LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride

by Tamara Leigh

  When she exited the shadows, Theta snatched the fine bliaut from her, turned, and hastened toward the donjon. As she ascended the steps, Sir Guy intercepted her and spoke something that did not carry past Theta’s ears. But it made the woman smile and more quickly delivered her into the hall.

  Wondering what news she had been borne, Rhiannyn frowned at her companion.

  Mildreth shrugged and grimaced at the picture Rhiannyn presented. “A shame,” she said. “Now even I look better than you.” She swung toward the kitchen. “Come, I will show you where the buckets are.”

  Wishing Mildreth had not said anything, Rhiannyn followed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Perhaps he would have been tempted if she had not pranced into his chamber wearing the bliaut he had last seen on Rhiannyn, reminding him of what he had given up by not seeking further truths from the woman he should not want. But Maxen could not take what Theta offered, and not only because she was not Rhiannyn, but for the recent reminder that the act of repentance stolen from him did not give him leave to reject the teachings of the Church.

  He reached up, pulled Theta’s arms from around his neck, and set her back from him.

  She opened her eyes wide. “Milord?”

  As he peered into her face, he wondered again what hold Rhiannyn had over him. In a dark way, Theta was more beautiful, her woman’s body more voluptuous, yet she left him unmoved.

  “Not now,” he said and turned away.

  Behind, he heard the crackle of rushes as she followed. “But milord”—she slid her arms around his waist—“Sir Guy thought you might like company.”

  He was not surprised the knight had sent her. Guy knew the appetites of the Maxen of old, and when he had returned to the hall following Rhiannyn’s exit and his lord had barked at him, he had surely believed he knew the cure for Maxen’s mood. But it was not Theta.

  He turned. “Leave. Now.”

  He glimpsed resentment a moment before she covered it with a seductive smile. “Later, then.” She smoothed her hands down the bliaut that was too snug, though it emphasized her breasts and plentiful hips to good advantage. Doubtless, it had been traded for the clothing he had ordered Rhiannyn to wear for her new duties.

  The bliaut off one shoulder, she fluttered her lashes. “Do not be too long in sending for me, milord. If ’tis not you, it will be another.”

  Which was among the reasons he did not desire her. The leavings of other men she had lain with, including Thomas, held no appeal, though before he had taken his monk’s vows, he had enjoyed the pleasures of experienced women who sought his attentions.

  “So be it,” he said.

  Resentment once more rising in her eyes, though this time she did not turn it into a smile, she pivoted and stepped around the screen.

  Blowing breath up his face, Maxen turned to the bed, tugged off his tunic, and tossed it on the mattress. As he reached to his braies, he glanced at the tub that had been delivered earlier. And wondered at the water missing from it.

  Water sloshed over Rhiannyn’s bandaged hand. Thankfully, it was no longer boiling as when she had first taken up the buckets. Barely noticing the heat, she stared at the woman coming from Maxen’s chamber with one shoulder of her new bliaut askew.

  Theta looked angry, but upon noticing Rhiannyn, her tongue darted out to taste her lower lip and she changed course and halted before Rhiannyn.

  “As eager as Thomas,” she purred. “Ah, but how would you know, hmm? Thomas wanted you as his wife only. It was me he wanted in his bed.”

  And her he’d had.

  Unwanted emotions gripped Rhiannyn—hurt, sorrow, even jealousy that Maxen might have lain with Theta. Nay he had lain with her, she forced herself to acknowledge. Sir Guy his messenger, he had sent for the woman for no other purpose than to bed her.

  But why did she care? She had not cared when Thomas continued to take Theta into his bed after proclaiming Rhiannyn would be his wife. In fact, she had been grateful he had channeled his desire into another. But she was not grateful Maxen had done so.

  A movement past Theta drew Rhiannyn’s gaze. Maxen came around the screen, chest bare, braies all that covered him hips to calves—further confirmation he had done with Theta what he would have done with her had she not stopped him.

  Though it seemed his intent to advance farther into the hall, he halted when he saw the two women.

  His stare sent her emotions soaring where they had no right to spread their wings, and she determinedly told herself it was not hurt she felt but relief, not sorrow but joy, and certainly not jealousy.

  Theta followed her gaze around and whispered, “Fear not. He has no need of you now.”

  Rhiannyn squared her shoulders and stepped past her. Staring at a point beyond Maxen, she continued forward. Blessedly, she was allowed to pass without comment. But after she emptied her buckets into the tub, Maxen stepped into her path.

  “What is this?” He flicked the sleeve of her ill-fitting bliaut.

  She pinned her eyes to his chin. “More appropriate, my lord. Exactly as ordered.”

  “Not exactly, but I suppose it will do.”

  “It does just fine. Now do you step aside, I will bring more water for your bath.”

  He inclined his head and let her pass.

  The buckets swinging from her hands, she contained the expression of her relief until she exited the hall and once more gained the shadows of the donjon. Assuring herself she needed only a few moments to compose herself, she dropped the buckets and leaned back against the wall. But the moments grew long as she fought anger and hurt. She swallowed hard, but the lump in her throat lodged itself again. She unclenched her hands, but the tension remained. All because Maxen Pendery had pulled back when she had asked it of him—and, instead, turned to Theta.

