“That is barbaric!” Brigitte gasped, then recovered enough to say, “You are barbaric as well!”
Rowland grinned into her light blue eyes. “Have you only just discovered that?”
At that moment a buxom maid ran toward them, her auburn curls flying. Brigitte watched in surprise as the girl threw her arms around Rowland’s neck and kissed him soundly.
“What is this?” the girl pouted as he moved away from her embrace. “Why can you not greet me properly, mon cher?”
Rowland scowled. “Amelia, what we had once was private, yet you would make it public. Have you no shame, wench, to throw yourself at me before everyone?”
Amelia gasped, and her blue-black eyes widened angrily. “I have waited all these years for you to return. Luthor knows it, and he does not mind.”
“What does he know?” Rowland demanded. “Did you tell him of our dalliance? Have you disgraced your father by proclaiming your wantonness?”
“Why do you attack me?” Amelia cried. “I have told no one about us. Luthor only saw how I pined for you when you left. He thought it amusing.”
“And now what will he think, after witnessing this boldness of yours? And your father, who watches us now? Be damned, Amelia!” Rowland growled. “I did not bid you wait for me. For what have you waited? I never promised marriage.”
“I thought—”
“You thought wrong!” He cut her short. “And you were silly to wait when your father could have made a match for you. I had no intention of ever returning here, and you knew that.”
“Oh, no, Rowland,” she said quickly. “I knew you would come back, and you have.”
“Enough, Amelia. My father awaits me.”
“Nonsense!” She looked from Rowland to Brigitte, who had stepped away from them, embarrassed at hearing their conversation. “Ah! So that is it?” Amelia cried. “You have already taken a wife. Bastard!” she spat, her eyes black with fury. “Unfaithful dog!”
Rowland stiffened, glowering at her in earnest. “Take care, woman, or you will feel the back of my hand, and I will have to kill your father when he challenges me because of it. If you have no thought for yourself, then think of him.”
Tears leapt into Amelia’s dark eyes. “How could you marry another?”
Rowland sighed in exasperation. “I have not married! Nor will I, for you are all the same with your cursed nagging and whining. You drive a man beyond patience. I will take no woman whom I cannot set aside when the allure is gone and she becomes a shrew.”
Rowland walked away then, and Brigitte was left wondering what she should do, for he had completely forgotten her presence. The girl Amelia turned hostile eyes on her, and Brigitte quickly followed Rowland. She did so with her head held high, ignoring the curious stares. She felt totally alone, but she took heart when Wolff joined her, having defeated the last of the Montville hounds. At least Wolff had made a proud showing.
Luthor of Montville rose as Rowland approached, but that was his only acknowledgment of his heir’s return. Brigitte was confused by this strange reunion between father and son. Neither man smiled a greeting or spoke. They stood facing each other with stony expressions, more adversaries than kin. They looked one another over thoroughly, noting the changes that had taken place in six years.
Luthor spoke at last. “You are late.”
“I was detained.”
“So Sir Gui informed me,” Luthor replied, his voice marked with displeasure. “You attended some Frenchman’s deathbed. You felt that was more important than the future of Montville?”
“The man saved my life. To stay and see if he lived only cost me a few days.”
“And did he?”
“Yes.”
“Have you paid your debt to him?”
Rowland nodded.
That seemed to pacify Luthor. “Good. I want no loyalties to call you away from here once the trouble begins. You traveled alone with this baggage?” Luthor asked, indicating Brigitte without deigning to glance at her. “Where is your squire?”
“I lost him in the south.” Then Rowland grinned. “But this baggage serves well enough.”
Luthor guffawed, as did the other men within hearing. Amelia had joined them on the dais, and she said stingingly, “I did not know it was fashionable in France to call a whore a squire.”
Rowland turned to Amelia with a ready retort, but his glance fell on Brigitte, and he saw the tears glistening in her eyes.
“I apologize, damosel,” he said gently. “There are ladies here who belong in the gutter.”
There was more than one gasp in response to this, including Brigitte’s. To hear him come to her defense after he had just slurred her himself astonished her.
Before Brigitte could gather her wits and reply, Amelia snapped, “How dare you insult me like that, Rowland?”
He turned an icy look on her now. “If you cannot stand insults, Amelia, then do not give them yourself.”
Amelia confronted Luthor then. “Milord, your son has no right to speak to me thusly. And it is not just me he insulted. He did say ladies.”
“Ha! So he did.” Luthor chuckled, not coming to Amelia’s defense as she had hoped, or that of his own ladies, who were silently growing indignant with anger. Turning to Brigitte, he said, “Does the wench have a name?”
“The wench has a name,” Brigitte replied boldly. “I am Brigitte de Louroux, milord.”
Rowland’s brows narrowed. “She is Brigitte of Montville now—my servant.”
“That is open to question,” Brigitte said flatly. Then she turned and walked stiffly toward the warming fire, calling Wolff to join her.
“Ha!” Luthor chuckled. “I understand why you were detained.”
“The girl has yet to adjust to a new master. She has been only trouble so far.”
“How came you by such a pretty maid and such a superb animal?”
“The girl was forced on me,” Rowland answered briefly, “and the dog followed her.”
