Why had he forgotten the powerful weapon he had discovered earlier? She feared his lust. His caresses had provoked her last attack.
The knowledge intrigued Jobert, but also made him uncomfortable. Desire was a double-edged sword. He might intimidate her into submission with the threat of rape, but he also gave her power over him. Devious as she was, her woman’s wiles could be very dangerous indeed.
He reached out slowly. When she drew back, he lunged and wrested the hairbrush from her and threw it across the room.
Her body tensed in warrior fashion. She looked as if she meant to scratch his eyes out if he tried to touch her.
Which was exactly what he meant to do. This time he would be ready for her tricks. He would make certain she was weaponless, helpless.
He approached her deliberately. The tension in her body increased; the wariness in her eyes intensified. When his knees were touching hers, he pounced.
She tumbled backward on the bed, the breath going out of her as he hit her with his weight. She squirmed and tried to get free. He held her fast, his body pinning hers. He sought out her wrists and grasped them tightly, then awkwardly rolled, propelling them both farther onto the bed.
They lay there, face-to-face, panting. He did not give her time to catch her breath before his mouth found hers. She tightened her lips and jerked away, fighting the kiss. He shifted his weight to his elbows and knees and considered that the wisest course would be to find some rope and tie her to the bed. But to do that he would have to release her, then wrestle her down all over again. It seemed a great deal of trouble, especially when he almost had her subdued.
Instead, he straddled her lower body with his thighs, then brought his right hand over to his left and grasped both of her wrists with the fingers of his uninjured hand.
Now she was at his mercy. Her arms pinned, her legs secured, her furious mouth powerless.
It had been harder than he thought. She still strained against him, every muscle taut, her eyes wild and desperate. Her desperation made him recall his purpose. He meant to remind her that she was a woman, and vulnerable in a way a man could never be.
His breathing quickened as he regarded her provocative sprawl beneath him, her face flushed, hair wild, her breasts heaving from exertion. ’Twould be a lesson he would enjoy teaching.
He used his free hand to smooth her flaxen hair away from her face, and then trailed his knuckles across her cheek. The expression in her eyes told him that she feared his tender caresses more than brutality. He met her gaze, and then lowered his mouth to the thin fabric of the garment she wore, where he could discern the peak of her nipple. He sucked it into his mouth, fabric and all.
She gasped. He sucked harder. She thrashed, her body twisting wildly. He used his free hand to try to pull up her gown, wedged beneath her body. He gave a jerk and the threadbare fabric tore. She screamed at him, cursing in Saxon.
Panting heavily, he found her bare thigh and moved his hand upward. She clenched her legs together, but he found her cleft and stroked her, gradually easing one of his fingers between her thighs to press the hidden nub there.
She gave a low moan, then cried out in clear Norman French, “Mother of God, please stop!”
Jobert froze. “What did you say?” he whispered.
For long seconds, they stared at each other, At last, he said, “I will stop, but only if you tell me how came you to learn my language.”
She hesitated, her features in torment. Her voice was a rough moan. “I’m only a serving girl. I was brought here from... from Rouen... to serve the lord’s wife. I... I am skilled in embroidery. The mistress wanted me to teach her. ’Tis a special kind of needle art, called orafrais.”
He did not move his hand away. “I have been to Rouen, more than once. The maids there do not speak as you do.”
“My family they... they were from Flanders.”
“Yea, and I have been to Flanders as well.”
Edeva held her breath, praying silently. If only the Norman would believe her!
His green eyes were narrow with suspicion. “You understood everything?” he asked. “All my orders? My threats?”
Edeva nodded. She must keep to her story at all costs. If he found out who she really was, he might use her to entrap her brothers.
The Norman shook his head. “I’ve never known a servant as bold as you. Indeed, I’ve never known a woman as bold as you.”
Edeva squirmed, still feeling the bedeviling pressure against her intimate parts. “You said you would stop if I told you how I knew your language. Now you must honor your part of the bargain!”
