The Baron's Quest

by Margaret Moore

  A part of her told her to remain skeptical. It had been a long time. It was possible Bryce had talked about the incident. Nevertheless, she couldn’t quite subdue the hope that Philippe might be able to help her find her brother. “If you do know where Bryce is, won’t you help me? Can you tell me if he is well—sir?”

  Philippe came closer. “Give me a kiss, and you shall have your answer.”

  Was he asking so much when she might finally discover where Bryce was? Once she had that information, she could send for, her brother, and all would soon be made right. “Very well,” she said, steeling herself for Philippe’s touch and closing her eyes. “One kiss.”

  Philippe de Varenne had been drinking, as she realized when he put his lips upon hers. His sour breath and sloppy, wet kiss filled her with disgust and seemed to last an eternity before he drew back.

  “Where is my brother?” she asked, anxious to wipe her mouth and remove any evidence of his kiss. She did not, because Philippe might see her action as an insult and refuse to divulge his information.

  Philippe frowned. “That was hardly what I would call a kiss, my dear. You might have been dead, for all your enthusiasm.”

  “You did not specify that I had to make a pretence of enjoying it, sir,” she said with a deferential tone distinctly at odds with the revulsion she was feeling. “Please, where did you see Bryce?”

  “One more kiss—and one with some passion—and I will tell you what part of France he was in.”

  “Then he is in France?”

  “No fair guessing,” Philippe chided. “Now, with an attempt at ardor, if you please.”

  Gabriella hesitated. His kiss was unwelcome and his touch made her feel soiled, but France was large, and she had to know more if she was to find Bryce. “Very well,” she muttered.

  She put her hands on Philippe’s shoulders and pulled him close, moving her lips over his with all the pretence of passion she could muster.

  Philippe’s grip tightened and, when she tried to pull away, he put his hand on the back of her head so that she could not move. His other hand snaked around her waist as he pinned her against the wall and shoved his knee between her legs. With increasing panic, she pushed against his chest with all her might, to no avail. “It’s not so terrible, is it?” he said, his mouth trailing across her cheek. “I knew you would enjoy it if you would give me a chance.”

  She forced herself not to react as his hand slid up her arm and his lips traveled lower. “Where is my brother?” she demanded fiercely.

  “I’m afraid, my dear, that the answer has momentarily slipped my mind,” he mumbled.

  “I kissed you!” she charged, once again trying to push him away. “I knew I couldn’t trust your word! I shall tell the baron what you’ve done!”

  He put one hand on the wall on either side of her, trapping her between his muscular arms. “Aren’t you forgetting something, my fiery Gabriella?” Philippe asked, shoving his face uncomfortably close. “I am a knight, and you are a servant, because of Baron DeGuerre. Who will the baron listen to, eh? Or have I made a terrible mistake? Perhaps you are closer to the baron than any of us knows. Has the little serving wench become something rather more?”

  “You are despicable!” She shoved him with all her strength, knocking him off balance. He stumbled backward and she darted past him, colliding with a pile of flour bags. She scrambled over them and ran to the door. With a thankful gasp, she yanked it open and fled into the courtyard.

  Philippe did not follow her. For one thing, he was too tired and too dizzy from drink, or perhaps the feel of that delectable body in his arms. For another, he was quite satisfied that the baron had not yet bedded her. Therefore, even if she did complain that he had reneged on their little bargain, no nobleman—not even the upstart Baron DeGuerre—would dare to take her side against Philippe de Varenne.

  The castle’s small chapel was as silent as a catacomb in the middle of the night watch, and dim as a mystic’s cave. The long, narrow nave was lit only by the small flickering flames of votive candles, for the moonlight was not strong enough to penetrate the stained-glass window. The ornately carved altar was barely visible. The narrow bench upon which the lone occupant sat was cold and hard, like the stone floor beneath his feet.