Luthor gazed hard at Brigitte. “The wench carries herself like a lady. I would swear she is of noble birth, for she has that proud look about her.”
Rowland looked hard at his father. “Do not let her hear you say that, sire, for that is just what she would like you to believe.”
“Are you saying she claims to be a lady?”
“She will no doubt make every effort to convince you of it.”
Luthor frowned. “Are you so sure she is not?”
“Be damned!” Rowland exclaimed. “I am most sure! And I am badgered enough by the girl, so do not plague me about it too, old man.”
“Old man, is it?” Luthor grunted. “You meet me in the courtyard at sunrise, and we shall see who is an old man.”
Rowland nodded, saying nothing. He wanted no recurrence of their old argument.
After being apprised of Thurston of Mezidon’s preparations for battle and the precautions taken at Montville, Rowland glanced over to the fire where Brigitte sat, her back to the others. Her slim hand rested on Wolff’s shaggy head, absently stroking the beast. He wondered what she was thinking as she stared into the dancing flames. What was he going to do with the minx? Why did she still persist in lying about her status? She had done everything but swear to God. But he knew she would not do that, for she had real faith. She proved that when she stayed to tend his wound instead of fleeing. She might have left him to die, but she did not. Perhaps she did not hate him quite so much as she claimed.
Rowland stopped a serving maid who passed near him and whispered to her. He then watched the girl approach Brigitte. The picture Brigitte presented was one of serene reflection, but she simmered inside, near to boiling over with suppressed rage. She could not take much more of Rowland and his arrogance.
Brigitte did not hear the maid’s approach, and when she tapped Brigitte on the shoulder, Brigitte jumped.
“What do you want?” she snapped.
The maid’s eyes widened in confusion. She did not know what to make of this
beautiful French woman whom her lord’s son called a servant, but who seemed noble.
“Sir Rowland bids you join him at table and eat before you retire,” the maid said nervously.
“Oh, he does, does he?” Brigitte looked to the center of the hall to see Rowland watching her, and her temper flared anew. “Well, you can tell that arrogant cock that I would not lower myself by sitting at table with him!”
The maid’s eyes bulged. “I could not say that!”
Brigitte rose. “Then I will.”
“Please! Do not do that. I know him and he has the devil’s own temper, mistress.”
Brigitte stared at the girl curiously. “Why did you call me mistress?”
The maid ducked her head shyly. “It—it seems appropriate.”
Brigitte suddenly smiled. She did not know it, but that smile dazzled many onlookers. “You have done me a world of good. What is your name?”
“I am called Goda.”
“Goda, I am sorry I snapped at you. I have never been one to take my anger out on a servant, and heaven forbid I should become like Rowland.”
“Will you join Sir Rowland then?”
“I will not. But you can show me where I am to sleep. I want nothing more than a little privacy.”
“Yes, mistress,” Goda said quietly.
Rowland’s eyes followed Brigitte as she left the hall with the maid. He thought of the smile she had bestowed on Goda, and he suddenly realized he had a great desire to see that smile again, but only for him.
Listen to me, Rowland thought in amusement. I am wooing a servant!
Chapter Eighteen
Brigitte was taken to a small servants’ hut across the bailey. It was not much better than the hovel she had been forced into at Louroux, but at least there was a clean cot and plenty of blankets. After putting her things away in an old chest and sweeping the cobwebs out of the room, she beseeched Goda to take her to the bathhouse and to bring her some food there.
The maid complied without questions, for which Brigitte was grateful. She had taken to dreaming of a hot steaming bath, and she did not even care that she would be using the servants’ bath, a tub used by countless others. She had already overstepped herself by asking Goda to bring her food, for servants did not ask other servants to wait on them.
A little while later, Brigitte sat on her cot drying her hair, her feet resting near the brazier of hot coals Goda had kindly brought. Rowland opened her door, unbidden, and it rankled her. She chose to ignore him.
“Does your chamber meet with your approval, damosel?” Rowland asked after a few moments of silence.
“What brings you here, Rowland?” she asked wearily.
“I came to see how you fared,” he replied. “And you have yet to answer me.”
“What does it matter if the room meets with my approval or not?” she asked bitterly.
“The hut is more sturdily built than the hut I know you used at Louroux.”
“You know nothing of that!” she hissed. “You presume because you saw me go there.”
“I suppose you will tell me that those were not your quarters at Louroux.”
“I would not dream of telling you anything,” she replied heavily. “Speaking to you is like speaking to a stone wall.”
Rowland ignored the insult. “If those were not your quarters, Brigitte, then why did you go there?”
“Because I am stubborn. Or have you not noticed?”
“Aye, I have indeed noticed.” He chuckled.
“It was not amusing, Rowland,” she said stiffly. “The very things that made you think I was a servant were conditions I brought about through my own stubbornness.”
“What do you mean?”
“You won’t believe anything I tell you, and I am weary of being disbelieved.”
Rowland strolled into the room and stopped in front of Brigitte. He lifted her chin with a finger. forcing her to meet his penetrating gaze.
“Will you not agree then, that it is time to change your attitude?” he asked softly.