“I do not bargain with liars.” His russet-colored brows rose. “Nor do I bargain with prisoners.”
Desperation surged through Edeva. She had given away her secret and it availed her not. He meant to rape her anyway!
She squirmed harder, which only gave him better access to the pulsing flesh between her thighs.
He watched her, a slight smile turning up his mouth. Then, abruptly, he moved his hand away. “It is good to know what you most fear, wench. Let us come to an agreement. I will not ravish you—that is, unless you defy me.” He grinned wolfishly, gazing down at her body. “If you dare to fight me, to refuse food, to defy my orders, I will tie you to the bed and have done with it.” His smile widened with lascivious threat “It has been a long time since I had a woman. I fear it would take me many nights ere I was satisfied.”
His words chilled her. But ’twas hope he offered. Hope that she could save her maidenhead.
“What say you?” He looked down at her again, licking his lips in a way that horrified her. She remembered exactly how those lips had felt suckling her breast. “Do we have a bargain?” he asked.
Mutely, Edeva nodded.
He released her, then stood up and retrieved the platter from the table. “Now, you will eat. You will drink the fine wine I offer. Then, since you say you are a seamstress by trade, you will sew me some clothing.”
SIX
Edeva jabbed the needle furiously into the thick wool. Overgrown oaf! It had taken nearly all the remaining els of wool in her mother’s chest to cut out pieces large enough to fit the Norman’s lanky body, and she had no means of replenishing their supply. The lazy serving girls who should have been weaving the bales of wool in the storage shed were instead cavorting shamelessly with the lustful soldiers.
She turned the huge tunic sideways and examined her handiwork. Did the foolish Normans think that a holding like Oxbury ran itself? That servants and workmen fulfilled their duties without direction? Already, Edeva could name a dozen vital tasks that had been neglected.
All the Normans cared about was their stomachs! If the women saw fit to cook for them, they were satisfied. Meanwhile, the weaving, candlemaking, soapmaking and cleaning remained undone.
She could only imagine how the hall must look. The rushes filthy with refuse and the noxious pests it attracted. The trestle tables coated with grease and spilled food. The whitewashed walls black with smoke. And the whole place reeking of stale ale and men!
Edeva gritted her teeth. Her home, defiled and ruined by Normans, and she could do nothing. She remained locked away, sewing for the leader of her enemies! Putting the tunic aside, she went to the window. Some of the soldiers were out in the yard, practicing with blunted swords. A group of kitchen wenches watched from the sidelines. Edeva wanted to scream at them, to demand that the women get to work.
She could not. ’Twas not the task of a seamstress to give orders, and she must stick to the story she had given the Norman leader. If he knew she was Leowine’s daughter, and the proper mistress of Oxbury, he might take advantage of that fact and use her to lure her brothers into a trap.
But she worried that the Norman had already guessed who she was. Had his attitude not changed completely as soon as he knew she spoke his language? One moment, he was ravishing her. The next he bargained with her, promising not to touch her if she did his will.
So far, he h
ad honored their agreement. He kept his distance when he brought his ruined tunic so she could measure it for size. He had slept elsewhere the last few nights and had another man bring her food and drink, a sweet-faced soldier a head shorter than the monster Norman. This knight was more than respectful. In fact, he appeared to regard her with dread.
Edeva began to pace. Despite her improved circumstances, she felt restless and uneasy. Part of it was her frustration at watching the Norman’s appalling mismanagement of the manor and her worry over her brothers. But part of it was something else—a vague disappointment that the Norman could forget her so easily. Would he leave her locked away forever, endlessly sewing garments for him and the other men?
She had never understood why he rescued her from the storage cellar. And why not rape her then, when she was bound and helpless, rather than grappling with her later? Most of all, she could not imagine why he did not beat her, or worse, when she attacked him. There was an element of restraint to his actions that baffled her.
