Κύρια Prisoner of My Desire

Prisoner of My Desire


Rowena Belleme must produce an heir--or incur the dangerous wrath of a
the magnificent Warrick deChaville is the perfect choice to sire her
child--though it means imprisoning the handsome knight...and forcing him
to bend to her amorous whims.


Vowing to
resist but betrayed by his own virility, noble Warrick is intoxicated by
Rowena's sapphire eyes and voluptuous beauty. Yet all the while he
plans a fitting revenge--eagerly awaiting the time when his sensuous
rapturous torment and exquisite ecstasy that he himself has endured.
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Johanna Lindsey

Prisoner of My Desire



Title Page

Chapter 1

The lady was small and fragile, but with the tall…

Chapter 2

They arrived at Kirkburough just as the sun was setting.

Chapter 3

Rowena woke with some disorientation, but it lasted only moments…

Chapter 4

The day progressed, despite all hope that it would not,…

Chapter 5

They set upon him on his way out of the…

Chapter 6

Rowena had fallen asleep at the edge of the bed,…

Chapter 7

Rowena was still glaring at the door that had closed…

Chapter 8

“So now you know,” Rowena said dejectedly, having finished telling…

Chapter 9

I am glad ’twas you.

Chapter 10

“’Tis done.”

Chapter 11

Rowena did not realize it until after Gilbert had gone,…

Chapter 12

Mildred found him in the chamber she had come to…

Chapter 13

Rowena was in a daze for what remained of that…

Chapter 14

Rowena knew she was in trouble when the jailer showed…

Chapter 15

Rowena did not beg John not to take her to…

Chapter 16

Rowena’s breath had stopped completely. Her eyes closed in dread.

Chapter 17

That first day in the lord’s solar continued endlessly for…

Chapter 18

When Rowena thought of Warrick de Chaville coming to her…

Chapter 19

“This be where ye will spend most of yer time,”…

Chapter 20

Rowena was furious over the anxiety Warrick had caused her,…

Chapter 21

Rowena lay on her uncomfortable bed on the floor of…

Chapter 22

The kitchen was an eerie place without its blazing fire…

Chapter 23

Warrick was in a bemused state of utter repletion and…

Chapter 24

God was merciful the next morning in allowing Rowena to…

Chapter 25

With the thorough cleaning done yesterday, Rowena and Enid finished…

Chapter 26

“Welcome, Sheldon!” Warrick exclaimed and clasped his old friend in…

Chapter 27

No sooner had Rowena returned to the weaving room than…

Chapter 28

Warrick had not noticed before how many of his men…

Chapter 29

Rowena was never going to live it down. She wa; s…

Chapter 30

Warrick was still there when Rowena awoke the next morn,…

Chapter 31

Warrick was not sure what complexity the wench was perpetrating…

Chapter 32

Warrick was not in one of his better moods when…

Chapter 33

He was gone, but Rowena had not been thrown back…

Chapter 34

The woods were not a welcoming haven for a woman…

Chapter 35

The sun made only a brief appearance that morn ere…

Chapter 36

The afternoon dragged by with nerve-racking slowness. Rowena went through…

Chapter 37

“Is there a reason you await me out here, wench,…

Chapter 38

The noise coming from the Great Hall predicted the evening…

Chapter 39

Warrick whipped his daughter right there in the hall for…

Chapter 40

“I had sent a man ahead to Gilly Field, to…

Chapter 41

Warrick looked up from his cold meal as the tent…

Chapter 42

Rowena laughed as Emma’s nose scrunched up when she smelled…

Chapter 43

There was one other reason that Rowena could think of…

Chapter 44

Warrick castigated himself for the hundredth time for giving in…

Chapter 45

Rowena saw the two guards walking so determinedly toward her…

Chapter 46

The resumption of Rowena’s previous duties did not lift the…

Chapter 47

He did not come. She was to give birth to…

Chapter 48

“And what was that swearing about after ’twas over?” Mildred…

About the Author


Other Books by Johanna Lindsey


About the Publisher

Chapter 1

England, 1152

The lady was small and fragile, but with the tall knight standing before her, her frailty was much more apparent. Her blond head reached no higher than his broad shoulders. And when his open palm cracked across her cheek, her thin body jerked to the side with the force of it. A blow like that would have easily sent her to the floor if she were not supported. But she was supported, by two of the knight’s men-at-arms. They stood well behind her, her arms twisted just so to thrust her forward so they would not take a blow meant for her. This kept her upright when she might have buckled, kept her there to receive another blow, and still another.

Across the small chamber, Rowena Belleme watched. She also was being held fast by two men-at-arms, the same two who had dragged her into this chamber to witness her stepbrother’s brutality. Blood trickled down the center of her chin from biting her lips to keep from screaming. Tears fell copiously over ashen cheeks. But she had not been struck herself. Like as not it would come to that if she did not give in to her stepbrother’s demands after this demonstration of his seriousness, but while his patience held, he did not want to blacken her with bruises that would elicit comment at her wedding.

