Hers To Command

Maybe this would be a good time to do as Nicholas was always telling him, and keep his mouth shut.

Doing just that, he rode in silence beside Lady Mathilde, listening to the soldiers behind them laughing and talking. God’s wounds, they sounded more like men on a hunt than soldiers.

The man who’d trained him and his friends in the arts of war would never have tolerated such a lack of discipline. Henry could just imagine the things Sir Leonard de Brissy would say if he were here, and the curses that would accompany his comments.

“Ecclesford is on the other side of this wood,” Lady Mathilde remarked after they’d gone another mile or so, and the wind had started to rise. It tugged at the edges of the ladies’cloaks, and sent brown and yellow leaves swirling down the rutted, muddy road.

Henry noticed that the clouds were darker, too. He hoped the rain wouldn’t start before they arrived at Ecclesford. Chivalrous knight or not, he didn’t want to get soaked to the skin.

THE RAIN didn’t hold off and Henry was soaked to the skin before they reached Ecclesford Castle. He could barely see where he was going though the downpour, although he did note that the fortress had a dry moat that encircled it, except for the road leading to the large wooden gate, and only one outer wall. It was certainly not the most well-fortified castle he had ever encountered.

Once in the cobblestone courtyard, everyone hastened to dismount. Covering their heads with their arms, stableboys ran out to help with the horses. The animals snorted and refooted, their iron-shod hooves clattering on the cobblestones and adding to the din. The soldiers, grumbling about the weather, splashed heedlessly through puddles.

In the midst of the clamor, Lady Mathilde’s voice came clear and strong. “Follow me to the hall, Sir Henry,” she commanded as she headed toward a building directly across the yard.

He required no urging. Indeed, it was all he could do not to grab her arm to hurry her along.

It wasn’t just that his clothes and hair were getting wet; it was the smell of wet stone—a potent and vivid reminder of those long hours in that cold, damp dungeon when he feared he would be dragged out and executed at any moment. That scent made him relive the beatings and, worse than any physical blow, the sickening realization that the man to whom he had sworn an oath of loyalty and brotherhood did not trust him.

Once out of the driving rain, Henry handed his soaking cloak to a servant who appeared beside him, then shook himself like a dog, as if that could rid him of not just the damp, but the unhappy memories, too.

In a way, it worked, and as the fear and dismay dwindled, he straightened and took in his surroundings while Lady Mathilde bustled off, saying something about a chamber and some food.

The hall itself was small, although comfortably furnished with benches, stools and even chairs upon a raised dais at one end. The well-scrubbed tops of large trestle tables that would be set up for meals leaned against the walls, along with their bases. Bright tapestries depicting scenes of hunting and ladies in a garden lined the wall behind the dais to keep out the chill of the stone walls. There were metal sconces for torches along the walls, and great smoke and age-darkened oaken beams held up the slate roof.

Best of all, though, was the large fire burning in the central hearth. Henry went there at once and, sighing, held out his hands to the welcome warmth. They had put in wood from an apple tree, and the scent mingled with that of wet wool, damp linen and the moist rushes below his feet.

Meanwhile, Lady Mathilde flitted about giving orders like a general in the midst of battle. Lady Giselle disappeared up some curved stairs that led, he assumed, to bedchambers and dry clothes. Cerdic and the rest of the sodden escort came in and arranged themselves on the opposite side of the fire. Each and every one of them cast hostile glances at Henry as they shuffled their feet and jockeyed for a place closest to the heat.

Henry ignored them. He was used to scrutiny, whether speculative or hostile.

Once or twice a pretty and particularly buxom serving woman wearing a gown that seemed molded to her full-figured body passed by. She made no secret of her interest in Henry, surreptitiously and coyly smiling at him.

Henry was used to this, too, and he supposed she would come to his bed if he so desired. He didn’t so desire. First, it had never been his way, despite what many assumed, to fall into bed with any young woman who happened to catch his eye. Secondly, he had already discovered the few times he’d bedded a woman since his days in the dungeon that not only did making love not inspire sleep, it actually made him more wakeful. And last, but not least, he doubted the lovely and modest Lady Giselle would be inclined to accept him as a worthy suitor if he was bedding one of her servants right under her very nose.

