by Maren Smith
"Not exactly.” The boy ducked his head in obvious reluctance. “She—she said if you really wanted to see her, you'd ‘ave made the effort six days ago."
Varden's face darkened as the servants, still gathered in the courtyard, looked on.
Clearing his throat, Kenton turned around. He clapped his hands. “Back to work, ladies and gentlemen. Time to return to your positions."
Varden glared at the barracks. “She said that, did she?"
The boy bobbed his head. “Said she'd, uh, be back when she was ready."
"There are too many witnesses present for you to pull off a successful murder,” Kenton told him, but already Varden was headed toward the barracks.
On the opposite end of the bailey and far from the garden, it was little wonder no one had found her before now. As Varden ducked through the open doorway and into the long room that bunked the soldiers, he heard a cheer and his wife's bright laughter.
Barefoot, she sat cross-legged on the floor with the skirts of her pale, blue nightgown bunched around her dusty knees. Her legs were bare. She had rolled her sleeves up over her elbows so they would not get in her way, and every inch of exposed skin along her arms, legs, and even her shoulders and face were peppered in dirt. She had obviously been here awhile, encircled by two of Godfrey's men and four of his own, all of them engaged in a boisterous game of dice. There was a small pile of coins near her dusty feet, and a larger pile in the center of the players’ circle. It increased marginally as each of them tossed in their next bids. While a common cup of honey mead was passed from man to man around the circle, it was his wife who scooped up the dice. Judging by the flush on her cheeks, the cup had already passed her lips more than once.
As Varden watched, she shook the dice. “Come on seven! Mama needs a new pair of shoes!"
His scowl blackened. As if she'd wear them.
She tossed them onto the ground and cheered, whooping and clapping with joy. “Okay, boys, hand over your money. I am hot tonight!"
It was among the good-natured laughter that followed that saucy little comment that the soldiers first noticed Varden. He smiled, a decidedly unfriendly smile. One by one, they fell silent. Except for Claire, who was too busy exclaiming over her newfound wealth to pay attention to what was happening around her.
"Ooo, look at that. This one has a picture of a ... a lady on it. And this one has a ... building. And this one has ... what is that? A beaver? No, looks more like a rat.” She squinted at the coin. “Maybe it's a weasel. Could be a person. It's too worn to tell.” She nudged the man next to her and showed him the coin. “What is this?"
"A groat, Yer Grace."
"Groat?” She turned it over in her palm and looked at the back. “Is it worth a lot?"
"Depends on what yer buying."
She put the groat down and sifted through her coins again. “Do I have a farthing in here? They talk about farthings in all the old Robin Hood movies, but I've never seen one. Are any of these farthings?"
When no answer was forthcoming, Claire raised her head to find that everyone but her had stood up.
"What's everyone so serious about?” She turned, and her eyes lit up when she saw him. She scooped up all the money that she could hold in both hands. “Look, Varden. I'm rich."
There was a dusty brown streak on the end of her nose and her hair was unpinned and unbrushed. It curled around her cherubic face in complete disarray. She looked like a street urchin.
He struggled to keep his anger from lashing out. Not here. Not in front of everyone. He would wait until he got her back to the relative privacy of her room. Then he was going to throttle her where, as Kenton had already pointed out, there were no witnesses.
"We have been searching for you for five hours,” he growled.
"Well, I've been right here.” She hardly spared him another glance as she gathered her coins into a small pouch and right before his eyes—as well as everyone else's—tucked it down the front of her nightgown. The pouch of coins clinked as she patted her chest. “I've been exploring. This place is really magnificent. Everything is so different, here. Except dice. You know, dice haven't changed a bit. They look almost exactly like this in my time, too."
He clenched his teeth and the muscle at his jaw began to pulse ominously. “Come along, ma petite folle. We are leaving."