Gilbert d’Ambray had no such qualms regarding his stepmother, however. Lady Anne Belleme—nay, she was Anne d’Ambray now and once again a widow, now that Gilbert’s father was dead—was of little use to him except as a hostage to Rowena’s behavior. And there was not much that Rowena would not do for her mother. But what Gilbert wanted of her now…

Anne turned to look at her daughter. Her cheeks were blotched a fiery red with the imprints of Gilbert’s heavy hand, yet she had shed not a tear, nor made a single sound. Her expression, so eloquent, wrung more tears from Rowena. It said plainly, This has been done to me so often, ’tis naught. Ignore it, daughter. Do not give the cur what he wants.

Rowena did not want to. Lord Godwine Lyons, the man Gilbert had found to marry her, was old enough to be her grandfather, in truth, her great-grandfather. And her mother had only confirmed the rumors she had heard of this old lord when Gilbert had demanded that Anne convince Rowena to comply with his wishes.

“I know Lyons, and he is not for an heiress of Rowena’s stature. Even if his age were not an issue, the man has scandals of perversion attached to his name. Never would I condone such a match.”

“He is the only man willing to fight to regain her properties,” Gilbert had pointed out.

“Properties your father lost through his greed.”

“Nay, it is every man’s right—”

“To encroach on his neighbor?” Anne cut in with a full measure of the contempt she felt for her stepson, which was not even a quarter of what she had felt for his brutish father. “To raid and make war without recourse? To steal and force women into marriage before their husbands are even buried! Such rights only came to men since that weakling Stephen was made king.”

Gilbert had actually flushed, but more likely with anger than in embarrassment for what his father had done to Anne. In truth, he was a product of the times. He had been only a child of eight when Stephen had stolen the crown from Matilda after old King Henry died. The kingdom had split apart then, half the barons refusing to accept a woman as their ruler, the other half holding by their oaths to Matilda, and now her son Henry of Aquitaine. Hugo d’Ambray was one of the barons who had then sworn to Stephen, and so he had felt justified in killing Rowena’s father, who was Henry’s vassal, and then forcing Walter Belleme’s widow to marry him, thereby gaining control of all of Walter’s lands, which Rowena as his only child inherited, as well as Anne’s dower lands. And neither Anne nor Rowena had any recourse for this injustice, certainly not from a king who had thrown the realm into anarchy.

Unlike his father, who had had a streak of malevolence to complement his brutishness, Gilbert was like most men of his day, respectful when necessary, churlish when not, and intent on filling his coffers with the fruits of other men’s labors. But because he had lived seventeen years with anarchy, his policies were no different from any other baron’s. Most of them might bemoan having such a weak king that the land was rife with lawlessness, but then most of them took advantage and contributed to that lawlessness.

Actually, in the three years that Gilbert had been Rowena’s stepbrother, he had never said a harsh word to her, nor laid a hand to her in anger as his father had occasionally done. As a knight, Gilbert was well skilled and courageous. As a man, he was actually very handsome, with black hair and dark brown eyes that gave unease for their watchfulness. Until today, Rowena had hated him only because he was his father’s son. For their own benefit and their petty wars with their neighbors, they had stripped her lands bare and taken everything of value that she and her mother had ever owned. They had broken the betrothal contract her father had made for her, keeping her unwed strictly for their own profit, so they could continue to draw what they could from her serfs’ labors, and demand war service from her vassals each year.

But last year Hugo d’Ambray had thoughtlessly decided to take Dyrwood keep, which sat between one of Rowena’s properties and one of his own. That was tantamount to stirring up a hornet’s nest, for Dyrwood belonged to one of the greater warlords of the north shires, the Lord of Fulkhurst, who not only came to the aid of his vassal at Dyrwood, routing the besiegers and sending them back to their own borders, but then systematically set out to destroy the man who had dared try to steal from him.

Unfortunately, not only Hugo’s properties became this warmonger’s targets, but also those that Hugo had control of through wardship. And he found out how helpful a weak king was when Stephen refused to come to his aid, too busy with his own problems. But even though Hugo had been killed two months ago in this war that his greed had started, Fulkhurst was not satisfied. Gilbert was finding out that this particular warlord thrived on vengeance.

Gilbert had sued for peace and been refused, which had enraged him and made him determined to win back the d’Ambray lands at any cost. But the cost he had decided on was to sacrifice Rowena to the marriage bed of an old lecher. He had even told her it would not be for long, that he would soon have her back under his guardianship, for the man was two steps from the grave. But as long as she was wed to the old goat, Gilbert wanted to see a child come from the union. He had made that perfectly clear, for only in that way would he have her and her lands back, as well as Lyons’ land and wealth through her child. Thusly he would obtain the resources to win back the d’Ambray properties that were now in Fulkhurst’s hands.

’Twas a fine plan as far as Gilbert was concerned. It truly cost him nothing, but would gain him all that he sought—including, at long last, Rowena in his own bed. This above all else was at the heart of his plan, for he was halfway obsessed with the little flaxen-haired beauty who was his stepsister.