  “Rhiannyn?”

  She opened her eyes.

  Christophe stood before her. “Something is wrong?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I am not feeling well. That is all.”

  “Your hand?”

  It pained her some to carry water, but it was insignificant compared to this other thing she felt. “My hand is fine. It is my head that fares poorly.”

  “Perhaps I have something that will help.”

  “It will pass,” she said and stooped to retrieve her buckets.

  “With the injury to your hand, you should not be hauling water,” he said as she stepped around him.

  She continued to the kitchen, and five more times came and went, in silence emptying the water while Maxen watched from the chair in which he reclined. However, the last time she rounded the screen, she stuttered to a halt. He sat in the tub, head back against the rim, eyes closed.

  Lest she suffer further humiliation, she nearly retreated, but another part of her would not allow it.

  Arms aching, the cut fingers of her hand burning, she carried the buckets to the tub. She set one down, lifted the other, and stared ahead as she poured the water. She did the same with the second and turned away.

  “You are not going to assist with my bath?” Maxen asked.

  Her back to him, she said, “It is not among my duties, but if you would like, I shall send a squire.”

  “Or Theta.”

  She nearly startled. “Or Theta.”

  “Of course, I could make it one of your duties.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, but quickly looked forward again. “I ask that you do not.”

  “I see no harm in it.”

  Certainly not for him. “I prefer not to, my lord.”

  “Rhiannyn.”

  Something in his voice tugged at her, but she refused to answer it.

  “Rhiannyn,” he said again, and his wet hand encircled her wrist, pulled her around, and tugged her forward.

  Given the choice of joining him in the tub or dropping to her knees beside it, she chose the latter.

  He released her wrist and moved his hand to her jaw. “Do not believe everything you see—or are told
.”

  Struggling to suppress the stirring within, she said, “I know not what you speak of.”

  Maxen searched her face, and despite the warning voices in his head, said, “Then I will show you,” and leaned forward and crossed his mouth over hers. With the first touch of their lips, longing once more sprang through him—as it had not with Theta. He desired one woman. But she refused him, and his point had yet to be made.

  When he released her, she sprang back onto her heels, overturning the buckets. Upon gaining her feet, she dragged a hand across her mouth as if to wipe away all traces of him—or, perhaps, Theta.

  He settled back in the tub. “As I said, do not believe everything you see or are told. It was not Theta who last knew my touch. It was you.”

  “You think it matters to me with whom you lie?” she snapped. “As long as it is not me, I care not.”

  Maxen closed his eyes in an attempt to savor the warmth of a bath he had long been denied. “I warned you about that lying of yours, Rhiannyn. Either better it, or be done with it.”

  He felt her silence, then heard her footsteps.

  Wondering at the mess he had made of things, he pushed a hand through his hair and settled it at the back of his tonsured head that was hardly tonsured anymore. In place of the smooth scalp he had often shaved at the monastery was hair—short, but before long it would wipe away the last vestiges of the monk, leaving him no more a man of God and, instead, the lord he had not wanted to become. The lord Rhiannyn had made him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It was worse than expected, especially where Maxen was concerned. There was no hiding from him, nowhere in the hall to retreat from the weight of his stare. And to worsen matters, many looked at her with open speculation as to what had occurred between her and their lord when they had been ordered from the hall this morn.

  Let them speculate, she told herself. While Thomas lived, his claim on her had prevented the knights from bothering her as they did other Saxon women. If they believed Maxen also claimed her, mayhap it would serve the same purpose—unless they thought her the same as Theta. Praying otherwise, Rhiannyn lifted one of two vessels she carried and poured ale into the tankard thrust at her.

  “Ale!” another called from farther down the table.

  Feeling pulled in too many directions, she hurried forward and discovered it was Sir Ancel who summoned her—needlessly so. She shifted her gaze from his full tankard to his satisfied expression and started to move opposite, but he grabbed her arm.

  “Where are you going, wench?”

  “There are others awaiting drink, whose needs are real.”

  “And mine is not?” He raised his tankard to his mouth, pulled long on it, and set it on the table. “My tankard is not full.”

  Biting back a retort, she filled his tankard to the brim.

  He did not release her, but drank down half the ale and once more presented the tankard.

  She poured and tugged to free herself.

  Tightening his grip, he eyed her bandaged hand. “You cut yourself?”

  “A mishap.”

  “With a dagger, I presume?”

  A chill swept her. It had to be he who had placed the instrument of Maxen’s death beneath her napkin.

  Grateful for the unanswered calls for more drink, she said, “It is not only you I serve, Sir Ancel.”

  “Not yet, but it shall be.”

  “More wine!” Maxen shouted from the high seat.

  Grin grotesque, the knight released her.

  Heart beating so hard she thought it might burst, Rhiannyn whirled around. But in the time it took to cross to the dais, she collected enough of herself to pour Maxen’s drink without spill.

  “You are slow,” he said as she drew back.

  “Forgive me. I was detained.”

  “Sir Ancel?”

  She was surprised he had noticed. “It was.”

  “For what reason?”

