by Tamara Leigh
“Your daughter?” Ranulf had asked as he returned to his chair.
Lord Langdon had burst into laughter. “God’s mercy, a daughter such as that? No worse curse could be visited upon me. Nay, she is my wife’s cousin. It will be a blessing when she returns to her brother, Baron Balmaine, on the morrow.”
“The lady is not wed, then?”
Lord Langdon’s smile had disappeared. “Take my advice, young Ranulf, and stay away from that one. She is mean-spirited.”
Ranulf’s curiosity had only increased. However, the lady had not appeared in the hall for the evening meal, and he had not seen her again. Instead, he had followed the skirts of an enticing little maid straight into an ambush.
But why? Atonement for what sins? Desire? He pulled himself back to the present. “The Lady Lizanne,” he said.
Her dark eyebrows rose. “My lord knows me?” she said in mock disbelief, then stepped nearer and once more rose to her toes so her face was within inches of his and her warm breath fanned him.
Forcing an indifferent expression, Ranulf searched for an advantage to her nearness, but there seemed none. If he lunged forward, he would do no more than push against her.
“I do not know you,” he growled, “but I know of thee.”
A corner of her mouth lifting, she set herself back on her heels and began peeling the gloves from her hands. “My good cousin Bernard has been wagging his tongue.” She clucked her own, then lowered her eyes over Ranulf. “I wonder…do you not remember our first meeting?”
Did her voice break, or was it only imagined?
She lifted her head and pinned him with those impossibly green eyes.
Reflecting on her improper display in Lord Langdon’s hall, he said, “Aye, and most memorable it was.”
Her head snapped back as if he had delivered her a slap.
Despite his circumstances, Ranulf was beginning to enjoy the game. He smiled. “Tell me, are you in the habit of imprisoning men you desire?”
She blinked. “Do you not deny it, then—that first meeting?”
Ranulf was baffled by her refusal to rise to the bait. “Deny it? Why should I? ‘Twas you, not I, who made a spectacle of yourself before Lord Langdon.”
Color suffused her face. “That is not the meeting I speak of!”
Ranulf lowered his own face near hers, and a lock of his hair sprang forward to fall between them. “I recall no meeting other than our brief one in Langdon’s hall—could that be called a meeting.”
Bitter laughter issued from her but quickly died. She reached up, touched the fingers of her gloves to the base of his throat, and trailed them down his collarbone.
Ranulf stiffened. He was not accustomed to being brazenly touched by a lady.
“I shall never forget our first meeting,” she said. “’Twould seem, though, that you have.” She caught her lower lip between even white teeth and lowered her gaze to the chain between his bound feet.
Though a frown drew her eyebrows near, it did nothing to diminish how lovely she was—like a rose. Unfortunately, though her petals would be soft and fragrant, her nasty thorns could prove a man’s undoing. Still, he longed to be the man to strip away her prickly defenses—
Disgusted at the realization his initial attraction to this woman had not abated, he snarled, “I demand to speak to the lord of this castle.”
So intent was she on the ground at his feet that she seemed not to notice his heightened anger. “Hmm, well, if you refer to Lord Langdon, I must disappoint you. You are no longer under his roof, Baron Wardieu. You are under mine.”
He was not surprised. “Then I would speak to the lord of this castle.”
She sighed. “Regrettably, ‘tis not possible. It will be a sennight ere he returns. And then…”
Her gaze flew to his and, in that moment, Ranulf realized why the chain so bothered her. Once more giving his arms his full weight, he thrust his legs out before him and trapped her waist between his thighs, causing the length of chain between his feet to strike her shins and buckle her knees.
She cried out as her face slammed into his chest and black tresses spilled from the collar of her man’s tunic.
“Now,” he addressed the crown of her head, “take those keys from ‘round your lovely neck and release me.”
She tossed her head back. “’Twill do you no good.” With the back of a hand, she wiped at the blood trickling from her nose. “You will not be allowed to leave alive.”