As for any wayward fancies concerning Lady Mathilde and such activity, they were surely borne of fatigue and the unusual events of this strange day. To be sure, she was a bold and spirited woman, but not at all the sort he preferred. She was too audacious for his taste. While he was here, he would stay as far away from her as possible.

Lady Giselle appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Now she wore a gown of soft blue velvet that matched the color of her eyes. Her white, virginal veil was shot through with matching blue threads and held in place by a thin coronet made of intricately twisted gold. The long cuffs of her gown were embroidered with gold and emerald-green threads, the green matching the silken lining of the garment. A slender gilded girdle sat upon her hips.

She was the epitome of beauty, and as she paused on the bottom step, as uncertain as a fawn, he thought that he would surely be a fool not to woo and hope to wed her.

“Would you care to change your clothes?” Lady Mathilde asked, startling him out of his reverie.

He looked down to find her at his elbow, and with a disturbingly astute expression on her face. If someone were to tell him she possessed the ability to read his mind, he’d be inclined to believe it.

“There is a chamber ready for you now,” she added.

He was aware of Lady Giselle gliding toward the hearth and decided he wasn’t that wet anymore. “No, thank you, my lady. I’m quite comfortable.”

Lady Mathilde’s pursed lips revealed her reaction to that little lie—and then her eyes lit up like a bonfire on Midsummer’s Eve.

“Father Thomas!” she cried, brushing past Henry and rushing toward a middle-aged priest who’d just entered the hall.

Maybe Lady Mathilde hoped to be a nun.

If that was so, he doubted any convent, or any Mother Superior who expected docile novices, was quite ready for her.

Instead of continuing toward the hearth, and to Henry’s chagrin, Lady Giselle seated herself on one of the chairs on the dais. He contemplated leaving the fire to join her, but Lady Mathilde was coming toward him, leading the priest like a proud mother hen with a single chick. The priest followed serenely in her wake, a gentle smile on his pleasant face topped with a graying fringe of hair and a bald pate.

“Sir Henry, this is Father Thomas, the chaplain of Ecclesford, although he refuses to live here,” she said, relaxed and happy, her eyes dancing with delight.

He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d started to giggle. She looked so different, it was hard to believe this was the same woman who’d confronted him not so long ago.

It suddenly seemed rather a pity she wasn’t a serving wench, and one who would welcome the chance to spend a night in his bed.

God save him, he must be more exhausted than he knew.

Father Thomas smiled at Henry with beatific apology. “I fear Lady Mathilde will never forgive me for preferring to live among the villagers,” he said, his accent marking him as a well-educated man who’d probably been the younger son of a noble household in the south of France. He shrugged his shoulders with elegant grace. “They need me more.”

“More than soldiers?” Henry asked genially. He instinctively admired men of cloth—at least, most of them. “I would think soldiers are more prone to sin.”

The priest’s patient eyes seemed to reveal a knowledge of the world few worldly men possessed. “All men are tempted, my son. At least a soldier knows he will be housed and fed. The poor in the village have no such security, although the ladies of Ecclesford are more generous than most.” He sighed. “But it is as our Lord tells us, the poor will always be with us, and their lives are difficult.”

Although Henry wasn’t ignorant of the lives of the poor, rarely did the fate of such people intrude upon his life. Standing before the kindly, soft-spoken priest, he suddenly felt rather ashamed that it should be so.

“Father Thomas says there has been no word or sign from Roald,” Lady Mathilde said. “The more days that pass and we do not see him, the more I hope he has accepted my father’s desire.”

Her words and her smile made Henry think of a very different kind of desire, one that had nothing to do with her late parent. His mind instantly conjured the image of the bold, lively Lady Mathilde in his bed beneath him, smiling that smile, laughing, then sighing with pleasure as he loved her.

“Now it is time to eat,” Lady Mathilde announced, forcibly returning him to the here and now where he was hungry and still slightly damp. “Sir Henry, you may take my father’s chair. Giselle, you will sit to his right, Father Thomas to his left.”

Like soldiers under her command, they all dutifully took their places, Lady Giselle keeping her eyes demurely lowered and never once looking his way.

