Conquest Bride Page 2

  ‘Of course, I was forgetting.’ Gronwig sighed. ‘Let me deal with him later…I am tired. Let the guards take him below.’ Eadita smiled secretly at her uncle’s words. She would be able to slip the guards before she reached the dungeon, an intolerable earthen pit beneath the manor. She sensed an approaching freedom from her Norman captor, a captor who still retained a firm grip on her shoulders, the fine chain-mail of his gloves biting into her delicate bones.

  ‘Pray let me take the prisoner to the dungeon myself; I’ve a care to see he’s locked up tight.’ Eadita’s heart sank.

  ‘As you wish. Not willing to be surprised again, eh?’ The Earl smirked. ‘A servant will show you the way.’

  ‘Move and you die.’ Varin threw a direct order at the peasant’s bent head. Passing his gloves to Geraint, he raised his hands to remove his restraining steel helmet, before pushing back the flexible chain-mail hood of his hauberk to his shoulders.

  A gasp of amazement spilled out from the bustling crowd of knights, serfs and peasants, previously busy around the courtyard, now pausing to stand and stare at the beautiful man before them. If Varin had been an overpoweringly impressive figure, riding through the gates on horseback clad in glistening chain-mail, face menacingly shadowed by the confines of his helmet, he now emerged as a god from the trappings of war, running his hands through tawny locks that dropped to his shoulders. The eddying chatter swirled around him, rising and falling in hushed tones of awe. Caution deserted Eadita as she lifted her head warily to peep at the man. She quickly dropped her eyes, aghast at the vision she had seen. How could one so cruel be blessed with such good looks? Was it not true that most Normans were supposed to be ugly pigs with their hair shaved halfway up their heads? She stole another look. Sun-bleached, dark blond locks fell vigorously to his collar, framing a visage tanned and ruddy from a lifetime spent outdoors. Finely etched dark eyebrows sprung above eyes washed in pale jade, incandescent with gold flecks and fringed with jet lashes; a piercing look raked the crowd hungrily as if looking for new prey. High cheekbones served only to emphasise the determined squareness of his jaw, which framed wide lips curving sensuously, the arched narrowness of his top lip accentuating the erotic fullness of the bottom. His high-bridged nose ran arrow straight and arrogant as he lifted his head as if to scent the air.

  Eadita’s toes itched to run, her skin tingling, oppressed by the very closeness of this man. Look at him basking in the very attentions of the crowd. The very pomposity of the man!

  ‘Better bar your door tonight, Varin,’ Gronwig simpered, ‘otherwise the maids of the manor will be after your honour.’ Sybilla preened visibly, smoothing soft hands down the sumptuous wool of her gunna, as if to emphasise the delights beneath. The soldier grinned, the generosity of his smile causing tiny lines around his eyes to crinkle with humour. Eadita dropped her eyes hastily, her heart tripping in panic. Upon the stars, someone help me out from here! Silently she prayed for salvation. Her captor handed his spear, helmet and shield to a younger member of his party, keeping his jewelled short sword hanging at his leather belt.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Varin grabbed her upper arm, propelling her swiftly in the direction of the servant who stood patiently at a side door of the manor. God in Heaven! What was she to do? Appealing to the guards and servants securely in the pay of her uncle would reveal her disguise and put her brother at risk; she couldn’t trust them. Fear prickled in her fingertips as her toes bobbed over the cobbles, dragged in the warrior’s wake, the very speed of her legs preventing logical thought. Bedevilled, cursed man! How could she shake him off?

  Fortune smiled on her. A shout hailed Varin just before he raised a sturdy hand to push against the oaken planks of the door on the east side of the hall. Cursing under his breath, Varin shoved Eadita into the strong grip of his companion, Geraint.

  ‘You take him…other matters need my attention.’ He strode away. Geraint, still tall, but of slighter build than Varin, gripped a handful of wool at the shoulder of her tunic to drive her forward once more. She relaxed slightly. Now she had a chance while they followed the stone corridor, lit at intervals with tallow and rush torches slung into metal hoops driven into the wall to ward off the gloom. Advantage lay on her side in her detailed knowledge of her home; she could gain her freedom if she were quick.