He had wanted her from the first day he had seen her, when she was only fifteen. But his father had refused to let him have her, pointing out that her value would be considerably decreased without her maidenhead, even though he had had no intention of marrying her off. But Hugo d’Ambray could not live forever, and Gilbert was intelligent enough to see that the damned maidenhead was not for him, and patient enough to wait until it was no longer an issue, bestowed on some future husband.

This was why Gilbert had treated her well, not wanting her to be aware of the streak of ruthlessness ingrained in him by his father. He wanted Rowena to want him as well when he finally took her to his bed. He wanted her enough that he would even have married her himself if there had been any profit in it. But since the d’Ambrays already controlled her lands, there was not. As soon as she conceived, he intended to have her, and to continue having her, even though he had every intention of marrying her off again for further gain at some future time. Getting rid of her husbands would be the easy part. Getting Rowena to develop a passion for him would not be so easy.

Unaccountably, to his way of thinking, wedding her to Lyons without her consent, which would be an easy thing to do, would set her against him. He did not see forcing her consent by beating her mother as a worse offense. Far from it. He was so used to seeing his father beat the Lady Anne, it was as if it were nothing. He did not take into consideration that Rowena, kept at Kemel keep these three years instead of with her mother at Ambray Castle, had not witnessed the same and so had grown indifferent to it, as he was. He was so certain that she would never hold ill usage of her mother against him that he was not very sure that his rough treatment of the Lady Anne would even work to sway Rowena. ’Twas merely the least of the things he could do to get her to agree to the marriage, and so had been the first he had sought to try when reasoning and pointing out the benefits had failed.

Gilbert’s first mistake was in assuming that Rowena felt for her mother what he had felt for his, which was next to nothing. His second was in not expecting any kind of reaction from Rowena this soon, so he had not even looked toward her since he had begun striking her mother a few moments ago. But when he saw Anne look toward her daughter with such steady courage, he also glanced behind him, then stiffened in anger, seeing his mistakes clearly now. The girl did care for her mother, too much. Her large sapphire eyes were awash with tears. She was hurting herself to keep from begging him to stop, and that only because her mother had stated plainly that she did not condone the marriage to Lyons.

Better he had drugged her, married her to Lyons, and got even the bedding over with before she had regained consciousness, a fait accompli. Now those lovely blue eyes gazed on him with such loathing, he knew she would never desire him as he had hoped. So be it. He would still have her, and soon, but he was so enraged that it would not be as he had imagined it, his fingers closed into a fist and slammed into the side of Anne’s head. She crumbled instantly, without a sound.

Rowena made the sound, a choked whimper, before she whispered, “Nay. No more.”

He left the mother hanging between his men and moved to stand before the daughter. He still seethed over what his assumptions had cost him in personal gain. ’Twas there in his eyes, in his expression, and he lifted Rowena’s face in his hand, forcing her to see it. But it was a measure of his feelings for her that his hand was not rough, even in his present anger. Unwittingly, he even gently wiped the tears away from one cheek.

His voice, however, was harsh in questioning, “Will you wed Lord Godwine?”

“I will.”

“Will you do so with good cheer?”

Rowena stared at him blankly for a moment before she burst out, “You ask too much—”

“Nay. What will a smile cost you when it will ensure his speedy compliance with the marriage contract?”

“Is his compliance in doubt?”

“Nay, but there is no time to lose. Fulkhurst is now inactive, but only because he has just defeated Tures.”

Rowena blanched at this information. She had known that two of her keeps near Dyrwood had been taken, one without even a fight, but Tures Castle had been the largest of her father’s properties, his stronghold, and was much farther north. She had grown up in Tures. All that she knew of love and happiness she had learned there, inside those stone walls. Now an enemy warlord held it—nay, enemies had held it these past three years, so what difference to her, one or another? She certainly had not held it, nor did she ever expect to. Even if Lord Godwine could win it back for her, it would be hers in name only.

Gilbert mistook her expression and thought to reassure her. “Do not despair, Rowena. Lyons has become rich in bleeding his town merchants these past twenty years that he has held Kirkburough. The mercenaries his wealth will buy will quickly defeat Fulkhurst and send him back to his own domain. You will have Tures back within the month.”

Rowena did not answer. She had already been told that the marriage contract had been worded to her benefit; that her properties, once they were won back, would be hers, not her husband’s, which meant nothing to her in this day and age when law and justice were ignored, but would mean everything if only Henry would come to rule. Lyons no doubt thought to have full use of her properties. Gilbert obviously thought to have them back in his control, which to her mind meant that if Lyons did not die soon enough of his old age and ailments, Gilbert would help him along to that end. But Gilbert wanted her to bear Lyons a child first. As she had done every day these past three years, Rowena shuddered and prayed for Henry of Aquitaine to win the throne of England. Her father had been Henry’s vassal, and Rowena would swear herself to him quicker than she could blink. Then and only then might she escape Gilbert d’Ambray’s control.

Instead of remarking what was in her mind, she asked Gilbert, “Does that mean my vassals will be brought to swear to me this time, or will they again be too busy fighting in your wars?”