As the meal progressed, Henry ignored the lively Lady Mathilde on the other side of Father Thomas and instead tried to amuse, entertain and impress the beautiful Lady Giselle. During the first course of fresh bread, butter and a dish composed of turbot cooked in a sauce of leeks and saffron, he told his best, most amusing stories of some of the people he’d met at court.

She never smiled. Not once.

When a fine frumenty of beef cooked with onions, parsley and sage followed, he spoke of the tournaments he’d been in, and the knights he’d defeated. He told her some tales of his friends, Merrick, the lord of Tregellas and Sir Ranulf, now the garrison commander there. She made appropriate gasps and exclamations of dismay as he described the combat, but with a detachment that spoke of mere polite attention. As a pudding of eggs, cream, bread crumbs and ground meat, spiced with pepper and something more exotic that he couldn’t quite name, was set before them, he tried telling her about his sister and her exciting elopement with a Scot.

That finally got a reaction from Lady Giselle. Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed. “To put her family through such fear and near disgrace,” she murmured. “It must have been so difficult for you.”

“Well, I wasn’t there at the time,” he admitted, delighted he’d finally gotten some kind of rejoinder from her.

But then Lady Giselle lapsed back into silence, causing Henry to subdue a disgruntled sigh. Never had he been met with less interest.

This did not bode well.

Maybe he should see if that buxom serving wench was as friendly as she seemed, even though he knew a tumble wouldn’t guarantee him a good night’s sleep. On the other hand, it might clear his mind of these ridiculous fancies featuring Lady Mathilde that persisted in dancing about the edge of his mind even as he spoke to Lady Giselle.

As the last of the baked fruit was cleared away, Lady Giselle pushed back her chair and got to her feet. “If you will excuse me,” she said quietly, her gaze on her sister and Father Thomas, and without so much as a glance in his direction, “I shall retire early tonight.”

“It’s been a tiring day,” Lady Mathilde agreed, although she herself didn’t seem the least fatigued.

“Thank you for this fine meal, my lady,” the priest said as he, too, rose. “If you will excuse me, I will take the leavings to distribute to those who wait at the gate.”

“Certainly, Father,” Lady Mathilde said. “It has been a pleasure, as always, and if there is more I can do, you have but to ask.”

“Thank you, my lady, and God’s blessing upon you and all who dwell herein.”

Father Thomas turned to Henry, who had likewise gotten to his feet. “Thank you, my son, for coming to the aid of these ladies in their hour of need,” he said, his warm expression like a benediction. “God will surely bless you for your generosity.”

Considering that his reasons were not entirely selfless, Henry couldn’t quite meet the priest’s friendly gaze. “It is my honor, Father.”

After the priest left the dais, Henry decided he might as well retire. “I should sleep, too, my lady.” Or try to. “It’s been a long and rather unusual day.”

A rush light in her hand, that pretty maidservant appeared at once, as if she’d been waiting for just this moment. “I’ll light his way, my lady.”

Lady Mathilde reached for the rush light. “You should help in the kitchen, Faiga. I shall show Sir Henry to his chamber. If you will follow me, Sir Henry.”

She briskly set off for the curved staircase, leaving Henry to trail after her as the priest had. While Henry obediently complied, he was more amused than annoyed by her proprietary attitude. Perhaps she thought Faiga required protection from the handsome young guest, although he doubted Faiga would agree. Or maybe she thought Faiga had been too forward.

Whatever Lady Mathilde thought about the servant or her behavior, Faiga slid from Henry’s mind as they went up the steps. Instead, he found himself hard pressed not to stare at Lady Mathilde’s rather attractive backside, her slim hips and rounded buttocks swaying with every step. He smiled as he thought of her happiness when she introduced him to the priest, and the way she accepted the clergyman’s preference to live among those most in need.

When they reached the second floor, Lady Mathilde stopped at the first door. “This will be your chamber while you are here. It was my father’s, so it is the largest. I hope it’s to your liking.”

Her tone made it clear she was sure he would.

“Considering some of the places I’ve had to lay my head,” he honestly replied, “I’m sure it will be.”