Mayhaps he was being cautious. In truth, he was a clever, devious bastard. It had not taken him long at all to guess that nothing horrified her as much as the feel of his hands on her.
She closed her eyes, swallowing hard. ’Twas unthinkable that her enemy could beguile her traitorous body. Why, he had made her wet... he had made her want...
She tried to force the distressing sensations away, but they seemed imprinted on her flesh.
Edeva took a deep breath. She must stop thinking about the way he had touched her. Instead, she should turn her mind to escaping. His vigilance over her grew lax. Gone was the guard from the stairs. Now all that stood between her and freedom was a dagger jammed into the door to secure it.
She went to the heavy oak door and pushed. The heavy iron weapon barring it seemed to move a fraction. She tried again, throwing all her weight behind the effort.
She drew back for another attempt. The sound of a sudden commotion in the yard stopped her. The Norman had returned.
She could hear his loud voice berating the soldiers, and when she went to the window, she saw him, dressed in his new hose and old tunic, pacing up and down the yard, gestulating angrily. He, too, had noticed the idleness of the women and other servants. He was yelling at the men to find something for the “damned Saxons” to do. He rattled off a dozen tasks that needed attention.
Edeva considered all the things he forgot in his tirade. The Norman was concerned with the livestock and the defense of the manor, but he had no comprehension of the many other things that desperately needed attention before winter.
And she would not tell him. Let him discover that there were no tallow candles or oil for the lamps to light the hall during long winter evenings. Let them live on bread and cabbage because the Norman had not seen fit to see to their other foodstores. Let them all go barefoot next season when there was no cured leather to make new shoes.
A twinge of guilt went through her. The villagers and their families would suffer most. They depended upon the manor workshops for the goods they could not raise or make themselves. If she allowed the Norman to make an utter muddle of things—to set the skilled workmen to menial tasks, permit the weaving women to act like slothful whores until their bellies swelled with half-Norman brats, endured his men behaving like brainless squires—’twas her people who would pay the price.
Edeva sighed and went back to her sewing. She would like to think that her brothers would reclaim the manor before any of those disasters befell them, but she no longer had much hope. Oxbury could not be taken unless some of the Normans left. Only against a smaller garrison could the Saxon rebels succeed. And it did not look as if the Normans were going anywhere.
* * *
“Jesu, Jobert, you are in foul temper this day,” Alan said as they went into the hall. “You’ve done naught but yell from the moment you rose from your sleeping place.”
Jobert grunted and took a seat on one of the benches. Something stuck to his hose and he stood up, bellowing, “This place is a pigsty! Don’t any of the women know how to clean?” He reached down and swiped at the bench, grimacing at the gob of honey encrusted there. “Christ’s bones! My new clothes!”
Alan snapped his fingers and a puffy-faced woman left the group of other servants standing in the corner. He gestured toward the filthy bench. She took an already soiled rag and rubbed at the spot.
“As if that will help,” Jobert said sarcastically. “How long has it been since they did any laundry? Their own clothes look disgusting, and I doubt there is a clean piece of linen in the place.”
Alan shrugged. “’Tis Hamo’s responsibility to order the women.”
“Well, see that he does it,” Jobert grumbled, then added, “Nay, I will talk to him myself. He obviously doesn’t understand what is expected of him. He sees his duty as a license to bed every wench he takes a fancy to!”
“I gave him your orders. In fairness, I do not think he knows what the women are supposed to do. He has no experience in managing a household. Nor do any of us.”
Jobert heard the resentment in Alan’s voice and felt an answering aggravation. ’Twas not all the men’s fault. They had never been charged with these sorts of tasks before. In an army train there were washer women and cooks, and every castle had a whole crew of servants working under a skilled steward.
“Mayhaps I should have Rob take over supervising the women,” he said. “He has a gentler manner and would be less likely to encourage them in drunkenness and fornication.”