  Although Geraint’s hold on her right shoulder remained tight, her left arm swung free. They approached a large tapestry behind which was a small opening. As the entrance to the dungeon loomed at the end of the flagstone passage, Eadita realised she must make her move now or never. She reached for the neck of the next burning torch, thrusting it round briskly to brandish it in her enemy’s face. He loosened his grasp for a second as the flames shoved towards him. In an instant, the burning brand dropped hissing to the floor before him, the tapestry moved slightly and his captive vanished! Astonished, Geraint stood rigid for a mere second, before tearing down the intricate wall-hanging and shouting the alarm back to the Baron and his men in the courtyard. He dropped his head to squeeze through the constrictive doorway. Barely noting the narrow dark stairway, Geraint bounded up the steps two at a time, fearing his reprimand from Varin before it was delivered. Gaining the top, a glance both ways informed him that his ex-prisoner was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Quick, quick, fill the tub.’ Eadita burst in on Agatha, her maidservant, continuing to shout commands while ripping off her filthy masculine garments. ‘Make haste, the Normans are after me.’ She ran to the ante-room, plunging her hands into a basin of freezing water to scrub her face free of caked mud, drying her skin on a rough linen square till it pinkened attractively. Agatha followed her.

  ‘But the water’s cold, my lady!’

  ‘’Tis no matter, we must merely give the illusion!’ Eadita rushed back into the main chamber. ‘We must clear these dirty clothes as well, they must not be found!’

  The sound of doors being shoved open along the corridor came steadily closer, shouts and running feet could be heard outside. Eadita unpinned the tight braids, letting them drop like dark ropes about her, before fumbling with the leather thongs that held each braid intact. Her heart pounded as she ran her shaking fingers through each braid to fully unleash the bundle of silky chestnut locks. Slipping a linen chemise over her naked body so it would look as if she were about to take a bath, she cast a keen glance over her chamber to see if any item might give away her double identity.

  The door slammed back violently on its iron hinges, thudding against the wall. Eadita turned her head slowly, regally even, refusing to be daunted by the imposing sight filling the doorframe. Upon the stars! Why did it have to be him?

  The chamber walls shrank inward at Varin de Montaigu’s magnificent presence and, although her feet moved not, her body seemed to lean towards him as if of its own accord. Despite having set aside his trappings of war, the shield, his spear and his helmet, he still wore the silvery chain-mail that clung to his frame like a second skin, emphasising the sheer muscled power of his shoulders and legs. Beneath her thin shift, Eadita’s legs trembled involuntarily. Varin seemed unable to speak, his generous mouth set in a taut line as the dangerous glitter of his emerald eyes greedily drank in the gentle vision of femininity before him.

  Agatha spoke first, breaking the tense tableau.

  ‘Sire, please, I beg of you! You must leave at once! You should not be in my lady’s chamber.’ The servant moved towards him, wringing her hands nervously. ‘’Tis unseemly, my lord, pray take your leave!’ The warrior moved not, his eyes fixed on Eadita, Agatha’s words rolling off him like oil on water.

  ‘The heathen did not understand you, Agatha,’ Eadita explained in Saxon dialect, her tone faintly mocking, ‘ and once he realises he’ll gain no sense from us, he’ll leave.’

  ‘My lady Eadita, I presume,’ Varin addressed her in French, his angry mood evaporating as his gaze slipped languidly over her flimsy chemise. ‘’Tis an honour to meet you.’

  ‘Pity I cannot say the same,’ Eadita replied in the complicated Saxon burr. Agatha tittered unsteadily. Her mistress, by her scanty attire, had obviously hoped to shame any man entering this room into leaving immediately, but chivalry seemed to have deserted this knight. Eadita clenched her hands into small fists. How dare he not leave, his incisive eyes raking her body instead? Impudent man!

  Varin took a step closer, and Eadita lifted her hands instinctively as if to ward him away. ‘ I do not understand your language, sire. You heard my maid. Now, go, away with you!’ She shooed him away with ringless fingers. He couldn’t fail to understand the gesture.

  Varin laughed out loud, a wide grin lightening his face at the sight of this intriguingly beautiful woman. How this little chit ordered him out of the chamber as if he were a mere fly; her very arrogance was astounding. Either her bravery knew no bounds or she was immensely stupid. Lesser men had died for challenging a Norman lord in such a fashion and she was just a maid! In these times it paid to be prudent and her behaviour was anything but that.

