by Tamara Leigh
Maxen grasped his arm and raised him to standing. “We will speak more of it on the morrow.”
Guy’s face solemn, though behind it there surely clamored a multitude of emotions, he took his leave.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Rhiannyn was not where she had feared she would be when she had told Maxen she yielded. Nor was she on the chest where she had fallen asleep. She was not even in his chamber.
In the dull light of a new morn, she sat up, causing the blanket up around her shoulders to slip to her waist and reveal she still wore Maxen’s robe. It was as disconcerting as knowing he had carried her to the hall, laid her on the bench where many a night she had gained her sleep, and covered her with a blanket. Unfortunately, her deliverance from his chamber had been too late to save her from the belief she had become his leman.
She frowned. Had he intended that? This the reason he had been so long in returning to her?
Immediately, she chastised herself for worrying over what others thought of her when there was the greater concern of what was to become of her people. Was the questioning done? If so, what had Maxen decided?
She stood, drew the blanket around her shoulders, and carefully stepped over and around sleeping figures. Knowing they would soon rise, and seeing from random vacant pallets some already had, she hurried across the hall in the hope Maxen was in his chamber.
He was yet abed, she saw when she came around the screen. She faltered, but seeing he was fully clothed atop the coverlet, crossed to the foot of the bed.
He opened his eyes. “I had not expected yours would be the first face I saw this morn,” he said, voice deep with the sleep out of which she had pulled him. He sighed, sat up against the headboard, and motioned her forward. At her hesitation, he said, “As I did not claim your yielding on the night past, surely you can trust I will not force myself on you.”
Feeling foolish, she stepped near.
“Speak,” he prompted.
“What of my people?” It came out in a rush. “Are you satisfied with their answers?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Hardly.”
She caught her breath. “Then—”
“They are safe, Rhiannyn. Sir Guy has questioned them, and it seems to be as you claim.”
Her knees softened so suddenly she had to brace her feet apart to remain upright. “I thank you for sparing their lives—for believing them and not Theta.”
“For the moment, it is as I believe,” he qualified, “and only for as long as your Saxons give me no further cause to question their place at Etcheverry.”
“They will not. They are loyal to you.”
He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and rose before her in the bit of dawn slipping through the window. “Then all will go well for them,” he said, gazing into the face she turned up to him.
She smiled as she had thought she might never again do, and a door within her swung open. In that moment, it was as if Maxen Pendery strode inside and crossed to the other side of her.
She felt a twinge of fear at letting in one she had thought her enemy, but before it could send roots down through her, he asked, “What of you, Rhiannyn? Are you also mine?”
His.
“Loyal to me?” he added.
Though in the dungeon, bound and blindfolded, she had insisted never would she accept him as her lord, she said, “As my people take you for their lord, I take you.”
He slowly nodded. “A good beginning.”
“Beginning?”
His gaze lowered to her mouth. “Would you permit me a taste of what I denied myself last eve?”
Though disquiet removed the last of her smile, his own mouth curved, softening his face. “A kiss only, Rhiannyn.”
As if it were no more than a touching of hands. But though she knew she ought to take her cue from memories of their past encounters, he asked little considering she would now be spoiled had he not released her from her yielding.
Silently vowing she would keep control of this encounter—one kiss, then parting—she moved nearer and rose to her toes. “You will have to bend your head to me,” she whispered.
He did, and their mouths met. That should have been all, but he was on this side of her now, and she longed for him to linger. She gripped his forearms, distantly acknowledged the blanket falling from her shoulders, and deepened the kiss.
It was heady, and she noted that always she had been more the recipient, giving only when given to, and best intentions went awry. Now, seeking beyond the limits a small voice told her she ought not trespass upon, she glided her hands over sinewed arms, across thick shoulders, curved one around his neck, and pushed the other into his hair.
Maxen set her back from him. “You would not wish it to go further, would you?” he said, the color of his eyes eclipsed by the dark of his pupils.
“Of course not,” she gasped and gripped the lapels of the robe closed.
He glanced at her white-knuckled hand. “As told on the night past, I will not ruin you.”
Had he not corrected her course, might she have allowed him to progress well beyond a kiss? she wondered, further shamed that the question so easily rose to mind.
Lord, what is happening to me? What do I feel for this man?
He stepped past her to his clothes chest. “Most unfortunate,” he said as he raised the lid, “it will surely be believed I ruined you on the night past, and I apologize. I should have seen you away from my chamber as quickly as possible.”
Then it was not intentional.
“But there may be some good in it—for both of us.” He began rummaging through his clothing.
“Good?” she asked.
He met her gaze. “My men will not think me weak for making concessions without gaining something of value in return.”
Something of value, she reflected, but though the reference embarrassed her, she could not be truly offended that he made it sound as if she were of greater worth than a harlot.
“What gain for me?” she asked.
“You may more easily move about without worry of unwanted attentions. My men will not cross me.”
