by Sandra Lee
The baron’s features grew ferocious. His nostrils flared like a maddened bull’s, and his grip on her upper arm tightened until her fingertips tingled.
“Leave us,” he hissed at Sperville.
Icy currents of fear coursed through Golde’s veins. A pox on her wicked tongue. Staring into the venomous planes of Delamaure’s face, she prayed for deliverance. How had she managed to convince herself of his benign nature? Not only did he appear capable of murder, he seemed bent upon the deed. She wrenched her arm frantically to free herself.
“Mayhap ’twould be best, sir—” Spindleshanks began.
“Gainsay me now,” Gavarnie interrupted, his tone deadly, “and you risk your position with me.”
The chamberlain backed toward the door, his features waxen before the yellow candlelight. Golde clawed at the baron’s fingers with her free hand. “Sperville!”she pleaded, to no effect. The chamberlain continued his retreat.
She bent her head, prepared to sink her teeth in the lord’s hand, but his hold was such that she couldn’t reach. Panic seized her when the door closed behind Spindleshanks, and she kicked the baron’s shin.
“Vicious bitch,” he snarled, clutching his leg. His grasp loosened and she jerked against it with all her might. Just when she thought her escape assured, the brutal lord again tightened his grip. But instead of halting her movement, he was carried with her as she lost her balance.
She stumbled to the hard floor and the baron followed, landing beside her. Before she could roll away, he swung a leg over her hips.
Pinning her wrists above her head, he rose over her on his knees. “I have had measure in full of you, hellhag. You prey on the young and weak, stinging all with your waspish tongue that you may feed on their frailties.”
His face was a scarce hand’s span from hers and his breath fair scorched her cheek. Yet she could not look away. His black eyes held her gaze like a hangman’s noose. In them she saw the ugly truth. Deny it all she’d like, she had indeed grown accustomed to belittling others.
He shifted his weight lower on her hips, and incredibly, a pulsing ache curled like smoke through her loins. ’Twas not to be believed. How could she respond thus when the man was about to kill her?
“If you wish to leave this island with your tongue intact, you will relate in a moderate tone all my children have said.”
Golde winced. How was she to relate anything with her body demanding her attention like some wayward brat? It seemed she could feel each tiny point of contact between her body and his.
“Well?” he challenged when she made no immediate reply.
Recalling her chagrin at his critical insight regarding her waspish behavior, she licked her lips and started to apologize. But he would doubtless consider it a ploy, and she was not so certain it wasn’t. He had managed to scatter her wits until she knew not her own thoughts.
Confused and angry at his ability to so unsettle her, she taunted, “What know you of moderation? If you would cease bellowing like a bull and threatening all in your path, you might hear what goes on about you.”
Summoning all her strength, she bucked her hips in an attempt to dislodge him. But instead of falling sideways, he pitched forward. Her yelp of dismay was smothered when his chest landed against her face as he extended full-length atop her.
He raised himself on his elbows and drew his knees beneath him on either side of her ribs. Immediately she was aware of his groin where it pressed into the soft flesh just below her breasts.
In the same instant, the baron’s breath caught. Twas as if lightning cracked between them, melting them together. His grasp on her wrists tightened and his muscles grew rigid.
For a moment she could not move, so intense was the heat that surged through her. It collected in fiery pools in her breasts and between her legs. Groaning, she squeezed her knees together.
Then she realized what she’d done.
Had the lord heard her? Could he feel her desire quicken?
No sooner had she posed the last question than Delamaure slid, slow and sure, down her body, dragging her wrists lower over her head. His male root came to rest against her woman’s collop and she could not prevent the shudder that tore through her. The pressure his body provided was so exquisite, ’twas near painful.
His features held the look of a wolf circling a flock of sheep. Bold, yet cautious lest the shepherd discover his presence. His lips were parted, his eyes sharp as jet.
She had to stop this, and now. But how? A stinging comment? “If you would at least lick the drool from your slavering lips, mi’lord, that I will not be drowned.”
He arched a brow, then gave her a cunning smile and did her bidding. Spellbound, she watched his tongue glide over his upper lip, leaving a faint, glistening wake of moisture. ’Twas as if he were licking every intimate spot on her body, and she squirmed against the unwelcome feelings.
He paused and smiled again, this time with satisfaction, and she realized she was holding her breath. Then he traced his bottom lip and sucked it.
By the raven! The man was enough to make a nun forsake her vows. She must escape before he snatched her wits completely. If she could trick him into releasing his hold.
“Mi’lord.” She winced at the raspy timbre of her voice. She’d hoped to sound alluring. Clearing her throat, she hurried on. “Allow me to remove my clothing.”
“Mmmm,” he purred agreeably. But instead of letting her go, he lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.
She had never imagined such torture. When he gently pulled her bottom lip between his teeth and sucked, she gasped. To her mortification, her hips curled upward, straining for contact with his body.
In response, he ground himself against her and slid his tongue in her mouth. Far from appeasing the hungry ache that gnawed at her senses, his actions did naught but tease her woman’s flesh until she feared she might perish from ravening need. She had to escape before she disgraced herself.