She made no answer as she opened the door and preceded him inside. The flickering light of the rush illuminated the large chamber, although the corners were still in shadow. A bed dominated the room, its curtains dark and thick, probably made of heavy velvet. A table with a silver ewer and basin and clean linen stood beside the door, and a chair and trestle table were near the window, where the sunlight would fall upon the surface during the day. He could smell the scent of lavender, either from the bedding or the lump of soap by the basin. Wherever it came from, it was welcome, reminding him of more pleasant times before he had been accused of treason and betrayal.

Outside, rain lashed against the walls and the wind moaned about the battlements. He didn’t envy the men on watch tonight, provided there were men on watch. Given what he’d already observed, he wouldn’t be surprised to discover that they deserted their posts in bad weather.

Lady Mathilde lit the thick yellow beeswax candle in the holder there. Another larger stand with several thinner candles stood in the corner.

For a moment, he thought her hands trembled, but she tucked them in the cuffs of her simple gown before he could be sure.

Why should her hands shake? Surely she wasn’t afraid of him.

“Your baggage,” she said, nodding at a familiar bundle in the corner near the bed.

“Thank you,” he replied with a reassuring smile. “This room is most comfortable.”

He thought she might go then, but she didn’t move.

Why not? What was she waiting for, especially if she was uncomfortable in his presence? And surely it was unseemly for her to linger here, alone with him.

Unless what she was feeling was not fear, but something else that could make a woman quiver. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one having lustful thoughts. “Is there something more you wish of me, my lady?” he asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral in case he was wrong.

Her gaze met his, steady and determined. “I should warn you, Sir Henry, that if you think to seduce my sister, you should think again.”

He was so shocked, he actually took a step back. Seduction was not his aim, but perhaps marriage, if he and the lady suited, yet Lady Mathilde made him sound like some kind of disgusting scoundrel. “My lady, I play the game of seduction only with those willing to be seduced,” he replied. “If a woman isn’t interested, I don’t pursue her, no matter how beautiful she may be.”

“I am not blind, Sir Henry,” Lady Mathilde replied, crossing her arms over her breasts. “I watched you trying to charm her. And I do not say mere seduction is your plan. After all, Giselle is an heiress, and the man who marries her will be rich.”

His pride urged him to refute that mercenary motive, but since he honestly couldn’t, he didn’t. “Do you forbid me to speak to her?”

Lady Mathilde gave him a pitying look, as if she thought him stupid but was too polite to say so. “Not at all. You have offered to help us against Roald, and you are our guest.”

“Yet you accuse me of plotting to seduce your younger sister.”

“Not plotting, precisely. Hoping to marry her for her dowry, perhaps, and so I seek to save you a useless effort. Giselle may be beautiful, but she is not a fool. I assure you, she will not succumb to any honeyed words or meaningless promises. And Giselle is not the younger sister. I am.”

Given Lady Mathilde’s command of the household, he had assumed she must be the eldest. She certainly behaved as if she were.

Recovering as quickly as he could, he said, “If I were to make an offer for your sister, it would be because I love her. I have promised myself I will be in love with my bride when I wed.”

Lady Mathilde’s expression betrayed her skepticism.

“Believe it or not as you will,” he said with a shrug, “but I would have a marriage such as that of my brother and my sister, who care deeply for their spouses. They are very happy together. Why should I settle for less?”

Lady Mathilde’s shrewd eyes narrowed as she studied him. “You seem to be a most unusual nobleman.”

“As you seem to be a most unusual lady.”

Even he could not have said whether he meant that for a compliment or not, but it was the truth. “I’m impressed with your concern for your sister,” he added as he strolled toward her, and that, at least, was true.

Lady Mathilde backed away as if she were afraid. Of him? That was ridiculous—he had given her no reason to believe he would be dangerous to her.

“Giselle’s husband will be the lord of Ecclesford. I must protect her from handsome, charming men who seek only to enrich themselves.”

He regarded her quizzically. “If she is the elder, can she not look after herself?”

The woman before him flushed, but didn’t look away. Her mouth was half-parted, her breasts rising and falling with her rapid breathing. She swayed forward a bit—enough to encourage him to think she was feeling the same pull of desire and curiosity.