They would believe she belonged to Maxen Pendery, just as when she had been Thomas’s intended. Nay, that was not exactly true, but the perception was the same—she was the property of one with the authority to punish.
“I see,” she said.
As he resumed his search of the garments, she remembered what needed to be told of the night Edwin had breached the castle walls.
“Maxen, about the third man—the one who escaped with Dora after she tried to bury me alive.”
He looked sharply at her. “He lives?”
“Nay. Edwin accuses you of killing him as well, though it was surely Dora who did not wish him to know what she tried to do to me.”
“Did you tell him?”
“I did, but he would not believe me. He knew naught of the grave.”
“She moved the bodies,” Maxen concluded. “Unfortunately for Harwolfson, his ignorance may prove his undoing.” After more tossing about of clothes, he asked, “How fare you with a needle?”
“I…am proficient.”
“Good. I am short of garments.”
The thought of sewing for him settled like lead in her stomach, though it was not the stitching she minded. It was the measurements and fittings it would take to produce his clothing.
“And clippers?” he asked.
“Clippers?”
He scissored his fingers across his brow. “I am in need of a cut.”
“I fear I am not good at that.” It was a half-lie, for many times she had trimmed her father’s wild beard and evened the ends of his long hair and that of her brothers. What was not a lie was that she had no experience with the Norman hairstyle of the crown cropped close and the back of the head shaven down to the base of the neck.
“You will do,” Maxen said.
Only if he preferred jagged-shorn hair to the severity of his monk’s tonsure. “I shall
do my best.”
He withdrew a well-worn tunic of coarse woolen, further proving he had not spoken false in telling he needed new garments.
When he began to remove the tunic he had slept in, Rhiannyn turned her back to him. And almost laughed. She, of whom it would be said had given her virtue to this man, feared looking upon his bared chest.
“It is done,” he said, and she heard the smile in his voice.
She turned back and saw he sat on the clothes chest.
“There is much to be done this day,” he said, pulling on his boots. “I will send a servant with proper attire so you may return to your duties.”
“I thank you.”
He stood. “No more will you work upon the wall. Understood?”
He meant to keep her from her people? To seclude her? “But—”
“I have spoken.”
Anger returning, she said tightly, “And I have heard, my lord.”
He strode to the screen, paused. “I have not said you cannot see them, Rhiannyn. Simply that you are not to assist them. Your duties are in the hall.”
Indignation draining, she nodded. “Once more, I thank you.”
His gaze momentarily fixed on her mouth, then he was gone.
Hoping she would not cross Maxen’s path, Rhiannyn followed the food being conveyed from the inner to the outer bailey where the Saxons labored on a wall nearing completion. If the weather held, another sennight would likely see it finished. But what then for the Saxons? Of what use would they be come another winter of less than adequate food? Would Maxen turn them out as Thomas had done with the others the year before, only then granting the freedom denied them in forcing them to work upon Etcheverry?
Determined to set aside her worry—for now—she returned her attention to the path in time to avoid tripping over a dog who had claimed what seemed the only ray of sunshine cast over the entire castle.
Wishing she wore a mantle to keep out the chill, she rubbed her arms and quickened her step to keep up with the women ahead.
Although she had offered to help carry food and drink, Mildreth had forbidden it, saying the lord of Etcheverry would look ill upon it. Thus, it was an awkward thing to go amongst her people with empty hands and without offer of easing their burden.
When she came to their notice, she saw their surprise, then guilt, and knew they believed she had sacrificed her virtue on the night past.
Meghan was the first to approach—hesitantly, then with a brisk stride. “How fare ye?” she asked, voice pitched low so no others might hear the delicate question.
“I am well.”
“Did the knave hurt you?”
“Not at all.”
Suspicion narrowed the woman’s lids, and she glanced over her shoulder at the wall. “I saw his anger on the night past. Ye need not lie.”
It was no easy thing to discuss, especially with so many onlookers, but Rhiannyn had to set her straight. And a double purpose it would serve, for all would be apprised by Meghan’s penchant for gossip, and their guilt eased. “I did not lie with him, Meghan. He…decided otherwise, and I slept in the hall.”
Her head jerked. “Ye do not say!”
“I do.”
She shook her head. “Imagine!”
Though Rhiannyn knew Meghan would eventually tell all, she was dismayed at the prospect of her doing so at this moment. “Pray, Meghan, speak not so loud.”
She glanced around, said more quietly, “It certainly explains why he is workin’ so hard.”
“Who?”
She jerked her head and darted her eyes upward.
Rhiannyn looked to the scaffolding against the wall upon which a half dozen men were held aloft. And there was Maxen. The clouded sky the backdrop against which his large figure was painted, he looked down at her, his tunic dark with the perspiration of a common man’s work.
Though they were separated by many feet, it felt as if he stood as near her as he had this morn. Blessedly, he did not look displeased that she had left the donjon.
“And here we were plottin’ how we might make him a permanent part of the wall,” Meghan muttered.
Rhiannyn shot her gaze to the woman.
