Feisty Heroines Romance Collection of Shorts

by D. F. Jones

  If Roxley must go to someone else, two likely candidates lived nearby, including her own cousin. If she and Randal combined Roxley and Dunner, they would control a large part of the north shire. But Randal— She’d hate to wed him; he seemed more like a brother.

  Still, immediately after her father’s death, she’d sent a message to her mother’s sister, asking to visit. Surely soon, Anne would respond to her plea. Annis had been named for her, after all.

  Shaking herself mentally, she caught the knight’s gaze. She clenched her teeth and reluctantly extended the expected hospitality.

  “You and your men may partake of refreshment inside. Follow me.” She turned and strode toward the hall. Mama would scold if she could see the way she walked. Of course, Mama had strode herself when duty called.

  Annis intended to reach the great hall well ahead of the encroaching strangers and take up her place in Papa’s chair. She’d reached the stairs when a shadow darkened her vision on the right.

  The unkembed knight passed her, taking the steps two at a time. She twitched her skirts aside as if he might tromp them.

  Detestable man.

  Then she smiled, thankful there hadn’t been time to repair the broken leather fastenings. He’d be forced to wait.

  At the double doors into the hall, he stood, rattling the latches.

  Without speaking, she jiggled the left door latch, then quickly lifted it up and down. It swung open and she swept through.

  Chapter 2

  God’s toenails. Hugh huffed as he followed the lady into the hall. She had all but run across the bailey after offering refreshment. He’d gestured for Martin to secure the walls, then started after Lady Obstinate. Obstinate but beautiful. He’d watched the sway of her hips appreciatively.

  He’d stalked behind, finally passing her. Some childish part of him had been determined to beat her to the doors.

  Even that act of command was doomed. The damned latches didn’t work. He jaggled and waggled the handles. Nothing.

  Then she caught up, performed some sleight of hand, and a door swung open. Muttering a curse about repairs, he followed. Behind him, Martin coughed an exaggerated hack that let Hugh know his captain found the situation amusing.

  He paused to wait for him.

  Of all the holdings at the king’s disposal, why had John saddled him with this particular castle and a blasted, contrary female?

  Hugh had left London in triumph three days earlier, bound for the rich holding and the wife King John had promised him for service in the battles against France. He’d been so eager to reach his new home and bride, he’d not bothered to prepare himself before galloping up to the gates and demanding entrance in the name of King John.

  Not even in the name of the new owner. Himself. Aargh!

  And then to face this lady he’d been directed to marry.

  She was the daughter of an old and trusted ally, John said.

  A sweet young maiden raised to know her duty, John said.

  Pah!

  Perchance Hugh had taken a wrong turn at the last crossroads and this was not Roxley.

  Perchance he’d wake from a nightmare brought on by too much ale and greasy pork at his favorite chop shop to find a golden-haired angel who clung to him in gratitude. Not this chestnut-haired, hazel-eyed, sharp-tongued…vision.

  Perchance his fabled luck had deserted him. Come to recall, his luck held only in battle. He’d best unearth his agreeable nature.

  Ha! He was eminently agreeable, any of his men would say so.

  Meanwhile, the warrior in him glanced around the hall, absently checking for strengths and weaknesses, escape paths, objects to be used as weapons, noting expressions on the faces surging around. Had everyone halted work to gather here?

  Finally, Martin joined him. Together they paced to the high table, taking the step up to the dais in unison. The lady stood behind the lone chair, a high-backed, hand-carved item of furniture with a colorfully stitched cushion on the seat.

  The master’s chair. His chair now. And if he didn’t exert authority from the beginning, he’d be perceived as weak. Leading a troop of mercenaries these past years taught him that.

  She sat.

  Blast. Hauling his future bride bodily from the seat would set a bad example for his men, and cast himself as a brute to his new people. They should view him with respect, even fear, but not hatred. The fastest way to hatred was abusing a beloved female.

  God knew, growing up with his father had taught him that.