Color stole into his cheeks. This was yet another way his father had ignored the letter of the law, for when the Belleme properties had changed ownership at her father’s death, his nine vassals should have come to pay Rowena homage for the properties they now held through her, yet she had not seen one of those knights in these three years she had been kept isolated at one of Hugo’s smaller keeps. Each time she had ever mentioned it, she had been fobbed off with excuses that her knights were besieged, or in the middle of a campaign, or some other such thing. Like as not her men thought her dead. That would have been the easiest way for Hugo to have gained their service without having to answer their concern for her welfare.

Gilbert said now in a hard tone that discouraged further comment, “Five of your vassals have died fighting Fulkhurst, and whether Sir Gerard lives or not is undetermined, as he had been made castellan of Tures. Likely that monster butchered him, as he has done to my own knights.” He ended with a shrug that stated clearly he did not particularly care whether Gerard had been spared or not.

What color had returned to Rowena’s cheeks left again. She did not question further, but only because she dreaded to know which knights still lived and which did not. Who should she blame for their deaths, Fulkhurst for striking the killing blow, or Gilbert and his father for gaining Fulkhurst’s ire? God’s mercy, when would this land be returned to peace?

Quietly, she asked Gilbert to have her released. At his nod to his men, she was immediately let go and started toward her mother. Gilbert’s hand caught her arm and steered her instead toward the door.

She pulled away from him, but his hold was firm. “Let me go to her.”

“Nay, her women will attend her anon.”

“I have not seen her in three years, Gilbert,” she reminded him, but should have known it would not make a difference.

“When you get yourself with Lyons’ child to secure his lands will be soon enough for you to see her.”

More manipulations and coercions. She could not be silent any longer, but released her feelings in a hate-filled hiss. “You are despicable, worse even than your father. At least he was honest in his cruelty!”

His hand tightened on her arm, the only indication that her words affected him. “I have only your best interests at—”

“Liar! I will do what you want, but if you tell me once more that I am to benefit by it, I will scream.”

He did not argue with her. What he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and kiss her, for the fire of her fury stirred his desire for her even more than her beauty. But he did not dare even a kiss. Did she go to Lyons’ bed without her maidenhead, he could repudiate her, thereby ending Gilbert’s hope of getting his hands on the old lord’s wealth.

So all he said was, “Then come, we ride for Kirkburough today. You will be wed tomorrow.” And be in his own bed at the very first indication that she was safely breeding.

Chapter 2

They arrived at Kirkburough just as the sun was setting. The gates of the town were still open, but it was to the keep overlooking the town that they rode. Rowena found it appropriate to see the high walls of this large fortress awash in a red glow, a portent reminder that she was entering hell.

Gilbert had wisely kept his own counsel during that twelve-mile journey, for Rowena had reached the point where she no longer cared what she said to him. Legally, he was her stepbrother and her guardian, and there was no one to decry that he was both of these by foul means. But if it were not for her mother, Rowena would have utterly balked and done anything to escape her present situation. She thought she might even be able to kill Gilbert, so much did she hate him after today. But she could not escape, for she had no doubt whatsoever that her mother would suffer horribly for it, and her mother had suffered enough at the hands of the d’Ambrays.

She understood more fully now why she and her mother had been separated immediately after they had been taken from Tures. If Rowena and Anne could have somehow escaped together, they could have found aid from one of the powerful magnates who were opposed to Stephen, as Walter Belleme had been. Likely Rowena would have had to marry then to protect herself from the d’Ambrays, but it could have been to a man of her choosing.

None of which mattered now. She was here, to be wed on the morrow. If only…God’s mercy, how often she had thoughts that began so.

If only her father had not loved her so much, she could have been safely married at the tender age of fourteen, as most daughters were. Her betrothed was an honorable man. He would have waited to consummate the marriage until she was older and better capable of bearing children. But her father had not wanted to tempt that kind lord with her budding beauty, nor had he wanted to give her up so soon.

If only he had not ridden out himself to face d’Ambray’s army, he might still be alive. Tures would have been besieged, but they could have escaped and gone to Henry’s court, or even to one of the other lords who supported him.

If only the laws governing women were upheld, if only Henry were king…if only Gilbert would die. But ’twas too late even for that. She was in Lyons’ keep, which put her effectively in Lyons’ control, as if they were already wed. He would still marry her to have whatever it was he sought, whether Gilbert was there to force her into compliance or not.

Rowena was almost numb with despair as she mounted the stairs to the Great Hall. ’Twas immediately apparent that Gilbert had not spoken falsely of Lyons’ worth. Just crossing the bailey, Rowena had counted nine household knights, and the towers and walls teemed with men-at-arms. There were more knights inside the hall, where tables were set for the evening meal with gold plate and fine linen. Even the walls displayed the lord’s wealth in useless weapons of polished silver and gold, most encrusted with fine jewels.