“Do it, else I will crush the life from your accursed body.” He tightened his legs.
She gasped and, swift as a cat, raked her nails across his face.
Ranulf held, for a scratch, no matter how deep, was nothing to one who had survived bone-deep cuts.
She arched backward, clawed and pried at his thighs, but it would take far more to escape him. And from somewhere, she produced the means to do so. He caught the flash of silver and identified it as a dagger a moment before she sank the blade in his thigh.
Ranulf’s shout of pain was followed by her release.
Propelled backward, his captor threw her hands behind her to break her fall. Still, she hit the earthen floor hard, her arms going out from under her and landing her flat on her back. Surprisingly, she almost immediately regained her feet.
Clutching her ribs, she staggered toward him. “You! I will see you in hell for this.”
He glanced at the dagger in his thigh and back at her. “Am I not already in hell? Witch!”
To his amazement, she startled at the sight of her bloody handiwork, then spun around and ran from the cell.
Drawing deep breaths through clenched teeth, Ranulf fought the darkness that once more threatened to pull him under and dropped his head to his chest to stare at the dagger protruding from his flesh. Though never in his one score and seven years had he considered doing physical harm to a woman, he would not trust himself were he loosed upon Lizanne Balmaine. With one such as she, mean-spirited as Lord Langdon had warned, it would be too easy to forget women were meant to be protected rather than set upon as he now plotted.
A thick shadow falling across the floor heralded the arrival of a large man who hesitated before stepping into the cell and crossing to Ranulf’s side.
“Me name’s Samuel.” He splayed his enormous hands on his hips. “I be yer jailer.” His eyebrows pinched as he leaned near to look upon the injuries his mistress had scored into her prisoner’s face. “Hmm.”
When denied a response, Samuel bent to inspect Ranulf’s thigh. His great bald head gleaming, he said, “She got ye good, she did. Ye must have made her right angry.”
“I require a physician!”
Samuel straightened, placing himself eye-to-eye with Ranulf. “Well, now, Lady Lizanne ain’t ordered no physician. But I’ve had some experience if ye’d like me to give it a try.”
“I have no desire to lose my leg!”
The big man shrugged. “Mayhap that be what she wants. She do seem to hold a mighty grudge again’ ye.”
Ranulf calmed himself enough to ask the burning question. “Why?”
“Milady’s reasons I ain’t privy to.”
“Then do not speak to me of them!”
Samuel’s face split with a grin, showing a surprisingly full set of teeth. He leaned over again and tapped the dagger’s hilt. “It ain’t such a deep wound,” he pronounced and strode across the earthen floor and out the door.
Some minutes later, he returned with a fistful of rags. With one swift movement, he pulled the dagger from Ranulf’s flesh and tossed it aside. Immediately, he pressed a rag to the wound to stanch the blood.
Ranulf groaned. The dagger’s removal was worse than the getting of it. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gnashed his teeth as Samuel continued his clumsy ministrations.
“Now hold still!” the man commanded and made quick work of applying a crude tourniquet.
Drawing deep breaths, Ranulf considered his bandaged leg and scowled. “’Twill take more than that to save my leg
.”
“Ungrateful, are ye?” Samuel’s lips twitched. “Well, now.” He stood back and put his head to the side. “Methinks it’ll do fine.”
At Ranulf’s thunderous expression, he said, “Don’t ye worry. After the nooning meal, I’ll have me missus come and clean it right for ye. She knows plenty ‘bout tendin’ wounds.” Another grin and he was gone, returning moments later to secure the forgotten door behind him.
Imposing though he might be, Ranulf knew this Samuel was no jailer. Perchance, an ally.
Ranulf searched his gaze across the dirt floor until he spotted the carved hilt of the dagger where the man had carelessly tossed it a good distance away.
Balancing on his injured leg, he twisted his other foot into the hard, packed dirt of the floor and kicked a spray of granules toward the weapon. It took time and effort, but when he finished, the dagger was no longer visible. In its place stood a loosely mounded pile of dirt.