"You leave. I'm too busy plying my new trade. I've decided to become a gambler and live like a queen of debauchery off the proceeds of my raunchy new lifestyle. I like debauchery. Be proud of me, Varden. That's something I never knew before about myself."
She wasn't going to be able to sit comfortably again for the rest of the week. “Where did you get the money to gamble?"
"From the pouch on your bedside table.” She hardly looked up. “I couldn't very well gamble without funds, you know. Where's the fun in that?"
Make that, the rest of the month. “There was no pouch in my room."
She reached back into her bodice to show him the pouch in question.
"I remember what it looks like,” Varden snapped. “I don't remember leaving money there."
"Don't be angry. I'll give it back to you.” She bounced the pouch in her palm to hear the coins jingle. “I've probably doubled the number of coins in here, but I don't know if I've doubled the sum. I'd better learn how to count your money or I may end up a rather impoverished queen."
Forget the month, she wasn't going to sit down comfortably again for the rest of her life. Varden drew a deep, calming breath, then forced himself to smile. “We are leaving. Both of us. Right now."
"You go. I'll come in when I'm ready.” She turned back to the game and scooped up the dice for another cast.
Losing patience, Varden grabbed them from Claire's hand and hauled her to her feet by one arm. “I said now!"
No longer smiling, she jerked her arm from his grasp. “Let go of me! What's wrong with you?"
Varden darkened even further. He was too angry now to care who was watching. “You will do as I tell you. Now go to your room!"
She drew back with a look of surprise, then she glared at him. She was getting better at it. “I keep telling myself to be patient and understanding and kind, and maybe your nasty little temper will cool enough for you to become something approaching human again. But you are really starting to push my buttons!"
His temper almost to the point of boiling over, Varden growled, “I'm warning you—"
"Just because Claire treated you badly doesn't mean that you can do the same to me. I'm not a child to be ordered about by some egotistical, arrogant control freak!” She bent to pick up her money pouch, which had fallen out of her nightgown when he'd grabbed her arm, and the cup of mead from her neighbor's hand.
The muscle in his jaw jumping erratically, when she raised the cup to her lips, Varden grabbed it. In the brief tug-of-war that followed, Claire's fingers slipped and the force of his jerk knocked the cup to him. Mead sloshed over the rim and splashed backwards into his face.
Varden swiped at his burning eyes, fury surging through his veins. It spilled out vocally in a bellow of unprecedented rage.
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Chapter Seven
The old stories lied. Death was not a bony skeleton, shrouded within the folds of a heavy black cloak. No, it was a sixteenth century, flesh-and-blood duke, with ice blue eyes, a sword strapped to his hip, and cheap honey mead dripping from his bangs to his chin. Growling, Death wiped his face with one hand, then glared at her. His breath hissed between tightly clenched teeth. He seemed to swell, growing bigger right before her eyes. And it was in that instant, as Death stretched out his hand to grab her by the scruff of her nightgown, that Mallory saw her life—both her lives—suddenly flash before her eyes.
They were very brief.
Varden roared, and Mallory ran as fast as she could in the opposite direction.
The servants and soldiers gathered in the bailey parted before her like Moses at the Red Sea, clearing a path from the barr
acks to the castle steps. She had just reached them when Varden lurched out of the barracks and bellowed something that sounded a lot like, “Get back here, woman!"
She might have been mistaken, but since there was no way that she was going back to ask for clarification, she only picked up her skirts and ran faster.
At the top of the stairs, Kenton calmly opened the door and then stepped well out of the way. Not because of Mallory, who puffed a quick ‘thank you’ as she darted past him into the Great Hall, but because Death had given chase, his boots pounding the cobblestones as he closed the distance between them.
Mallory ducked behind three servants, the last remnants of an indoor searching party, and crouched, hoping to hide. Unfortunately, they provided her with little cover because the instant Varden burst through the door, they scattered like panicked chickens and Mallory found herself fully in his sight.
He pointed. “Stay right where you are!"