  Forcing a pleasant expression on his face—he hoped it was a pleasant one—he nodded to the lady and took his place on the bench at her right. Martin sat at Hugh’s right. She must have given a subtle signal to the maids because several entered bearing trays loaded with pitchers and mugs. The drink was placed on the table for the men.

  Suspiciously, he eyed the cup a maid poured for him. He took it and passed it beneath his nose. Wine! He sipped. Watered. He set it on the table and drew in a breath. Might as well settle this with the lady now.

  Before he could speak, she turned his way and addressed his shoulder.

  “I am expected at the home of my mother’s sister. She kindly invited me to visit, now my father is gone. He died quite recently.” He detected the hint of sarcasm underlying the words.

  Hugh gave a nod. “My condolences. The king informed me.”

  “Then you may return to your master and tell him any discussion of marriage is not appropriate at this time. I am in mourning. Surely he will understand.”

  Master? Did she think him a servant? Hugh stared at her, her eyes still averted to avoid facing him directly. Did she not realize he was the one she would wed? He glanced at Martin over his shoulder. His friend and captain merely shrugged. Then he looked pointedly at Hugh’s surcoat and armor.

  Hugh’s gaze lowered. The once-brown garment covering his chainmail appeared gray with dust and spotted with crusted grease from the roasted coney they’d eaten the night before. His mail needed a good scouring in sand to remove the dirt and beginnings of rust on the links. His squire would see to it. But what did his appearance have to do with her opinion of him?

  Martin raised his eyebrows and drew his mouth tight.

  Right. Hugh’s recent lack of exposure to court life notwithstanding, he should have cleaned himself before appearing at Roxley’s gates. He’d learned his manners. He had no excuse for his appearance except impatience.

  Nonetheless, as a knight he was due basic mannerly treatment, and he’d seen little of that thus far. He took another sip of wine and eyed the platters of bread and cheese. Good of the lady to provide food.

  He closed his eyes and stifled a groan. If only he could drag his men back outside and start this morning over. Since that was an unlikely solution, he’d have to attempt a different attack.

  Poor choice of word. But Satan’s toenails, he was a warrior, and he thought and spoke like a warrior.

  Washing down a mouthful of food with another swig of wine—it didn’t taste so bad with the strong cheese—he determined to try anew from this point. He cleared his throat.

  “You are Annis of Roxley. I heard many good things about you while I was with the king. Your talent for running an efficient household, your beauty, your gracious—”

  The expression in her fine hazel eyes stopped his words. What had he said wrong now?

  “Kindly show me the writ from the king,” she said, ignoring his attempt at flattery.

  Hugh drew the packet from the leather satchel on his belt. “I prefer it not to leave my hand, my lady. If you will call your scribe, he may read it here.”

  The fire in her eyes actually seemed to flare in anger. Then he realized the flame was a reflection of the candlelight. He chuckled.

  “I’m gratified you find me amusing.” She lifted her chin. “You must be of immense value to your master as a jester.”

  Hugh caught her emphasis on the last word, and his back straightened, his jaw tightened.

  “Who
has the honor of the king’s favor as new lord of Roxley?” The lady’s manner might be direct, but her voice trembled on ‘new lord.’ When she bit her lip, Hugh lost the urge to snap back.

  “Sir Hugert de Ville, as you will see in the writ.” His tone almost sounded gentle.

  “From Normandy?”

  “South of Rouen.”

  “And when will he arrive?”

  In deference to what he imagined were her overset nerves, he tried to arrange his reply as gently as possible. Before he could utter a calming word, the outer doors crashed open and another dusty traveler stumbled in.

  Chapter 3

  At the bang of the doors, Annis turned. Who was this? From her place, she couldn’t make out the man’s identity. Too tall and broad to be Will, whom she’d sent with a message to her relative. And too soon returned. He raised his head and caught her gaze.

  Randal, her cousin, must have been sent by his mother. Annis rose, her cheeks tight with a smile of welcome. Randal paced to the dais, stride stiff no doubt from his long ride. He’d arrived at precisely the right moment. Heart racing double-time, she held out her hands in welcome.