Responding to that urge, he put his hands on her shoulders and started to draw her closer. With her came the scent of lavender.

She gasped and in that same instance, her eyes were suddenly alive with what could only be fear as she twisted from his light grasp. “Don’t touch me!”

Shocked by the force of her reaction, he spread his arms wide. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You were going to kiss me!” she accused, as if his kiss would kill her.

Not every woman he met was attracted to him, and he was not so vain as to expect that they would be. On the other hand, never before had he been to feel as if he were somehow unsavory, and his pride was pricked. She had been tempted to kiss him, and he would prove it.

“I thought you wanted me to kiss you,” he said, his voice low and sultry, his tone one that had encouraged many a woman to express her passionate desires.

The look she gave him! It was a wonder it didn’t strike him dead. “I did not, you base, vile, lustful rogue!”

The heat of a blush—something he hadn’t felt in years—flooded his face. Embarrassed, his pride stung, he drew himself up like the knight he was. “If you would rather I leave Ecclesford, you have only to say so.”

For a moment, he thought she was going to agree, but in the next, she shook her head, her cheeks as red as his scarlet hauberk. “Forgive me, Sir Henry,” she said, twisting the cuff of her gown in her slender fingers. “I am sometimes too quick to anger.”

Suddenly he realized exactly what her reaction reminded him of. She was like a horse that had been beaten and shied away from any person who came near it. No doubt some stupid lout had been too forward and too rough with her—a selfish youth or overeager suitor. The fool had surely gotten no further than a kiss, for a woman like Lady Mathilde wouldn’t hesitate to fight off any unwelcome advances. It was unfortunate, but the damage had been done.

His annoyance fled, replaced with regret. “No, my lady, it is I who should be forgiven for presuming too much,” he replied with a courteous bow. “I assure you, it will not happen again.”

“Good,” she murmured.

Then, keeping as much distance as possible between them, as if the very thought of touching him was repugnant to her, she sidled toward the door. “I give you good night, Sir Henry.”

“Good night, my lady,” he muttered as she closed the door behind her.

He moved the large, lit candle to the table beside the bed. He might have been a fool to come here, despite their need. Nicholas would probably say so, even taking the presence of the lovely Lady Giselle into account.

Ah well, this wouldn’t be the first time his brother would think him less than wise, he thought as he started to disrobe, and Lady Giselle wasn’t completely out of his grasp.

Yet.

AFTER SHE LEFT Sir Henry, Mathilde paused on the steps and leaned back against the curved wall, her hands clasped to her breast, her heart racing, her blood throbbing, her breathing ragged. Why had she lingered? Why hadn’t she simply told him not to pursue Giselle and left the chamber at once?

Because he was handsome and friendly and charming. Because she had both feared and hoped that he would kiss her. Because she was weak and lustful, and he aroused a desire in her so overwhelming, she felt almost helpless to resist, in spite of the chiding of her conscience.

At least now one thing was very clear: she must never be alone with the handsome Sir Henry again.

CHAPTER THREE

THE NEXT MORNING, after another restless night disturbed by dreams of the dungeon and the beating and the pain his friend had inflicted, Henry leaned over the basin in the lord’s chamber of Ecclesford and splashed cold water over his face. God’s wounds, would he never sleep well again? It had been weeks since those terrible days. His injuries had healed. So why could he not sleep soundly? Why did the memories still come so vividly, as if he were again chained to that wall and despairing that Merrick, a man to whom he had sworn to be loyal even to death, had been so quick to believe that he was a traitor?

A soft knock sounded on the door.

When he bade the person enter, he more than half-expected Lady Mathilde to march over the threshold. Instead, it was that full-figured serving wench, carrying a tray, and with a coy smile on her face.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said brightly. “Lady Mathilde said although ye’re not an early riser, it’s well past mass, so you should be getting up and I was to bring you something to eat and wake you.”

Lady Mathilde had seemed to believe he was lust incarnate last night, so he was rather surprised by her choice of servant…unless this was some sort of test. Or perhaps it was a trap intended to “prove” his lascivious nature to her sister, and so prevent any hope of a marriage.