“You toy with me, Rowland, and I do not like it!” she snapped. “I would not consider seducing you even if that were my only recourse.”
Rowland grabbed her shoulders and drew her up to him. “Seduce me, little jewel? But you have already done that.”
He cupped her face in his hands, and his lips caressed hers in a tender assault. Brigitte was surprised by the pleasing sensation his kiss aroused, and it was several seconds before she stopped him, pushing against his chest until he moved back.
“If you had any decency, you would not subject me to your lust!” she cried.
“Ah, Brigitte, you do not play the game well,” he sighed in disappointment.
“I will not play your game at all!” she retorted indignantly. “You might call me serf, but you cannot deny I was innocent until you touched me. I will not be your whore!”
“Only I have had you, cherie, and only I will. That does not make you a whore.”
“To me it does!”
Rowland sighed. “What does it take to make you more agreeable?”
“You jest.” She laughed derisively and jerked away from him. She moved to the end of the bed, then turned and faced him with arms akimbo and eyes flashing. “You rob me of my innocence and then say it does not matter. You humiliate me and force me to serve you. Do you suppose I will say thank you?”
“Be damned!” Rowland growled. “I came here to make amends, but I get only shrewishness.”
“You can never make amends for what you have done—never!”
“Then I waste my time.” He turned and stalked to the door, then stopped and looked back at her darkly. “I give you warning, wench. I can make your life pleasant or intolerable—I care not which. It’s up to you to adjust your behavior, for I grow tired of your obstinacy.”
He slammed the door shut and was gone. Brigitte sat down on the bed, self-pity taking hold of her. Wolff came over and licked her face.
“What am I to do now, Wolff?” she asked dejectedly. “He expects me to just give up gracefully and serve him with a smile. How can I?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I hate him! I should have left him to die! Why did I not? We must escape this place, Wolff, we must!”
Chapter Nineteen
When Rowland met his father in the courtyard for their battle early the next morning, his temper was little improved. Home only one day and already his strength was to be tested. But it was not only that which caused angry lines to crease his face. It was also Amelia.
She had come to his chamber the previous night. Her status as lady’s maid warranted her a room near Hedda’s, which also placed her near Rowland’s chamber. At one time that had been convenient for him, but Rowland had no desire to resume their trysts.
When she had knocked softly at his door, he had believed it was Brigitte, come to admit defeat and make amends. The thought sent a surge of excitement through Rowland, and when he opened the door his face fell.
“Your disappointment is plain, Rowland,” Amelia said with just a touch of bitterness. “You hoped I was that yellow-haired wench.”
“Be gone, Amelia,” Rowland replied angrily. “You were not invited here.”
“I will be once you grow tired of her resistance to you,” she said confidently. “It is only her resistance that charms you, nothing else.”
Amelia giggled. “I know you are a bit rough, mon cher. You handle a woman as you do your sword, with a strong grip. But I do not mind. She does, however. Is that right?”
He set his face and said, “You had best start looking for another man to warm you on a cold night, Amelia.”
“Because of her?” she hissed.
“She matters not. Amelia and I shared many pleasurable nights, but when I left here that was all ended. I am sorry you thought otherwise.” He would not discuss Brigitte with her.
Amelia turned and ran. Rowland slammed the door shut, furious with himself for not taking what was so willingly offered. But
the truth was that he desired another, a woman he could not have without forcing her, and he was loathe to force her.
As he faced his father in the cold dawn, he brooded on his encounter with Amelia. His thoughtful scowl did not go unnoticed.
“What troubles you, Rowland?” Luthor asked as he flexed his arms. “Have you grown soft in your absence from Montville, and fear you cannot make a good showing?”
“If anyone is afraid it is you, old man,” Rowland answered curtly.
“We shall see.” Luthor chuckled, then continued amiably, “I have heard of your many adventures. Aye, you must have grown tired of King Lothair’s efforts to regain Lotharingia.”
Rowland shrugged. “There was no challenge. A skirmish won, a skirmish lost. A battle must someday reach a conclusion, but I wonder if that one will ever be resolved.”
“So you went on to Champagne and then Burgundy?” Luthor added casually.
“You are well informed,” Rowland grunted.
“I have many friends who sent me word of your whereabouts now and then. What I taught you was not wasted in Provence. I would have enjoyed that battle myself.”
“It was over quickly.”
“What route did you travel across central France in coming home?”
Rowland wondered at Luthor’s curiosity, but he answered. “I traveled the Loire until Berry. There I delivered the message entrusted to me and was given the girl.”
“You then crossed Blois and Maine in a direct route to Montville?”
“No, I traveled the Loire at Orleans until the junction with the Maine River. Then I rode a direct route north.”
“You passed Angers then?”
Rowland noted the sudden alarm in Luthor’s voice, and he frowned. “Yes, but why should that matter?”
“It does not,” Luthor replied, then added curtly. “Let us begin.”
Rowland shrugged off Luthor’s interrogation and warmed to the challenge at hand. His father thrived on these tests of strength, but only in the last few years before leaving home had Rowland been able to give a good accounting of himself. The will to best his father had always been there, but the means had been long in coming.
So Speaks the Heart Page 11