He leaned his head back and, through a haze of pain, began plotting—from his escape to the revenge he would take upon Lady Lizanne. He would not leave this place without her.
CHAPTER TWO
Scarcely noticing the shocked faces of the castle folk as she rushed past, Lizanne barely reached the sanctuary of her chamber before giving up the simple meal of which she had partaken that morning.
Kneeling, she held her head in shaking hands and rocked her body. “Why?” she groaned. Why should she suffer remorse at having defended herself against that beast? Why had it bothered her to look upon the wound she had inflicted? It was no less than he deserved—a ruthless man who had taken from her nearly all that she held dear. Still, it sickened her.
She drew a long, shuddering breath and stood. On legs that felt as if they might fold at any moment, she traversed the chamber. With hands that did not feel like her own, she barred the door, then turned and crossed to the large window. Earlier that morning, she had removed its oilcloth covering to let in the light of a cloudless day. Considering the past six days had seen overcast skies and constant, miserable drizzle, it seemed a Godsend.
The sun’s descent into the west had begun, but it was still high, casting a warm column of light over her. She sighed and closed her eyes to savor the heat upon her icy skin, but though she warmed outwardly, she could not shake the chill at her core. It was a different kind of cold she had carried with her for nigh on four years.
She slid into the window embrasure and peered down into the inner bailey, noting but paying little heed to the young squire engaged in swordplay with a man-at-arms.
Clasping her hands against her mouth, she began chewing the edge of a thumbnail. For the first time, the implications of her abduction of Ranulf Wardieu began to burden her. Previously, she had given little thought to what the consequences of her vengeful act might be, filled as she was with the burning need to free herself from years of painful memories. To avenge Gilbert.
Such a surprise it had been to discover Ranulf Wardieu was of the nobility. However, she had easily put that aside, telling herself it mattered not that he had been personally sent by King Henry to preside over a dispute between Lord Langdon and one of his vassals.
Of course, it would have been much simpler had he been but the common villain he had portrayed years ago. But now…
Dare she believe her taking of him would leave her and her brother, Gilbert, unscathed? As little as she knew of Ranulf Wardieu, there was no doubt he would be missed. And soon.
Unbidden, his image forced itself upon her. His rank of nobility, with its accompanying speech, mannerisms, and clothes might have thrown another, but Lizanne would know him anywhere. That long, shockingly pale hair. His large, powerfully muscled frame—a bit huskier, perhaps. And those eyes that had stared at her with such anger. They were as black as she remembered, yet different as if—
“Curse him!” she rasped. It was he. It could be no other. Drawing her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them.
The revenge she had envisioned these past years while honing her body and weaponry skills to a level that vied with her brother’s men, was so close. She had but to raise a hand to bring it down upon Ranulf Wardieu’s head. But could she? Dare she?
If only Gilbert had not been waylaid in his return from court. Surely, he would have challenged the man properly and seen justice done. After all, had he not more reason to hate Ranulf Wardieu? Was it not he who bore the marks of that fateful night upon his lame body? Well she knew the depths of his anger.
Her weakening resolve found strength in the memories that had driven her these years, and she called to mind the image of her brother and his pronounced limp…his agony…the lost laughter that had once lit eyes now rendered empty of nearly all but suffering. Wardieu had done that to him.
And what of her? Had she not also suffered? Had not her betrothed, a man with whom she had believed herself in love, broken the marriage contract, citing that she was no longer chaste? Aye, she had suffered, but not as Gilbert had done.
Now nibbling on the inside of her bottom lip, she searched for a solution to her dilemma. How was she to exact revenge? For exact it, she must.
Tears of frustration welled, but she wiped them away and tossed her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught another glimpse of the duel in the bailey below. The young squire had backed his opponent into a corner and was taunting him as he prepared to deliver the mock thrust that would name him the victor.
She stared as the squire thrust gracefully forward, withdrew, then laughed joyously and waved his sword heavenward. Foolish, she told herself as the idea came together. Terribly foolish.