Servants abounded, surely one or more to serve each guest, but in this Lyons did not waste his money. Their clothes were nearly rags, their bodies none too clean, their demeanor cowed to the point of trembling hands and haunted eyes, and no wonder. In the space of crossing the hall to the raised dais where Lyons sat like a king in state, Rowena saw three servants cuffed for no apparent reason, one struck so hard that he fell to the floor, only to be kicked twice where he lay unmoving so it could be determined if he was merely shirking his duties.

Rowena was so appalled by this that she stopped walking, making Gilbert jerk on her arm to get her moving again, but not before the knight who was kicking the downed man noticed her watching him and smiled at her. No shame, no contrition. He smiled.

It was a well-known fact that without any ladies present, men would behave nearly as beasts. But there were ladies present, wives of some of the household knights. Obviously, they had no effect on the men’s behavior. This spoke clearly of the character of the lord of Kirkburough, for most men will do as their master does, in good or ill.

She had avoided looking toward the lord’s table, putting off as long as possible what was to be her fate. But Gilbert stopped, telling her the moment was at hand. Even so, her first sight of Godwine Lyons of Kirkburough nearly made her cry out in horror. Gilbert’s hand tightened on her arm, for she had taken an involuntary step backward.

’Twas worse than she could have imagined. The man wasn’t just old, he looked like a corpse. His skin was a pasty white, and so deeply wrinkled there was not an inch anywhere to be seen that could be called smooth. What was left of his hair was white, except for one narrow streak of blond to attest to what the color had been. His body was so bent, he stood no taller than Rowena, who was only a few inches above five feet. His bright silk robe, trimmed at neck and sleeves with costly fur, merely made him look ridiculous.

The whites of his eyes were dark yellow. A white film covered the iron gray of one of his irises. He was almost blind. He had to come mere inches in front of Rowena to have a look at her, and she was assailed by his fetid breath, which nearly made her gag before he moved back. With crooked fingers, he pinched her cheek and cackled, revealing the only two teeth remaining in his mouth.

Gilbert was shouting the introductions, which told her the old man was also almost deaf. That was fortunate, because Rowena could not stop herself from swallowing her pride and begging.

“Please, Gilbert, do not do this to me. If you must marry me off, choose another, any other—”

“Be quiet,” he hissed in her ear. “’Tis done, promises made.”

Before he had her consent? “Promises can be broken,” she told him.

“Nay; there is no other who would agree to all I ask.”

What he asked for. For his benefit. She had lowered herself to plead with him for naught. She had even known it would be for naught. She would never beg again, not to him or any man, for only God had mercy. Men had only greed and lust.

She turned to look up at him, having to bend her head back, he was so near. And quietly, without emotion, she said, “Guard your back well, brother, ere my dagger finds it. The first chance I have, I mean to kill you for this.”

“Do not speak foolishness,” he replied, but uneasily, his eyes searching hers. And something in hers must have convinced him ’twas not an idle threat. He actually looked stricken when he cried out, “Rowena!”

She turned her back on him and summoned a servant to take her to whatever room had been prepared for her. If Gilbert or Lord Godwine had tried to stop her from leaving that hall, she probably would have shown them all a fine rendering of a madwoman. But neither did, and she had to stop on the darkened stairs that led up to the tower room where she was to pass the night, for her own tears, finally released, were blinding her.

Chapter 3

Rowena woke with some disorientation, but it lasted only moments before she knew exactly where she was. When she had finally gotten to sleep she could not guess, but it had been long after midnight. Now she could almost feel her blood turning cold as dread seeped into her bones, keeping her immobile on the bed.

Some little light came through the high window in the tower room, but not much more than was had from the hearth and candles set about the small chamber. A long while passed before she wondered who had lit those candles and restoked the fire. And who, for that matter, had drawn her bed-curtain open? If Gilbert had dared…

“Do you mean to lie abed until ’tis time to face the priest?”

“Mildred?” Rowena gasped in surprise, recognizing that dear voice.

“Aye, my sweet one.”

Rowena sat up and located the maid sitting on a chest that had not been there when she had first entered the room. Her own chest it was. And her own maid sitting on it.

Mildred had been her maid for as long as Rowena could remember, and before that, she had served Lady Anne. She was a small woman, smaller even than Rowena, though not small in girth. Quite round she was in that respect, for Mildred did indeed love to eat. Two score and five years in age, with gray streaking her brown hair, and warm brown eyes, she had been allowed to accompany Rowena into her isolation three years ago, the only kind thing Hugo d’Ambray had ever done for her.

“How came you to be here?” Rowena asked as she looked about the room to see if anyone else was there.

“When he came for you yestermorn, he left orders for all that you own to be packed up and brought here. Those churls thought to leave me behind, but I set them right on that notion.”

“So sure he was that he would have my cooperation in this farce,” Rowena said bitterly to herself.

“I saw that old man last eventide when I arrived. How could you agree to wed that?”

Rowena could feel the tears starting to gather in her eyes, but she fought them back. Her lower lip still trembled, however, when she said, “Gilbert was beating my mother. I doubt he would have stopped until I did agree.”