  “Cousin, I’m very happy to greet you.”

  He pulled her close, long arms holding her tightly. A bit too tightly; she pulled back to draw breath.

  “My dear Annis,” Randal said, “I grieve for your loss. My uncle was a wise and valiant soldier.”

  The sympathy triggered her sorrow anew, and she rested her forehead against his shoulder. His words comforted her, and that comfort cracked the sturdy wall of control she’d erected around herself since her father’s death. Tears trickled down her face. For a few moments, she allowed herself to weep, until a deep voice interrupted.

  “Who is this?”

  Annis drew away as Randal loosed his grip. Swiping at her cheeks, she sniffed, then turned. “This is my cousin, Sir Randal of Dunner. He is the son of my mother’s sister.”

  The knight’s expression froze for a moment, then he frowned. “The one you said invited you to stay?”

  Randal nodded to the rough knight at the table, who was in the process of rising. “I have come to escort Lady Annis to Dunner Castle. My mother wishes her to spend a few weeks until the pain of her loss has eased. Why should you care?”

  Annis cut Randal a quick glance. He’d never sounded so…so…fierce before. Granted, she hadn’t seen him for a long while. He’d been present the last time his family visited nearly two years earlier after her mother died. In the weeks following that visit, he’d led a group of Dunner’s men to serve with the king. Her aunt’s frequent messages had informed Annis of his successes and praise from King John. He’d returned to England not long since.

  Beneath her fingers, Randal’s muscles tensed, and she hurried to diffuse the budding confrontation. “Yes, of course, cousin. I’ve nearly finished packing. I’ll be ready to leave in the morn after we break our fast.”

  In fact, Annis had not begun to sort her clothing, but with her maid’s help, the process would go quickly.

  “Let me show you to a chamber where you can refresh yourself.” She urged him toward the stairs, while her gaze found a likely observer in the crowd. “Ralph, please see a tray is brought up to Sir Randal.”

  She had managed to direct Randal half-way across the floor before he pulled up short. “Who was that damned, base-born churl?”

  Annis preferred to overlook the curse, although she wasn’t happy at her cousin’s language. “I fear I haven’t learned his name as yet. He just arrived.”

  Randal must have sensed her objection to his words because he patted her hand. “Beg pardon for my language, cousin, but I can’t allow a stranger to behave in such a way.”

  She tugged his arm and murmured, “Forgiven, Randal. The man can be mightily irritating. I’ll tell you his errand in a moment. For now, I ask that you don’t confront him. Things will be much easier if he’s not angered.”

  He grunted but followed her up the steps. When they arrived at the bedchamber she’d allotted him, Annis motioned him inside and closed the door. She had to think of a way to keep the two men from arguing, keep the lout below stairs from imposing his authority on her and from antagonizing her cousin.

  “Did you bring anyone with you?” she asked.

  “My squire, Olin.” He turned and tossed his cloak on the bed.

  “I’m surprised your mother allowed you to leave without your men for protection.”

  He turned and met her eyes, then shifted his gaze to the unlit brazier along the opposite wall. “The countryside has been peaceful for months. Wasn’t necessary to bring a force, and a large party would slow me considerably.”

  “Very true.” Annis was glad he came alone. Her departure would be all the faster for that. She took a breath and her words rushed out. “Vow to me, you will remain calm when I tell you who the knight is.”

  Randal’s gaze pinned her. “Why?”

  “Vow!” She didn’t know if his word would hold when he learned of the problem, but she had to try.

  He inclined his head.

  “He represents the man King John chose as the next master of Roxley.”

  Randal glared at her from beneath his brows, which lowered at an alarming rate. “The king lost no time, did he? I thought to arrive before… No matter. Who has he sent?”

  “The knight below carries a writ bearing the king’s seal, advising me I must wed the new lord of Roxley, or be delivered to court as his ward.” She grimaced. “I can’t become his ward. You know as well as I that with no coin, no land to attract a husband, I’m likely to remain a fixture there for who knows how long.”