  Etienne bowed his head and sighed heavily. He had not come here to commune with God or the saints. He was here because the numbing effects of his mother’s potion had worn off and the ache in his ankle was so bad that he couldn’t sleep. There was only a small amount of the medicine left, so rather than use any more, he had come here where he could endure alone.

  He had managed to leave the bedchamber without disturbing Josephine, who had seemed rather distant during the days since his return. Perhaps she was upset that he had gone on a journey without her. Maybe she was annoyed that he had been too tired, and in too much secret pain, to make love with her recently. It could be that she realized he was losing interest in her, which was surely only because they had been together for several months. Such a lessening of desire was only natural.

  Whatever it was, he could be sure that Josephine would never ask him. Nor would she complain, or criticize him in any way. She understood the precarious nature of her position too well. He could not imagine Josephine de Chaney upbraiding him in a castle courtyard in front of his men and the servants, as Gabriella had that first day.

  Gabriella. What was it about her that penetrated the defenses of his heart, to reach the tenderness he had forgotten he possessed?

  He let himself remember kissing Gabriella. The emotions her touch aroused in him were so startling in their strength!

  Strength? That was amusing. What he felt was a weakness. Gabriella Frechette, with her big brown eyes and pale pink cheeks, was more of a danger to him than Philippe de Varenne or a hundred others ever would or could be. Had he not learned the folly of misplaced love at his mother’s knee?

  Suddenly a noise interrupted his bitter reverie. His hand went swiftly to the ever-present dagger in his belt and he rose cautiously, turning to peer into the moonlit dimness, glad as always that his black garment would make it that much more difficult for anyone to see him when he had no wish to be seen.

  Someone was just inside the door, motionless, waiting expectantly. Who—an assassin? Why wait? For an accomplice? God’s blood, he should, for it would take more than one man to kill Etienne DeGuerre!

  Keeping in the shadowed recesses of the frigid and uneven stone walls, Etienne made his way toward the unwelcome intruder, his sore ankle completely forgotten, his tread silent as a cat’s.

  The shape had sidled closer to the basin of holy water. Etienne was soon there and he reached out to grab the intruder around the neck. A very slender, soft neck, Etienne noticed as the intruder let out a strangled cry of pain and surprise.

  Almost immediately, Etienne realized he had a woman by the throat and relaxed his grip.

  “Who…who is it?” the woman gasped, rubbing where his hand had grabbed her.

  “Baron DeGuerre Gabriella?” Given the tram of his previous thoughts, her appearance seemed like a supernatural visitation.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  At the sound of her husky voice there in the dark, he felt a remarkable sensation of pleasure and desire run through him, vibrating like the chords of a harp.

  He was in danger of becoming as sentimental as a minstrel. “I thought you were an assassin,” he explained matter-of-factly as he tucked his dagger back into his belt. “It is not wise to come upon me in such a manner.”

  There was something obviously wrong, he realized, as he surveyed her in the dim light. Her clothes were askew and torn, her hair unkempt, and her eyes puffy, as if she had been crying. “Are you hurt?”

  “I thought no one was here, Baron DeGuerre,” she said, a tremor in her voice that alarmed him. He caught the slight scent of stale wine. It mingled with the waxy smell of the candles, the damp air of the chapel and the lingering incense of the mass. But she was not drunk, despite h
er appearance.

  “What is it?” he asked quietly. “What has happened to send you here in the chapel at this hour?” He took hold of her cold hand and drew her farther inside the nave. Her fingers tightened around his hand like the clasp of a child who has been frightened, and comes to seek help. Her apparent trust pleased him greatly and made his distress at her state all the more intense.

  “I…I couldn’t sleep. On my way here, I tripped and fell.”

  “I am not a stupid man, Gabriella,” he said, a hint of frustration in his voice. “Even in this light, I can see that your hair is untidy, your garments are in disarray and you are upset. Something or someone has frightened you, or perhaps tried to do you harm. Since it is my duty to ensure the orderly running of my household and the safety of everyone in it, I demand to know what has happened.”