“’Course that was when we thought…eh, he did you wrong.” Meghan chuckled. “I suppose we will have to let him live a while longer.”
Passing over the woman’s attempt at humor, Rhiannyn said, “I do not understand what he is doing here.”
“Workin’.”
Rhiannyn grimaced. “Aye. But what is his reason when ’tis not his place?”
Meghan gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Impatient. Says he wants the wall done so buildin’ can start on living quarters here in the bailey.”
“For whom?”
“Us, though I will not believe it ’til I see it.”
Movement returned Rhiannyn’s gaze to Maxen. He motioned others to precede him and began his descent of the ramp to the bailey where food and drink were being set out.
A fluttering in her chest, Rhiannyn almost wished he would remain the cur. Then she would be safe.
“And if that ain’t doubtful enough,” Meghan continued, “he says come spring he will lay out a village before the castle where we might dwell and from which we can work the land.”
Would he truly provide for them? Rhiannyn wondered. Or would he fold as Thomas had done? He seemed of stronger resolve than his brother, but again there was the question of who would be sacrificed when food supplies ran low. Certainly not his Normans.
“Aye, he said it,” Meghan continued, “but winter will tell.”
Rhiannyn watched Maxen pause to take drink, and when he continued toward her, warned, “He comes this way.”
Meghan looked around, grinned. “For all the Norman in him, he’s a fine-lookin’ man.
Rhiannyn frowned. For as little time as Maxen had spent among the Saxons, it did not seem possible he could have earned even the grudging admiration of a woman who still considered him the enemy.
“I must needs get my share of food ere the gluttons take it all,” Meghan said and hurried away.
Discomfited by the Saxons’ furtive glances and Maxen’s unswerving stare, Rhiannyn clasped her hands before her.
“Meghan?” he asked, halting before her. “The one who darkened your eye?”
“Aye, but we have become friends.”
He nodded and swept his gaze down her. “These garments fit better than those you had from Theta.”
She smoothed the skirts. Though the material was also worn and faded, it was not as threadbare or snagged. “I thank you for sending them to me.”
He inclined his head. “You waste no time.”
It took her a moment to catch up to his thoughts, but she realized he referred to her presence in the bailey. “I did not come to work, but to assure them all is well.”
He raised his eyebrows. “And is it?”
She let a smile lift her mouth. “You have made it so, my lord. But tell, for what do you labor on the walls when such is not the work of a lord?”
“To know these Saxons of yours better.”
“Is it not enough to know them from the high seat?”
“Not if I am to gain their loyalty.” He raised a hand to stop the denial she had been about to speak. “They may not have betrayed me with Harwolfson, but it is not by loyalty I hold them. It is by fear.”
He was right. “It is the way of the Normans,” she reminded him.
“If this land is to know lasting peace, that will have to change.”
“You think it will?”
“Once Edwin Harwolfson is brought to heel.”
His honesty hurt, but at least he had not lied. Seeking another direction for their talk, she asked, “What of Sir Ancel?”
His eyes narrowed. “What of him?”
Though he must know she had heard what had happened in the hall on the night past, she said, “I looked around the screen. Why do you naught about him when it was surely he who placed the dagger on my tray? When ye
stereve he threatened to put a blade through you?”
Maxen’s sudden smile was charmingly lopsided. “Are you concerned for my welfare, Rhiannyn, or for your Saxons should Ancel accomplish what he has twice failed to attain?”
Though weeks ago she would have denied concern for him, she said, “Both.”
“I am gladdened.” His smile widened. “And hungry.” He swung away.
“But what will you do?” she called after him.
“Wait,” he said over his shoulder.
Wondering what he meant, she turned toward the donjon. As she approached the causeway, a feeling of ill drew her eyes to the wall-walk. There stood Sir Ancel.
Rhiannyn’s feet forgot the simplicity of walking, and in the righting of her footing, she was forced to break eye contact with him. But when she looked up again, his gaze had traveled beyond her to where the Saxons and Maxen filled their bellies.
Shivering with a chill not of the wind, she continued up the causeway.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Ten days passed before Maxen paid Rhiannyn more attention beyond probing glances and the brushing of sleeves in passing. With the completion of the wall five days past, he now spent daylight hours in the hall with the ledgers, the steward, and one or another of his knights—usually Sir Guy.
Rhiannyn told herself she was grateful for his disregard. It allowed her time with her people and an easing of spirit she had long been without. But those days were not without difficulty. Theta took every opportunity to belittle her and boast of the attention the lord of Etcheverry paid her and the favors she cast his way. Rhiannyn tried not to believe that last, seeing no evidence of Maxen’s interest in the woman, but she was nagged with reminders of his loss of interest in herself.
“Fine, fine,” she muttered as she lifted a pry bar from its hook and crossed to the nearest ale barrel. “I do not care. Truly, I do not.”
She worked the flat end of the bar beneath the lid and pressed her weight on it, but it gave only slightly. She tried again, and with the same result.