Tearing her lips from his, she panted, “Mi’lord. The bed. Let us adjourn. . . .”
All thought of tricking him into releasing his hold vanished as his lips traveled down her neck. She closed her eyes against the torrent of pleasure that seized her. She scarce managed to brush her throbbing core against him before he lifted his hips, just out of reach.
Frustration hissed through her clenched teeth. He was tormenting her a’purpose with his cat-and-mouse movements. She attempted to spread her legs that she might gain better access to his groin, but his knees wedged tightly against her thighs to preclude her intention.
Then he lowered his hips and raked her collop with indolent sureness. There was no mistaking his rutting desire. The knowledge that he wanted her inflamed her passion until she was naught but a quivering mass. Why did he not take her?
His lips captured hers again and she moaned into his mouth. Shifting his weight, he moved one leg between hers and she writhed against the thick muscles of his thigh. If she did not gain relief soon, she would burst.
His lips slid from her mouth to her ear and he whispered, “Ease your pace, sweet witch. I am near to spilling myself in my braies.”
Her bid to comply with his wishes failed and she shook her head, afraid to speak lest her tongue betray her and beg him to end her suffering. He pulled his leg from between her thighs and she stifled a whimper as he stretched out beside her.
Switching his hold on her wrists, he grasped them in one hand while the other moved to her breasts. He kneaded the sensitive mounds, each in turn, while nibbling the lobe of her ear. His harsh, rhythmic breathing blew through her like white-hot quicksilver, and she bit her lip when he rolled a hard nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
“Have done,” she pleaded at last, beyond caring how shameless she sounded. She would degrade herself further if need be. Anything to quench the fire that consumed her.
She felt the skirts of her tunic and chainse jerked upward, then the lord’s hand slid between her thighs. Her legs trembled as he m
assaged the flesh there, his fingers working upward until they slipped beneath her drawers and reached the place that needed filling. She opened wide for him and bucked against his touch, silently urging him on.
For a moment he stroked her center, and she grew anxious at the relentless pressure building inside her. ’Twas as if her raging hunger had turned inward. Now, beyond her control, it was about to devour her.
Then the lord slipped a finger inside her. She squeezed her thighs around his hand, desperate to draw him deeper, when abruptly he pulled away.
“No!” she cried, and twisted her body in an attempt to mold herself to the front of him.
“Cease, greedy wench,” he commanded, his tone stern.
She stilled and stared into his displeased, uncompromising features. He had found fault with her.
And what man would not? she berated herself. She’d acted with less restraint than the lowest of whores. Tears of shame welled in her eyes and she pulled as far from him as his hold would allow.
“What is your age?” he demanded.
She squeezed her eyes shut as a sob billowed in her throat. When his fingers touched her face, she turned her head away.
“You are more prickly than a bramble bush,” he groused. Capturing her jaw, he pulled her face back to him.
His fingers traced her chin and lips. Instinct told her that the musky scent on his hand was hers, lingering proof of her scandalous behavior. She swallowed hard, willing the ever looming sob to remain locked behind her clenched teeth. The pad of his thumb swept upward, roaming over her left cheekbone, until he reached her eye.
“Why do you cry?” he questioned sharply.
Unable to answer, she shook her head.
“My patience is near flown, wench, and your silence does naught for my temper.”
She opened her eyes and glared at him. “Why do you not say you find me offensive and be done?” she choked. “There is little you can do to further humiliate me.”
A light rap sounded at the door, but he ignored it.
“Offensive?” His look indicated he thought her an idiot. “I find you yet a maid. Were I a lesser man, my ears would presently be ringing with screeching accusations of how I’d taken you against your will.”
The knock sounded louder. “My liege!” Spindleshanks’ strident voice sounded from the other side of the door.
“Mi’lord, please,” she entreated, fearing the door would open any moment. “I am near bare to the waist.”
“A moment, Sperville,” he bellowed, releasing her at last.
She scrambled to her feet and raced to the door, shaking her chainse and tunic down as she went.
“Golde!” Delamaure shouted, but she did not look back. Yanking the portal open, she dodged Spindleshanks and Sir Nigel where they stood in the corridor.
She flew to the head of the steps and took them two at a time, the sob finally erupting. Blinded by tears, she continued her rapid descent. Though she knew not exactly where she was going, she knew it would be as far from the Baron of Skyenvic as she could get.
NINE
GAVARNIE STOOD before a window in his chamber and inhaled the briny night air. Clangor from the kitchen below rose to bounce off the timber palisade behind the keep, echoing his disquiet.
The intrigue that had hovered over him earlier while listening to de Warrenne’s insinuations had suddenly become a sticky web of deception. A pox on the parchment Nigel and Sperville had brought to his chamber.
Turning from the window, he clasped his hands behind his back. “Read it again, Nigel.”
The steward’s usual smooth tone was marred by a noticeable quaver. “Look to your own house for betrayal.” “There is no signature?”
“None, sir.”
“There is no mark on the seal, either,” Sperville added.
“And it was delivered by whom?” Gavarnie queried.
“A village boy left it with the gatekeeper.” Nigel sounded as if he longed to take a whip to his own back. “Would that I had been present to receive it.”