  Despite her frigid demeanour, his keen eyes noted her agitation at his continued presence. The transparency of her linen shift did little to hide the sharp rise and fall of her chest, the gauzy material tightening at each breath over the sweet curve of her full breasts and dusky nipples. After three months of hard fighting, desperate living conditions and unnecessary bloodshed, the vision of beauty before him was pure heaven, and his groin tightened involuntarily. If he cared to remember his knight’s training at all, the code of chivalry meant that he should have left at once, but the day had been long and arduous: he had yet to reap some reward from it. Her haughty bearing goaded him to spark some reaction from her, despite her bloodthirsty look.

  ‘I need to search your quarters, my lady,’ he stated. ‘An outlaw has escaped and i
s possibly dangerous.’ The order was issued with all the superiority of one used to having his demands met, as he leant idly against the doorframe. Despite his relaxed stance, Eadita sensed the coiled tension in his body, a wolf about to pounce.

  She started to shiver; piercing draughts sneaked through the oiled hides covering the window embrasures. The hem of the white chemise skirted her toes and the sleeves reached to her elbows, but through the loose and gauzy weave of the cloth her naked vulnerability was all too apparent. His frankly assessing gaze told her so. Hurriedly, she grabbed a fox-fur pelt from the bed to wrap around herself.

  ‘Please don’t cover yourself on my account, your attire has left little to the imagination.’ His provoking words belittled her belated attempt at modesty. Embarrassed, she yanked the pelt around her figure, her wan face whipping around to accost him, amethyst eyes scorched with loathing.

  ‘Just get out,’ she hissed in his language, ‘get out, you’re not wanted here. There’s nobody in my chamber and well you know it. Scuttle back to your beloved Conqueror in the city and make haste back to France. Leave…now, this minute.’ She turned her back on him with, she hoped, a convincing sob, Agatha placing a comforting hand around her shoulders.

  ‘Accomplished French for one who had little knowledge a few moments ago…I congratulate you, mademoiselle.’ Varin’s feet remained firmly in place; he sensed a mystery and these two women were plotting, he was certain. Whatever it was, lady Eadita was effecting it rather delightfully. The fur around her body served only to enhance the delicacy of her diminutive frame, yet he had caught only a shadowed glimpse of that elfin stature through the gossamer fabric. Warmth amassed heavily in his loins, a feral heat gathering steadily.

  Amazed at his reaction to her, he wrenched his mind back to the more statuesque proportions of the faceless whores with whom he occasionally dallied. Women who were far more equal bed partners than this…this slender elfling with her smooth, chestnut locks, the sinuous tendrils curling softly around a fragile-boned face before snaking down to skim her delectable rounded bottom. With her face turned, he was denied the sight of her amazing eyes, eyes a deep, deep blue, the colour of the sky just before dawn, almost purple. Only her title and relationship to the Earl protected her. No knight of honour would dream of bedding a member of the nobility, unless they were prepared to risk the consequences. If he touched her, he would be called to account and forced to marry, no doubt by the Conqueror himself and he had no intention, ever, of being saddled with a wife.

  Pure sexual frustration seized his body. Trying to stifle the unwanted desire, he drove an iron fist into the doorjamb to power his body into the room, causing both women to start nervously. Eadita turned to regard him with contempt, eyes awash with fake tears. Varin had planted his great legs in the middle of her sheepskin rug, unmindful of his muddy boots, his massive presence filling the room. The scent of leather and male sweat tantalised her nostrils as he spoke.

  ‘Don’t insult me with your feminine wiles, my lady. I’m wise to the devious ways of women. All women.’ He laughed disparagingly. ‘We come to Thunorslege in peace, in a land that is now at peace, as an escort to your Saxon uncle, to be greeted with hostility and curses.’ The harsh cadence of his language rippled with intent, his eyes lively and insistent. ‘ I would watch your step, my lady,’ he cautioned. ‘Now, by your leave, may I search the chamber?’