Mallory ran for the stairs.
"I said stay!” Varden bellowed and chased her up to the second floor.
By the time Mallory reached the upper hall, she had a hand pressed to her aching side and could barely catch her breath. Her new body was badly out of shape, but she couldn't afford to stop. Varden was taking the stairs two at a time, coming up fast behind her.
"Wait until I get my hands on you!"
His growl provided all the encouragement she needed to get moving again. Mallory barely reached her room ahead of him. She felt his fingers brush the back of her gown as she flung herself inside and slammed the door. She threw the locking bar into place just as his heavier bulk crashed into the other side. The entire frame rattled, but the door remained standing.
Thank God for sturdy English oak.
Amid an explosion of curses, Varden beat his fist against the door. Then all fell ominously silent.
Mallory pressed her ear to a crack in the rough wood planks, but there was no sound beyond her own pounding heart and ragged gasps for breath. Maybe she was safe.
"Claire,” Varden called softly, the wood muffling his voice. “Ma petite folle, you have until the count of three to let me in."
Relief made her giddy and Mallory leaned back against the door, laughing. “Not until you admit that what happened outside was all your fault. You're a tyrant and a bully, and you need help dealing with some unresolved anger issues."
How did one go about finding a psychiatrist in the sixteenth century? She closed her eyes, covered her face with her hands, and laughed until her stomach cramped. It wasn't until she heard the creak of door hinges that Mallory remembered her chamber adjoined his. She turned just as Varden, in all his black fury, stepped into the room.
Mallory worried her nightgown in her hands. “Are you very angry?"
He laughed without mirth, an evil throaty sound, and closed the door behind him.
As he started toward her, Mallory edged away from the door to keep from being cornered against it. “I have a great idea: let's take a time-out. Once we're both calm, I'll bet we can think of a nice, rational solution to our ongoing incompatibility problems."
"I already have the perfect solution for them.” With murderous intensity, Varden stalked her from across the room. “Come here, Claire. You're in enough trouble without my having to chase you down again."
She cringed against the wall even as she opened her mouth to correct him. “Mallory."
Varden paused. Anger darkened his eyes to a stormy shade of gray. He clenched his teeth and a muscle pulsed ominously along his jaw.
"I know it doesn't make a whole lot of difference,” she admitted. “But if you're going to kill me, the least you can do is get my name right."
"I am not going to kill you,” he smiled nastily, “Mallory. You're just going to wish I had."
Nervously, she licked her lips. Her only chance for escape lay with the table on the opposite end of the room. But first, she would have to get around the bed without being grabbed by Varden's itchy, twitching, menacing fingers. Panic flooded through her as she contemplated those hands. She had no doubts that he was going to beat her again. The last time had hurt so much, and Varden hadn't been anywhere near this angry then! What he would do to her now Mallory couldn't bear to think. Gasping, her eyes suddenly open wide, she pointed behind him. “Look! A dodo!"
"I couldn't care less."
"All right, fine.” Mallory grabbed a heavy vase from the knick-knack table beside her and hoped it wasn't expensive. “Catch!"
She flung it wildly and ran for the bed.
Instinctively, Varden ducked. The vase missed his head by inches and hit the wall instead. It shattered and he stared in shock at the pieces scattering at his feet. “That vase was as old as this castle."
Snatching the hem of her nightgown up in both hands, Mallory jumped onto her bed. She stumbled, her feet sinking deep into the feather mattress. Very nearly losing her balance, she grabbed the canopy curtains to steady her.
Varden leapt after her, even more angry than before, catching hold of her trailing skirts. He yanked. The canopy tore as Mallory toppled to the goose-down mattress. There was a second rip and the hooks that lined the back of her nightgown rained down to the floor.
"We don't have an incompatibility problem,” Varden growled as he pulled her back across the bed. His eyes glittered icily. “What we have is a problem with authority: I have all the authority and you constantly defy it. In front of my men, as well as the servants. And let us not forget the mead.” He reached for her ankle.