  “I can’t tell you,” she whispered, tugging her hand from his and glancing at his face with a defiant look.

  “You will if I order you to.”

  “How can I be sure you will believe me?”

  “Why would I not?”

  “Because I am nothing but a servant.”

  “Am I to infer from this that someone of higher rank is responsible?” He struggled to keep any sign of his mounting anger from his voice, lest it silence her further “Was it Chalfront again?”

  “No, my lord. It… it doesn’t matter now,” she said wearily. She began to straighten her bodice self-consciously.

  “Gabriella, look at me.” She hesitated as if she meant to disobey and he spoke sternly. “Gabriella, if someone has harmed or frightened you in any way, I want to know. A man who treats a woman in such a fashion—any woman, whether highborn or not—is not welcome here.”

  “You would be a most exceptional lord if you meant that,” she said skeptically as she tilted her head to look at him.

  “I am an exceptional lord,” he replied calmly.

  “You won’t understand. You can’t.”

  “Because I am a nobleman?”

  “Yes, and because you are a man.”

  “Therefore you think that I have been spared humiliation and pain, that I have always been accorded the respect I command now?”

  She looked at him doubtfully.

  “I was not born a nobleman, Gabriella. I am the bastard son of a minor lord who deserted my mother before I was born. If I have power and respect, it is because I have earned it. It took me a very long time, and for much of that time, I was not treated with deference, kindness or even courtesy.”

  Suddenly extremely aware of the baron’s proximity in the dark confines of the chapel, Gabriella heard the bitterness in his voice. She had felt as taut as a fur stretched out to dry at a tannery after the horror of Philippe’s attack and the shock of the baron’s defensive grip around her throat. Yet now, the tension had changed; it was part excitement, part dread of her own weakness and part desire to feel his protective arms around her again. Every sense alive to the situation, her mind urged caution. She moved further inside the room, wanting to think and unable to do so close by him.

  “I thought everyone had heard the rumors about me,” he continued, his tone once more cool and impartial. “My particular favorite is that I’m the spawn of the devil and was suckled by witches.”

  His apparent attempt to make light of his past touched her deeply, because she heard the pain beneath. What a lonely life he must have led! How much she wanted to put her protective arms around him, and tell him how she admired him.

  “Sit and tell me what happened,” he ordered, gesturing toward the bench.

  She obeyed, perching on the edge of the hard wooden seat. He joined her, sitting beside her but not touching any part of her.

  “I was going to return Mary’s money to her,” she began, then hesitated, embarrassed and ashamed to continue, especially in light of his unexpected solicitousness. Here and now, he was so different from the coldhearted, aloof nobleman. He seemed kind and gentle, and genuinely concerned for her well-being. And so undeniably attractive, his body so close to hers…

  “I am flattered to think I have swayed a woman of your conviction. However, that does not explain your current circumstances,” he observed, abruptly drawing her back to the here and now. “Or why you chose to go to the village in the middle of the night.”

  “I wanted to go to the village when my absence wouldn’t cause any inconvenience to Lady de Chaney,” she replied, her mind conjuring up unbidden and unwanted the image of the baron’s beautiful mistress.

  “So, you left your quarters. Then what?”

  “I heard a noise in the storeroom,” she continued, determined to keep her thoughts focused on what she had to say. “I thought perhaps it was a rat. It was Philippe de Varenne.”

  “A rat, indeed. I should have known,” the baron said, and she shivered at the harsh undertone in the baron’s voice. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No, not really,” she admitted. “He implied that he knew where my brother was. He said he had met Bryce in France.”

  “I would not put much faith in anything Philippe de Varenne has to say.”

  “I didn’t, but there was a chance he was speaking the truth, and I had to know.” She took a deep breath. “He told me about Bryce’s scar, which I was responsible for. I pushed Bryce into the water trough when we were children. It was a secret between us.”