“You cannot sit at the gate day and night,” Gavarnie allowed, though certainly Nigel should have prepared the gatekeeper for such eventualities.
Vowing to address the issue in future, Gavarnie changed the subject. “Is the handwriting familiar to either of you?”
He heard the rustle of parchment and steeled himself to patience. Sperville and Nigel were his most trusted advisors. Under the circumstance, ’twas fitting that he would consult them. Still, the longer they were present, the greater the chance that he would betray his fear. For at the moment, he felt as if he were standing upon the crumbling edge of an abyss.
“All writing looks the same,” Sperville complained at last. “I cannot distinguish this from any other.”
“Mayhap ’tis but a jest, mi’lord,” Nigel offered.
“A jest!” Sperville squawked. “This can hardly be dismissed as a jest.”
“I did not mean to dismiss it,” Nigel returned hotly. “Rather, I would not have his lordship overly disturbed—”
“Our liege is not given to unwarranted fits of anxiety,” Sperville interrupted. “’Tis he who will determine . . .”
Whore’s gleet, Gavarnie thought as the chamberlain and steward argued on. They were worse than Ronces and Alory. He finally held up a hand to halt their yapping mouths. “Sperville, I would that you lock the missive in my silver chest. Meanwhile, Nigel, I would that you question the gatekeeper in depth.”
“By your leave, sir,” Nigel intoned.
“A moment, Nigel,” Sperville huffed. “I would accompany you.”
Nigel sighed heavily, and Sperville’s bootheels clomped toward the wardrobe. Then both men’s footsteps resounded as they tromped from the room, the click of the door latch signaling their complete departure.
In the quiet that followed, Gavarnie leaned against the wall. Though he would never admit such, it appeared de Warrenne was correct. Why had he not recognized it before? How could he expect King William to trust a blind man with guarding the Solent against invasion?
It suddenly felt as if iron chains were clamped about his muscles, strangling the life from his limbs. All along, he’d thought William’s insistence on sending the royal physicians to heal his eyes a simple act of kindness. Now that the king realized his sight could not be restored . . .
Think! he ordered himself as panic threatened to overwhelm him. He had yet to fail in his duties. No Vikings or French had slipped past his watch. Not that the king could wait for such to occur. It could cost him England.
On the other hand, he had been a faithful vassal to William, had risked his life on William’s behalf in numerous battles. For the king to reward such loyalty by relieving him of Skyenvic would hardly instill loyalty among William’s other vassals. Indeed, the king’s fractious barons might use it as a means to foment rebellion.
Nay. Better for William to quietly kill him and have done.
The idea sent a fresh awareness through him. If such were the case, whom had William chosen as his assassin? De Warrenne?
Gavarnie immediately discarded the possibility. To murder him secretly would require great cunning. Though William had oft remarked on his faith in de Warrenne’s abilities as a henchman, the king would never trust the man with any task that required subtlety.
So whom had the king selected?
Abruptly his eyes narrowed.
“Golde.”
Her name erupted from low in his gut. What better person for the deed? Dangling the promise of restoring his vision while creating all manner of turmoil to distract him. With her knowledge of medicine, ’twould be easy for her to poison him once she’d gained his trust. Why else would she be so willing to lose her maidenhead?
Pushing himself from the wall, he slowly paced the floor. Aye, Golde was ready to sacrifice her virginity to gain his trust. Then when he least suspected, she would strike.
It would have to look like an accident. If she used poison, ’twould have to be slow
-acting. Something that would steal his life gradually, as would any host of illnesses.
He turned and paced in the opposite direction. Had he known a short while ago what he knew now, he would have taken what the wench offered so freely. Doubtless, William had paid her handsomely to present him with such unholy temptation.
The thought of her heated body and passionate urg- ings yet had the power to stir his flesh. He winced and rubbed his shaft.
Lips, full and tender as ripe plums, nipples so hardened with desire he’d had no trouble locating them, despite the layers of material she wore. And the pouty flesh encircling her opening, slickened with lust.
Abruptly he collided with the bedpost.
“God be damned!” He clutched his forehead. The wench was stealing his reason.
Fingers splayed before him, he felt his way back toward the window with more caution. By the rood, she was most artful for a virgin. He’d lain with a host of practiced courtesans who possessed nowhere near the expertise he’d been plied with this eve.
His hand struck the wall and he edged sideways until he found the narrow window. Voices yet echoed outside as kitchen servants continued their evening chores.
His gaze searched the noisy black void. Was it possible Golde knew some secret for restoring her maidenhead? Though he’d heard of miraculous deeds performed by witchwives, he’d never heard of that particular accomplishment.
Still, ’twould be just like the conniving little hag. She doubtless had a bagful of tricks for every occasion.
Had she not incited his own children to bear testimony—
Whore’s gleet. The children! How could he have forgotten?
He spun from the window and clambered for the door. His haste did naught but delay him, and by the time he located the handle, he felt wild with urgency.
“Roland!” he roared.
’Twas not the squire who responded. “My liege?”
Booted footsteps hurried toward him and he struggled to place the voice. “Eustace?”
“Aye, mi’lord. How may I serve—”