Mallory shivered, more frightened now that she had ever been in both her lives. After all, Varden was very strong and very angry, and she was in the body of the woman he hated. “What are you going to do?"
"I promise you'll faint before it becomes too painful."
"Oh!” Mallory twisted onto her stomach and rolled until her nightgown came up over her head. In an instant, she had wriggled free of it and once again ran for the table.
* * * *
Lying half across the bed, Varden stared at the abandoned nightgown as if unable to fathom exactly how it had come to be in his hands in the first place. Left in only a thin chemise, his wife had run halfway to the table before Varden recovered enough from his surprise to move.
She had already begun to lose the extra weight she had picked up during her confinement. What little she still retained only served to add a slight rounding to what would otherwise have been a willowy frame. A maelstrom of red curls tumbled over her shoulders and down her back, brushing tauntingly over the alluring swell of her bottom.
Her skin glowed healthy and pink, bared to his gaze, just waiting to be caressed. His eyes warmed briefly, then chilled as he remembered he wanted to throttle her. He could make love to her any time; how often did one get a good excuse for committing murder?
Claire watched him warily from behind the table, trembling and afraid.
He beckoned with one finger. “Come here, young lady."
She shook her head. “Not until you agree to discuss this like a rational adult."
Varden climbed off the bed. “I am as rational as any tyrannical bully with unresolved anger issues."
As he neared her, Claire moved to keep the table between them. Her hands touched lightly on the table's rough surface as she watched him come. Her legs were braced apart, her hips pushed slightly back. She unwittingly rocked back and forth as she tried to anticipate the direction that he would charge her, so she could run the other way.
Varden was suddenly decided: that was the position he wanted to take her in. Standing up, with her breasts filling his hands and her bottom arched back against him. As he kissed and caressed her, he would watch the pleasure playing across her face in the full-length mirror just beyond them. Of course, he would have to catch her first.
And kill her. He mustn't forget why he was here.
Planting his hands on the table, Varden vaulted over the top.
With a shrill shriek, Claire ducked and scrambled underneath. By the time his feet
touched the ground, she was pulling herself up on the opposite side. Once again with the table between them, they glared at one another: one afraid, covered better by the long tresses of her hair than what remained of her clothes; one incensed, but not so much with anger anymore.
"Well, well.” Varden smiled. “This is the first time I have had to chase you around the table when love-making was not the outcome."
Varden darted one way, his wife went the other, struggling to keep abreast of him. After two laps, he vaulted over the top again and Claire almost didn't swerve fast enough to avoid capture. She fled back across the room and ducked behind the settee. His fingers only barely brushed the ends of her hair before she was safely out of reach. Once again, they eyed one another from opposite sides of the furniture.
"This too has seen a lot of use.” Varden wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
She actually looked annoyed. “Is that all you think about?"
Varden grabbed the back of the settee as if about to jump over the top, but instead of running, as he anticipated, she smacked him across the chest with one of the pillows and dashed into his chambers. She tried to slam the door, but Varden grabbed it, shouting as his fingers were pinched between the door and the frame. In a raw burst of pain and renewed fury, he pushed into the room. But Claire was already running away. She headed for the biggest obstacle in the room—the bed and the open balcony doors, which stood a mere ten yards beyond that.
"Oh no you don't.” Varden ducked around the bed even as she scampered across the mattress to the other side.
She was quick. Thankfully, the skirts of her chemise hampered her mobility or he might never have got between her and the balcony in time.
The race was now over. He had just won.
Trapped by the bed that should have saved her, Claire faced him. She was panting and holding her side with one hand; he was barely winded. While her eyes were wide and wary, his were smugly half-closed. She still had a smudge of dirt on the end of her nose. He had the most incredible urge to bend down and kiss it.
Instead, he asked, “Are we to have laps around my bed now?"