to Rhys, and too appealing for her own good, now assumed a sinister quality. She resisted the urge to cross herself and sent a silent thanks that he'd not turned the bone-chilling gaze upon her.
He stood to her side and moved a pace in front, to push her out of the way if necessary.
Shielding her, she realized.
From Roger?
Her gaze flew to Roger who reflected a similar, frightening stance. In an instant, she recognized that Rhys and her brother were acquainted with each other. The rancor between the two big men, who glared at each other, rang loud and clear in the now quiet great hall. At the same time, it struck her that if ever united, the overwhelming strength in these two would prove an unbeatable bulwark to any number of foe.
She couldn't fathom what ailed Roger, but refused to let him use her as an excuse to renew old quarrels. Whatever bad blood lay between them needed to wait upon another time and place. Too many innocent bystanders crowded the hall, amid too many more eager to split heads.
Juliana didn't want her fragile stepmother upset any further by hearing a brawl erupt. At least, not on the woman's first day.
So, ignoring the risk, Juliana wedged herself between the adversaries, like a pebble settling against two boulders. Did the staccato drumming come from her knees or her pounding heart?
"Brother, I--"
"The lady extends your father's hospitality," Rhys said over her head. "Would you prefer I insulted her by ignoring her speech?"
Juliana's eyes widened. Had he read her mind? Rhys wouldn't let her brother goad him into a fight.
Roger clenched and unclenched his fists and glared.
"Just so you understand me," he said.
Neither man eased off his ominous stance.
"Juliana," Roger barked, directing his menacing gaze over her head. "Haven't you other tasks to tend? See to them, now!"
Long ago, Juliana had recognized that although her father stood firm in battle with fierce men, he crumpled like dry dirt beneath the boot of her wheedling. He'd relegated her upbringing to Agnes and Roger, with the latter acting as disciplinarian. A role well suited to him, for of all the males at Stanmore, he alone exhibited the patience and stamina to stand against her.
Now, Roger's tone of authority kindled embers of obedience within Juliana. She knew to obey his command without question or argument.
"Aye, my lord," she said, then turned and cast grateful eyes to Rhys before scurrying toward the kitchen.
Once beyond the men, she glanced back.
In silent agreement, both of them backed down at the same time, while a disappointed buzz resumed in the hall. She watched Roger return to the drippy-nosed priest, then her gaze followed Rhys as he joined the other two kings' men by the hearth.
To her surprise, Rhys glanced back at her, curved his mouth in a puckish grin, and winked. That familiar gesture engulfed her senses. She released a breath, unable to identify why he bothered her so.
* * *
In the upstairs corridor, Agnes intercepted Juliana outside her stepmother's chamber.
"Countess Edwina sleeps," the old nurse said, sealing her lips with one finger. "'Tis but exhaustion that plagues her. Your father sets a pace forgetting that not all who ride with him are seasoned knights or men-at-arms."
"My thanks, Agnes."
"Come." The old woman dragged Juliana through the shady corridor and into her chamber with a rudeness borne of familiarity. "Get changed."
In the middle of the room sat an empty tub next to the curtained bed. Water-filled buckets surrounded the cask. To one side, a low fire in the brazier warmed linen strips folded over an armless chair.
"B-but my father. Agnes, I must greet him. He'll not mind my appearance."
"He sits by his countess's side like a love sick swain and can wait to have speech with you. You must tend his guest, but first I'll not have it said that I wait upon a villein."
Before Juliana could object, Agnes had her stripped of her filthy gown and standing in the tub.
"What guest?"
Agnes poured water over Juliana's head and scrubbed with vigor and haste.
"Why your father's neighbor from Adington," she said, "that's who."
"The one Roger dislikes?"
"'Tis few he tolerates," the old woman mumbled.
"He arrived as well?"
Agnes shot Juliana a look that questioned her sanity, then gave over the task of drying to select a f
resh gown.
"He visits so rarely, no doubt he plans a few days, so I've sent Marta to show him to the bathing chamber. Lord Roger may grouse as he will, but 'tis still your father's house. If my lord of Adington hasn't yet taken insult, no doubt he will, if you don't assist him as proper."
"Forget the chemise," Juliana said, eying the ankle length underskirt. "And not that one," she said about the blue gown that Agnes held. "The shade pales."
"Since when?" Agnes discarded the chemise and bliaut on the bed's coverlet, grabbed a small pot from atop the table, and poured a few drops into her hand. Attar of roses wafted into the air. "You fairly badgered my Lord Roger to purchase the bolt of cloth, saying 'twas the most beautiful color you'd ever beheld." She rubbed her palms together and glided her scented hands over Juliana's neck, arms, and body. "Now, the shade pales? What ails you?"
"Leave off, Agnes. I'll wear the red, instead." In Juliana's mind, she saw eyes fringed with black lashes whose hue changed from a clear summer day to the color of a stormy sky over the mountains, and her tone became wistful. "Lately, I've seen a more vibrant blue that appeals to me."
"Where?" Agnes studied her a moment, then wiped her hands on her sweaty gown and gathered the chosen outfit.
"'Tis no matter." Juliana shook the thought clear. How could she explain what she didn't understand, and not sound as if she'd lost her mind? "Agnes, you should assist the Lord of Adington. I've little patience this day, and none to spare for doddering old men."