“Oh, my lamb,” Mildred cried, and came swiftly forward to gather Rowena into her arms. “I knew he was a monster, just like his sire. Those soft words of his never fooled me, each time he came sniffing ’round your skirts.”

“God forgive me, but I hate him now. He has no thought for me in all this, only his own gain.”

“Aye, that is true enough. Already they prepare for war here. ’Tis said this keep will be nigh empty come the new dawn. Every knight, and near a thousand men-at-arms, your new lord has committed to young Gilbert. And there is gold enough to hire thousands more. ’Twill not be long ere you have back all that Fulkhurst, that monster from the north, has reft from you.”

“Not from me,” Rowena snapped. “Think you Gilbert will ever give up my lands? He’ll have them back, and when Lyons dies, he’ll have me back as well, to marry off again the next time he finds himself in similar straits.”

“So that is the way of it, is it?” Mildred asked indignantly.

“So he as much as admitted. But in the meantime, I am to get myself with child to secure Lyons’ lands to Gilbert as well.” Rowena gave a broken laugh. “Can a man so old still beget children, Mildred?”

The maid snorted. “So all men would like to think, but ’tis nigh impossible. Yet did I spend the eventide being regaled with stories of how this lord has tried to get himself another son to replace those who died in war. Four wives he has had in as many years, recent years, and that does not count the six he had in his youth.”

“What happened to so many?”

“The early wives all died of one means or another, but the servants claim mostly by foul means. The recent wives he repudiated. All innocent maids they were, yet he claimed otherwise when they did not give him the hoped-for son as quickly as he expected. ’Tis all he wants from you, my sweet one.”

“So if I do not give him a son, he is like to repudiate me within the year. No wonder Gilbert assured me I would not be married long.”

“Nay, that old lord will not last even that long, do you ask me. Five years ago he should have been dead. Why he still lives can only be from a pact with the devil.”

“Shush,” Rowena hissed, crossing herself, yet she was inclined to agree. She herself had thought that he already looked like a corpse.

Mildred looked at her narrowly now. “Do you truly mean to wed Lord Godwine?”

“You say that as if I have a choice.”

“Aye, you do. We could kill him instead.”

Rowena scowled to have her hopes raised in one instant, then dashed in the next. “Think you I have not considered that? But if I ruin Gilbert’s plans in that way, he might well beat my mother to death, he will be so furious with me. I am not prepared to take that chance.”

“Nay, of course not,” Mildred agreed. She bore as much love for the mother as she did for the daughter, and could not bear to think of either one suffering when she had certain skills with herbs to prevent it. “Then if it must be, it must be, but you need not share your body as well as your bed with that old lecher. He can be rendered incapable—”

Rowena waved that notion aside before it was completed. “Only blood on the sheets will satisfy Gilbert.”

“It need not be yours.”

Rowena had not thought of that. She need not suffer those wrinkled and twisted fingers, that fetid breath, the revulsion that was like to wither her soul? If only…She cringed inwardly. “If onlys” had never come to her aid, nor would they now.

“Lord Godwine might be ready for the grave, but that does not mean he is stupid. If he has no memory of consummating the marriage, is he not like to see the matter repeated the next morn?” She shuddered at the very thought. “I would rather suffer this horror in the dark of night than in the light of day, Mildred. I do not think I could bear watching him touch me, as well as feeling it.”

“Very well, my sweet one. I will make a drink for you instead. ’Twill not put you to sleep, but ’tis the next best thing, for you will be so unaware of what goes on about you, you will not care what that old lecher does to you.”

Rowena frowned. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be totally senseless around Godwine Lyons. She was helpless enough in this situation; that would just make her more so. But which was better, not knowing, or merely not seeing?

“How long would your potion last?” she asked thoughtfully.

“A few hours. Long enough for him to do what he will do.”

“And if he took it by mistake?”

“’Twould do him no harm. If he can perform, then he will. Merely will he not recall it.”

Rowena groaned, dropping back on the bed. “Then again I must deal with him come the morn.”

“Nay, why should there be a mistake? I will leave the potion in the nuptial chambers, already mixed in your wine. Yours will be poured and ready to drink, his will not. Merely do you drink it as soon as you arrive there. No matter who will be with you, no one would gainsay you that extra fortification for what you must endure.”

“Then do it just so. Anything must be better than—”

Rowena broke off at the sound of a knock at her door, but it was not Gilbert, as she had half expected. Servants came in, a great number of them, with bath and water, with a tray of bread and cheese to break her fast, with a wedding gown of deepest cream. She was told Lord Godwine would like her to wear it, if she had nothing appropriate. She was also told, or actually overheard the maids’ whisperings, that his last two wives had also worn that gown. How frugal of the man, to get so much use out of it. This certainly showed how little he cared for her feelings.

When one of the maids held the gown up for her to better examine it, Rowena said, “Why not? His other wives were fortunate enough to escape him. It might bring me the same luck.”

There was an appalling silence for a moment that made Rowena realize she should have kept her thoughts to herself. These servants were his after all. But she had done no more than shock them with her frankness, and soon there was a nervous giggle, then another, and she found that they were in wholehearted agreement with her, for all of them hated the man who was to be her husband.