  Annis wasn’t familiar with the word Randal uttered. She could, however, imagine the fury it represented. He started toward the door, but she blocked his way. “You gave your word. No trouble. All he has done is deliver the king’s orders. Nothing he can say or do will change that. Once I’m with your mother, I’ll be safe. Your father was a friend to the king.”

  No need to inform him of her intent to have a real say in her future. This new side of Randal didn’t encourage hope he might assist her.

  He thrust a hand through his hair. “If John has made a ruling, you can bet he won’t reverse it, especially when it comes to distributing land to the mercenaries who do his bidding. He needs all the support he can gather, what with the barons growing more and more unhappy.”

  She frowned. “Father spoke about the concerns some of them had. Do you think the dissent is serious?”

  “I do. But whatever those disagreements are, they won’t alter John’s decision about your future. Only quick action will serve.” He took the distance from one side of the chamber to the other in large, impatient strides. He stopped abruptly. “Did the knight say who has been awarded Roxley?”

  “He said the name of Hugert de Ville. Have you heard—”

  “Merde!” Her cousin hit the door with a fist. “That swiving bastard!”

  This abrupt, angry man suddenly looming before her seemed a stranger: the narrowed mouth, clenched jaw, squinted eyes, the curses stringing from his mouth. She reached out a hand, but he winced away.

  “You know him?” The question seemed unnecessary.

  After stomping across the floor again, Randal blew out a long breath and managed to gain control. “I’ve never seen him. But I’ve heard enough to be sick to death of him. De Ville, de Ville—the name was everywhere at court. John’s current favorite. But to award him such a prize as Roxley? Unfair! He’s only a mercenary who commands a troop of mercenaries drawn from the roughest parts of—merde—everywhere.”

  A strange ringing filled Annis’s head. Her breath came in short gasps. She’d imagined she’d dislike anyone sent to replace her father. There had even been that grim foreboding she’d be expected to wed someone cruel, the foreboding which prompted the appeal to her aunt.

  If she were gone when the man arrived, she might have a greater chance to refuse. To form another plan. Not that she’d mention
ed the hope to anyone; she’d likely become an object of ridicule. How many ladies determined their own futures?

  Nevertheless, she would never—never—allow herself to be tied to a brute who might abuse her or anyone here.

  The idea stopped her cold. Her people. If the new lord were so brutal, his men must also be. How could she desert them— She forced the wild thoughts to settle. One step at a time. Think!

  “You know he is cruel?” She imagined her voice quivered, although she struggled to keep it level. Randal didn’t appear to notice.

  “He must be. He’s one of the king’s favored captains, galloping out on prize missions none of the rest of us were given. Returning with bags of mysterious content delivered in secret. Negotiating for surrender with reluctant enemies. Trying to avert battles I know we could have won, given the chance to fight, to prove ourselves, to gain glory. He’s a mercenary. You know what they say of mercenaries.”

  “What? Who are ‘they’?”

  “Never mind. You couldn’t understand.” He stood, feet apart, arms crossed. “We must do something!”

  “I intend to,” she said. “I plan to slip away tonight, while everyone sleeps. Now that you are here, we’ll leave together. It must be tonight. He might try to stop us if we wait until morn.”

  Randal swiped a hand over his jaw. “Yes. We’ll go before de Ville arrives. I’ll warn Olin to be ready.”

  A scratch at the door made Randal still, as if ready to leap at the person on the other side. Annis swung it open to reveal Ralph, holding a tray loaded with food and a pitcher of drink. He shuffled inside where Randal relieved him of the burden.

  “My thanks,” she said to the servant, then glanced at her cousin. “I’ll send up a pitcher of water and some cloths for your…” She gestured to his face. “We’ll speak later.”

  She preceded Ralph down the stairs, considering how Randal had described Sir Hugert de Ville. The knight sounded a right brute, certainly. Something in the way he’d delivered the words, however, deserved further examination. They had seemed bitter, resentful. Was it possible that Randal, for all his achievements as a knight, might be envious? Surely not.