“Nay,” she murmured, “’tis perfect.”
A knock at the door brought her head around. “Milady!” Her maid’s voice floated into the chamber. “Ye are needed.”
As distinct as her words were, Lizanne knew the girl was on her hands and knees in the corridor outside, mouth pressed near the large gap between floor and door.
“Can it not wait?” Lizanne called.
“’Tis a child, milady. She has been hurt.”
Lizanne rose and hastened to the chest that contained her medicinals—a chest that had been her father’s. “A moment,” she called as the lid fell back against the wall. As happened each time she delved within, memories visited her.
Though more often a woman’s domain, her father had been fascinated with the healing properties of herbs. He had encouraged his daughter’s interest in healing, taking her “herbing” with him from a young age.
In the end, however, nothing could save the old baron from the terrible sickness that had feasted upon his body. And the attack on Lizanne and Gilbert’s camp had wrested from him his last hold on life. Another reason Wardieu must pay.
Lizanne blinked away tears and gathered the pots she might need, her fine sewing needle, and strips of clean linen. Then she ran across the chamber and threw the door open.
“Where is the child?” she asked as Mellie straightened from the floor.
“Belowstairs, milady. ’Twas a dog that bit her.” Relating the details of the attack, the maid kept pace with Lizanne all the way to the hall where the child’s weeping mother sat upon a bench, her precious one clutched to her bosom as the servants clustered around.
At Lizanne’s approach, all stepped aside to allow her access to the sobbing child. “Send for Lucy,” she instructed Mellie as she sank to her knees.
“She has been sent fer, milady.”
“What is keeping her?” Gently, Lizanne pried away the mother’s arms and turned the child about. She was a pretty little thing, perhaps four years of age.
Lizanne pushed aside the bloodstained cloth on the child’s arm and leaned near to examine the injury.
Mellie bent down so no others might hear and whispered, “Lucy is tendin’ that other’s wound, milady.”
Other? Lizanne stretched out the child’s arm and gently wiped away the blood. The wound was not as bad as she had feared, but it would require stitches—
>
She snapped her chin around. “Other, Mellie?”
The maid shrugged apologetically and nodded, confirming it was Wardieu whom Lucy tended.
Lizanne’s anger was short-lived as the healer in her pushed it aside. Evil though the man was, he had been wounded and it would be unseemly to leave him uncared for, even if she could not bring herself to see to his needs. Not even a vicious animal deserved to be left bleeding and in pain. Nay, her revenge would be carried our properly, Wardieu given the opportunity to defend his person.
She returned her attention to the child. “And what is your name, little one?” She pushed damp golden hair back from tear-swollen eyes.
The little girl’s bottom lip trembled. “A-Anna.”
“Anna,” Lizanne repeated, forcing out all thoughts of Wardieu so she could offer a genuine smile. “You are a brave girl.”
A smile jerked at Anna’s mouth. “I-I am?”
Lizanne reached for her medicinals. “Aye, you fought that mean old dog and won, did you not?”
Sniffling, Anna turned questioning eyes on her mother. “Did I win, Mama?”
The woman met Lizanne’s gaze. Gratitude shining from her eyes, she smiled and looked to her daughter. “You did.”
“Now,” Lizanne said as she unstoppered a bottle, “I wish you to tell me the whole story.”
Anna looked uncertainly from Lizanne to the bottle that wafted a pungent odor, then back to Lizanne. “Will it hurt?”
Lizanne touched her fingers to Anna’s cheek. “Mayhap a little, but you are brave, hmm?”
After a brief hesitation, Anna nodded.
If you enjoyed this excerpt, Lady At Arms will be available Winter 2013/2014.
TAMARA LEIGH NOVELS
INSPIRATIONAL TITLES
Age of Faith: A Medieval Romance Series
The Unveiling: Book One, 08/12: Amazon, B&N, iBookstore, Kobo Books
The Yielding: Book Two, 12/12: Amazon, B&N, iBookstore, Kobo Books