  Believing it would be petty to complain against the knight for taunting her, she said, “He was quite thirsty.”

  “For?”

  “Ale.”

  Maxen leaned forward. “You will tell me if he ever grows thirsty for anything other than drink?”

  Heat rushing to her face, she nodded.

  He sat back. “Resume your duties.”

  Moving down the table, she filled tankards and goblets as she went, and when she had emptied her last drop, she hastened to the barrels against the wall to replenish her supply. There she crossed paths with Lucilla, with whom she had not had an opportunity to speak since the day before when the dagger had appeared on her tray.

  “I must needs discuss something with you,” she said.

  A frown rising on her pretty face, Lucilla shifted her tray of viands to the opposite hand. “Now?”

  “When the meal is finished.”

  The woman nodded and continued on her way.

  Rhiannyn refilled both vessels and turned to find Maxen’s gaze upon her. She looked away.

  Unfortunately, the nooning meal stretched into the evening meal without break, and expanded further into a night of drinking that left her feeling haggard.

  Although it took her a while to catch on, she realized what motivated Maxen to allow and even encourage such indolence. Drinking little himself, he watched and listened as those around him relaxed under the effects of alcohol, their tongues loosening, their manners careless.

  He studied them, measuring them for loyalty and integrity while he searched for the betrayer or one who could tell him the name of the betrayer. And yet it seemed he knew, for his gaze often returned to Sir Ancel.

  Finally, he rose and pronounced the night at an end. There was grumbling, but all began preparing to bed down.

  Using the opportunity created by the commotion of tables and benches being pushed against walls in readiness for the night’s sleep, Rhiannyn slipped out of the hall, crossed the courtyard, and entered the kitchen. There she found Lucilla. Sitting on a stool, head on the table, the woman slept in the solitude and quiet offered by this place far removed from the hall.

  Rhiannyn nearly retreated. As certain as she was it was Sir Ancel who had placed the dagger, the question she had wanted to put to the woman seemed hardly worth awakening her for. But she shook Lucilla’s shoulder.

  Groaning, the woman lifted her head and looked bleary-eyed at her. “’Tis finished with?”

  “Aye, they gain their beds.”

  “Too drunk to bother with me, I hope.”

  “I think so.”

  Lucilla sat back. “So when I finally have a chance for a night’s uninterrupted sleep, ye awaken me to talk?”

  “I am sorry, but there is something I need to know.”

  “About the dagger?”

  Rhiannyn felt as if punched in the stomach. Was it possible this woman was responsible? “How did you know?”

  Lucilla cleared sleep from her eyes. “I’ve been questioned by the lord who wished to know if I was responsible.”

  Of course. “You did not put it on my tray?”

  Lucilla smiled wryly. “Two years ago, I would have done it while I was yet abrew with foolish pride and hate for the Normans. Now…” She shook her head. “Such a risk I would not take. Though it has not been easy, I have come to accept these new masters, just as I accepted Edwin’s father when he held these lands.”

  When all of Etcheverry belonged to the Harwolfsons, Rhiannyn reflected. When the fields had run with the water of irrigation, rather than the blood of men.

  Lucilla clasped her hand over Rhiannyn’s. “They are not leaving. Accept it.”

  Rhiannyn turned her palm up into the woman’s, squeezed, then pulled free and stepped back from the table. “Thank you. I am owing to you.”

  Lucilla shrugged. “’Tis the way of friends.”

  Rhiannyn’s sagging heart took notice. Was she no longer suspected of betraying her people? “Truly?” she asked.

  “Truly.”

  One shining star to l
ight the night of this miserable day, Rhiannyn smiled and turned to leave.

  “What is it between ye two?” Lucilla asked.

  The question pulled Rhiannyn back around. “Between us?”

  “You and Maxen Pendery. What is between ye that was not with Thomas?”

  Rhiannyn nearly startled. “I know not what you speak of.”

  Lucilla fanned a yawn from her mouth. “I felt the air between you when I came to the lord’s chamber. I saw how ye watched each other this night. And now, at mention of his name, you flush like a girl about to know her first lover.”

  Rhiannyn gasped. “You are wrong!”

  “Am I?”

  “What would I want with him? And he with me? He has Theta.”

  “Has he?”

  “He took her to his bed this day.”

  Lucilla frowned. “Ye are certain?”

  “He denied it, but I saw her come from his chamber with her clothes mussed, and he in naught but braies.”

  Lucilla stood. “He denied it?” she asked, suspicion crossing her sleepy-eyed countenance.

  Rhiannyn felt cornered, as if her next words could determine whether or not she became a meal for Lucilla. “Aye, but I know different. As Thomas took Theta to his bed, so does his brother.”

  “Does it bother ye?”

  “Not at all! Why do you ask such questions?”

  “We are friends, are we not?”

  “I begin to wonder.”

  Lucilla laid a hand on Rhiannyn’s arm. “We are friends, which is why I ask these things. If only to yourself, ye must admit what you feel for our lord. Then perhaps it can be used to your advantage.”

  Rhiannyn scoffed. “I want naught from him.”

  “Then in time, you will become his leman when ’tis his wife ye should seek to be.”