  “So perhaps you were not completely foolish to speak with him, I grant you. Your brother means a great deal to you.”

  “He is the only member of my family left to me, my lord.”

  “Ah, yes. Family.” He fell silent for a moment; and she didn’t speak, not sure what to respond to his softly spoken words.

  His reverie lasted only a moment. “Then what happened?”

  “Philippe wouldn’t tell me any more unless I…” She paused. If she told him everything Philippe had done, perhaps Philippe would keep the rest of his knowledge about Bryce to himself, if he truly possessed any.

  “Unless you what?” the baron demanded, and she knew he would not accept her refusal to answer.

  “Unless I kissed him.”

  “Did you?”

  “It didn’t seem so very much, not if I was going to find out about Bryce.”

  “I take it that was not enough for Philippe?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Did he rape you?” the baron demanded coldly.

  “No! No, he did not.”

  “Not this time,” the baron said with complete certainty, “but one day…” He let his words trail off suggestively. “I will not have such a man in my retinue. He will be gone tomorrow.”

  “Please, Baron, don’t send him away!” Impetuously she grabbed hold of his arm.

  He turned a somewhat incredulous gaze upon her. “What do you mean, don’t send him away? I should think you would be happy to have the fellow gone.”

  “I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

  “You have been nothing but trouble since I arrived,” he noted dispassionately.

  “But there is a chance that he might truly know something of my brother’s whereabouts, and if you send him away, he will never tell me what he knows.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is possible, if he did.” The baron began caressing her hand absently, and she could not be sure he even knew he did so. Nevertheless, her throat went dry and she could not look at his face, wanting to hide the hot flush she felt coloring her face. “Unfortunately, I must tell you that Philippe de Varenne has never been to France.”

  Gabriella pulled her hand away as she sucked in her breath. “I knew I should not have trusted him!”

  “No, you should not,” the baron said, gazing at her with his customary intensity. “I certainly do not. Still, he might have some information about your brother. I will ask him. Rest assured, Gabriella, before he leaves, he will tell me everything he knows about your missing brother.”

  She knew it would be so, and hearing the inexorable tone of his voice, she could almost find it in
her heart to pity Philippe de Varenne. Almost.

  “Thank you, Baron DeGuerre,” she murmured. “Philippe de Varenne is a contemptible man.”

  “People say the same of me,” the baron noted quietly.

  “You are not like him,” Gabriella answered, her mmd screaming that she should leave his presence, her body begging her to stay.

  He placed the tip of his right index finger against the seam at the shoulder of her gown. “Your dress is torn.”

  “Is it?” She looked not at her shoulder, but at his face, so close to hers. His blue eyes seemed to glow in the darkness, bidding her come closer, and she obeyed.

  His arms went around her, pulling her into an embrace she did not resist. “Let me kiss you, Gabriella,” he whispered.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gabriella wanted to kiss him, so she did nothing to stop him. Indeed, she leaned toward him like a flower seeking the sun. When his lips met hers, she gave herself over to the rapture he inspired. Her arms instinctively encircled him while their mouths moved in a slow, sensuous dance of desire.

  She felt his chest rise and fall against hers, and realized his hands were stroking her, their motion eliciting a pleasure-filled moan that broke from her lips without conscious thought. His mouth left hers and he licked the lobe of her ear, nearly tickling, this touch so exciting. Then his mouth was on her neck as he pushed her downward, his arm cushioning her against the hard wood of the bench.

  When his other hand reached into her bodice and stroked her breast, she gasped with surprise and at the sudden intense pleasure he aroused.

  She had never guessed a man could wield this kind of power over her. It was as if she were intoxicated with sensation. Heady with delight. Drunk with desire.

  Sobriety returned with sudden impact when she felt the weight of his body upon her and his hips moving against her, the physical evidence of his arousal unmistakable.

  He was seducing her, here in the chapel and she was acting no better than a whore! “Stop, stop!” she gasped, pushing against him and trying to rise.