“Mayhaps.” Alan shrugged again and took a swallow of the warm ale another woman brought them. He made a face. “I would not drink it.” He pushed Jobert’s cup away from him. “’Twill make your belly ail.”
“God’s blood!” Jobert pounded his fist on the table. “Where is the brewer? I’ll have him flogged for trying to poison us!”
“I sent him out to herd cattle.”
“You what?”
Normally unflappable, Alan flinched at Jobert’s livid expression. “We’re short of men to care for the livestock, and he’s a brawny, lively sort. I thought he could manage both. But he must have drawn off the ale too soon.”
Jobert shook his head. His dream of possessing a prosperous demesne was being thwarted by a group of incompetent nitwits! Worse yet, he could not be rid of them because they were his own soldiers.
“What this place needs is a chatelaine,” Alan said. “A woman’s touch. ’Tis a pity none of the old thegn’s womenfolk remain.”
Jobert looked at the stairs leading to the upper story. Alan followed his gaze, and then shook his head. “You cannot mean the hellcat. What would one such as her know about managing a household?”
“She sews as well as any woman I’ve known, Never have I had such a comfortable, well-fitted pair of hose.” Jobert touched the soft wool covering his legs, still in awe of the fineness of the garment.
“But you said she was a seamstress from Flanders.”
Jobert snorted. “She is no seamstress.”
* * *
Slowly, Jobert climbed the stairs. He was uneasy with what he was about to do, but he had no choice. Alan spoke the truth. Oxbury needed a chatelaine, a competent, strong-willed woman who could set things right.
He was not certain what countless, important tasks the Saxons were leaving undone every day. But he knew there were many. If they were not to starve this winter, they must begin the butchering soon, and he had not found the salt necessary to preserve the meat. In a Norman household, it would be kept in a hidden cache and the chatelaine of the keep would have the key.
The chatelaine, He could think of only one person who might possibly fill that role.
The Saxon woman was almost certainly a member of Leowine’s family. His daughter, or a younger sister. Only a woman born to privilege and wealth would act as she did, daring to defy and fight her conquerors. No servant or seamstress would even think of it.
He had avoided facing the obvious because he did not want to get mor
e entangled with the wench. She made him nervous, not only because she was shrewd and devious, but because he desired her. He could not get the image of her tempting body out of his mind. Her bountiful breasts, smooth creamy skin, that remarkable golden thatch between her thighs.
Jesu, he had to stop thinking about it. About how she was his helpless prisoner. About how he could do anything he wanted to her. If he did not force the tantalizing ideas from his mind, he would completely forget the bargain he had made and ravish her like a wild beast!
He’d avoided her the past few days. Slept on a bench in the hall like the other men and had Rob attend to her needs. But if he asked her to be his chatelaine, to help him in running the manor, he would no longer be able to keep his distance. He would have to speak with her regularly, to look at her. And all the while, he would be painfully aware of what exquisite treasures her clothes concealed.
Jobert paused before the bedchamber door and took a deep breath. He had no choice. If he did not want to watch his dreams sink beneath the mire of his own and his men’s incompetence, he had to ask the woman for aid.
He jerked the dagger out of the doorjamb and went in. Crossing to where the woman sat sewing by the window, he planted his feet. “I need your help.”
The Norman’s words stunned Edeva. This man, this ruthless warlord who did whatever he willed, was asking her for aid?
“I know you are a noblewoman, that you understand the running of a household. I would have you take charge of this place, ere it falls down around our heads.”
“How...” Edeva’s throat was so dry, she could hardly speak. “What makes you think I am a noblewoman?”
The Norman’s face grew calculating. “You would not have dared to fight me as you have if you did not feel a claim to this place.”
“I am merely a seamstress from Flanders.” She twisted her hands in the tunic fabric, trying to appear frightened.
He moved within a pace of her, staring her down with his green eyes. “Nay, you are not.”
The Conqueror (Hot Knights) Page 6