Chapter 4

The day progressed, despite all hope that it would not, and just after Sext, Rowena was married to Lord Godwine Lyons of Kirkburough. Naught had happened to save her. Before witnesses, with man’s blessing—she would like to think God withheld His—she was given over from the control of one man to another, her new husband. Feebleminded as he was, he had slept through the entire mass.

A feast had been prepared to last the rest of the day. Rowena sat beside her husband, watching him gum the slops he was forced to eat because of his lack of teeth. But graciously, or perversely, since he had noted she was not eating, he piled her own gold plate high. If she had tried to swallow anything, she was certain she would vomit.

Gilbert was in highest spirits. He had done what he had set out to do, so naught could sour him, not even her silence each time he spoke to her.

He sat on her other side, ate with gusto, downed chalices of wine with even more gusto, and bragged endlessly of how he would now run Fulkhurst out of their shire, if he could not actually kill him, which was what he would prefer to do. And Mildred had spoken true. Gilbert was not even allowing Lyons’ men to participate fully in the celebrations, to which there were many outspoken grumbles, but had them leaving the keep in groups of one hundred throughout the day. They were being sent to his own stronghold, to join his army there, which already had orders to march to Tures with the new dawn. He was not even going to wait until he could hire more men. He wanted Fulkhurst besieged at Tures before the warlord could slip away.

Rowena was not the least bit interested in his talk of war. She hated Gilbert enough now that she hoped he could not wrest Tures away from Fulkhurst, even though that would mean it would never be hers again. She no longer cared. Gilbert was as much a warmonger as Fulkhurst was. Heartily, she hoped they killed each other.

When the time came for the ladies to usher her off to the nuptial chamber, Rowena was so beset with dread, she was sure she was going to be sick. Her skin was as pasty white as her husband’s, and her eyes hurt from fighting back tears all day.

There were no bawdy jests or crude advice, as was the custom at weddings. Looks of pity were all she received, and the women made fast work of preparing her and getting out of there. She was left in her thin shift. No one had suggested she remove it, not that she would have. Godwine was so blind he might not notice, and that would leave at least something between her skin and his.

As soon as she was alone, she slipped her bedrobe on and made haste to put out all the candles except those by the bed, which she could douse without leaving it. Then she headed for the table where she had already noticed the bottle of wine and two chalices, with only one filled. She hesitated in reaching for the drugged wine, however. The potion was to last only a few hours. What if her husband did not come to her for a few hours? Should she wait a while more? What she should have done was ask Mildred how long she must wait for the potion to take effect.

The door flew open without warning and Gilbert came swiftly forward, his dark eyes on the hand reaching for the chalice. “Nay, leave that,” he ordered tersely, ready to stop her if she did not heed him. He carried his own bottle of wine and set it on the table. “’Tis lucky I thought to wonder at your docility.”

“What else can I be, when you hold my mother prisoner?”

He ignored her words, scowling down at the chalice of wine. “Did you mean to poison him?”


His scowl got darker as it turned on her. “Yourself, then?”

She let out a laugh, near hysterical, wishing she had the nerve. He grasped her shoulders and shook her.


She shrugged off his hands. “If I would poison anyone, ’twould be you!” she hissed, angry enough to show him all that she was feeling in the look she gave him.

He looked flustered for a moment. And it occurred to her that he had actually been afraid that she might do herself harm.

He did not meet her eyes when he said, “You make too much of this.” She was aware he referred to her marriage. “The sooner you get yourself with child, the sooner I will get rid of him for you.”

“So you do mean to kill him?”

He did not answer, for he had left the door open, and they could hear the party approaching with the groom.

“Get yourself to the bed to await him.” He gave her a little shove in that direction. “And behave yourself as befits a bride.”

Rowena whirled around. “You aught await him there, as this marriage is your doing,” she whispered furiously. “He is so blind, mayhap he will not notice the difference.”

Gilbert actually grinned. “I am pleased to see you still have the spirit I ofttimes noticed. Indeed, ’tis wise of me not to trust you, so I will take these with me.”

“These” were the bottle of wine and the filled chalice that had been standing on the table. Rowena had to bite her lip to keep from begging him to leave her the cup at least. But more determined would he be to take it if he knew how much she wanted it. Either way, ’twas lost to her.

With a dry sob, she ran for the bed, and had just covered herself when the groom arrived, carried in by the few remaining household knights who had yet to depart. Their crude laughter and jests ended at the sight of Rowena in the bed, and it was Gilbert who curtly ushered them out when he noticed them ogling her. In less than a minute, she was left alone with her husband.

He had been prepared for her. He wore a black bedrobe that made his skin look even whiter. The tie had come loose on the way to the bedchamber, and he did not bother to tighten it, but let it part completely with his first step forward. Rowena had closed her eyes briefly, but that image of his body would not leave her inner mind—legs whittled down to mere bone, ribs protruding, sunken belly, and that tiny thing between his legs. She had heard it called many things, all denoting some monstrous weapon, but that was no weapon to strike fear into her.