  Chapter Two

  With a venomous stare, Eadita dropped her head in a tight nod, admitting defeat…for the moment. In the dimness of her chambers lit against the afternoon gloom with tallow candles, the man appeared as a giant, the flames picking up the gold strands of his hair and turning them to burnished amber. The gammelled metal of his hauberk gleamed over the broad expanse of his chest and dropped to mid-thigh, where it met woollen braies heavily cross-gartered with leather straps from knee to ankle. The heavy soles of his leather boots guaranteed them weatherproof; eyeing them, Eadita envied the skills of the French cobblers—her thin slippers were no match for the manor’s cold stone floors.

  ‘Seen enough, my lady?’ The warrior couldn’t fail to notice her scrutiny.

  ‘Just get on with it,’ Eadita snapped, sitting down on the bed.

  Varin moved easily over the wooden floor, despite the obvious weight of his chain-mail. Jaded by months of pitiless fighting, he absorbed the rich details of home life with pleasure. Colourful quilts and fur pelts piled high on the oak-framed bed, spread across a soft mattress of sweet-smelling branches covered with linen sacking. How different from the many nights sleeping on hard, lumpy ground with only his cloak for cover! The bright tapestries covering the dull stone of the walls were fine in their application and choice of colour, if a little threadbare in places.

  A derisive snort from the bed stilled his hand as he riffled through the garments in the carved elm coffer.

  ‘You wish to say something, my lady?’ Varin raised an eyebrow as he continued at his task.

  ‘You’re hardly likely to find the culprit in there.’ Eadita didn’t attempt to edit the scathing tone from her voice as she perched stiffly on the bed.

  ‘The lad is only small, about your size. He could easily squeeze in here.’ A guilty flush invaded her pale cheeks; he wondered at it as he stepped into the ante-room. An enticing array of earthenware pots and jars greeted him, arranged neatly on the wide shelves that covered every wall. Curious as to their contents, he reached lean fingers towards a squat jar. The cork stopper yielded easily, revealing a thick, white cream with a strong perfume. The smell hit him immediately; the scent of rose petals on a hot summer’s day. His mother’s scent. Suddenly he wanted to shove the pot away, dash it to the floor and watch it break to smithereens, but memory crowded in too fast for him to act, too fast for him to crush his thoughts.

  Felice had spent hours rubbing the rose-scented cream into the cold, detached beauty of her face, anxious to preserve her looks for a string of rich lovers. As a young lad, Varin and his brothers had watched in disbelief as she fed his adoring father a steady diet of lies and half-truths, but the gentle Sigurd would have loved her anyway, no matter what she did. What a fool his father had been!

  ’Twas Sigurd who had brought him up, he and his two younger brothers, Drogo and Ansger. Sigurd, with his wide, all-embracing hugs and his patient understanding as he showed them how to string a bow, to shoe a horse and to do the household chores that Felice somehow neglected to do. As young children, they had fallen over themselves in their efforts to try to please her, desperate to raise a smile from this hard, bitter woman, not understanding when she rewarded their childish efforts with stinging slaps and railing curses. He remembered her banging down cold, sloppy porridge for them to eat and Ansger, the youngest, flinching at the noise, curling in on himself with his thumb in his mouth and refusing to eat. She had beaten him for that. As the eldest, Varin had become quiet and watchful, looking out for his siblings, comforting them in their distress, making sure they were clean and dressed until they were old enough to do it for themselves. As they grew, Drogo and Ansger curbed their natural exuberance, creeping around her nagging, resentful presence until the day she walked out.

  Her departure should have been a relief, but Sigurd sank into a decline so deep that Varin worried that he would never recover. It was as if Felice had cut his father’s heart out with a knife and had taken it with her, she and her rich merchant lover. Varin could not understand why his father had loved Felice so unconditionally, a woman who constantly belittled him, a woman who broke his heart.

  He jammed the stopper back into the generous neck of the jar. He wanted to erase all memory of that hateful woman, that sly, vindictive bitch who had made his father’s life a living hell. His father had been a fool to love her, and he, Varin, had no intention of being snared in the same emotional trap. The solution was easy; he had vowed never to love a woman, never to become involved at such an intense level that escape without having one’s heart ripped out became impossible. Better never to love at all. His fingers shook as he returned the jar to the shelf.