She almost laughed, but she was too close to tears. She began to pray silently, that she could bear this, that it would be over with quickly, that she would not be rendered mad when he was done with her.

“Well, where are you, my pretty?” he asked peevishly. “I am too old to go a’hunting.”

“Here, my lord.”

That he was still squinting off to the left told her he had not heard her, and she repeated herself in a near shout. That started him toward her, stumbling up the steps to reach the bed.

“Well? Well? What do you wait for?” he demanded in that same peevish tone, standing there on the top step, but making no effort to get into the bed. “Can you not see my warrior requires assistance ere he will stand at attention for you? Come and play with him, wife.”

That tiny thing was supposed to be a warrior? Rowena made a sound of negation in her throat that he did not hear. He was chuckling to himself, his eyes not really on her, but staring beyond the bed with a dazed look in them.

“I would not take it amiss were you to kiss him, my pretty,” he suggested, still chuckling.

Her hand flew to her mouth as the mere thought made her gag, the bile rising to her throat. Just barely she swallowed it back down. If he could have seen her expression, he would not be laughing. But he really was near blind as well as deaf. And she really was going to kill Gilbert for this.

“Well? Well?” he was demanding again. His eyes began searching the bed, but even standing right there, he still could not find her in it. “Where are you, you silly child? Must I needs call my man, John, to find you? You will meet him soon enough. If I do not have you breeding within the month, I will give you to John to have it done. I am too old to go through this again. You are the last, and I will have a son from you one way or another. What say you to that?”

Was he trying to shock her? Had she even heard him aright?

“What I say, my lord, is that you sound like a desperate man, unless—Do I understand you correctly? You would give me to this man John to get me with child if you cannot?”

“Aye, I would. I have a fondness for John. I would not mind calling his son my own. Better that than have my brother get what is mine, a man I despise more than any other.”

“Why do you not just claim John as your own?”

“Do not be stupid, girl. No one would believe he is mine. But it will not be doubted that your child is mine.”

Would it not? The man was worse than she had thought. She was his wife, yet he meant to breed her just like his cows and pigs. If he could not see it done, he would let another, nay, insist another do it. Gilbert would not protest either, she realized, for he wanted the same end, a child.

God’s mercy, did she really have to go through with this? He was so feeble and fleshless, she knew she could fight him off without half trying. But what would happen to her mother if she did? And he was her husband now. A husband was all-powerful. Her very life was now hers by his whim alone, for if he chose to take it, no one would bring him to task for it.

“Have I made a bad bargain here?” His voice rose with the possibility. “Come you here and ready me, wife, and do it now!”

That was a direct order, not to be gainsaid, but Rowena was positive she would faint if she had to touch him. “I cannot,” she said, loud enough so she would not have to repeat it. “If you mean to take me, do so. I will not help you.”

His face turned so furiously red, she was certain not one of his ten other wives had ever dared to refuse him. Would he have her beaten for doing so? ’Twas obvious he was not strong enough to beat her himself.


He got no further than that. And it looked as if his eyes were about to pop out of his head. His color darkened still more. He swayed on the step, one of his hands pressed so hard to his chest, she thought his ribs might cave in. It was on the tip of her tongue to say something conciliatory, merely to calm him down, but before she could, he swayed backward, right off the steps without a sound.

She scrambled to the edge of the bed to look over the side. He was not moving. He lay there in the rushes, his hand still clutching his chest, his eyes still bulging. No breath moved his chest.

Rowena continued to stare at him. Dead? Could she be that lucky? A laugh bubbled up in her throat, but it came out in a soft wail. What would Gilbert do now? This was not her fault. Was it? If she had not refused…If it was her fault, she exonerated herself, feeling no guilt. How could she know a little defiance would kill the man?

But was he truly dead? She would not touch him to find out. Even now the thought of touching him was repugnant to her. But someone had to find out.

She leaped off the bed and ran for the door, then out into the hall—and right into Gilbert’s arms.

“Aye, ’tis as I thought,” he said with marked displeasure. “You intended all along to run away. But there will be none of that. You will go back in there and—”

“He is dead, Gilbert!” she blurted out.

His hands squeezed her arms painfully before he released one and dragged her back into the chamber with the other. He went right to the old man and bent to put his head to his chest. When he looked up at her, his expression was dark with fury.

“How did you do it?”

She stepped back from the blast of that accusation. “Nay, I touched him not, and there was only your wine in the room, which he did not drink. He was not even in the bed yet. He clutched his chest and fell off the bed steps.”

Gilbert looked back at her husband, and must have believed her. He drew the black robe over Lord Godwine’s body before he stood up and faced her.

After a moment’s thought, he said, “Do not leave this room. Do not let anyone inside.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Find you a suitable substitute. ’Tis imperative now that you start breeding this very night. Damn this black hair of mine, or I would do it.”

Her eyes flared wide at the meaning of his last words as much as of his first. “Nay. I will not—”

“You will,” he snarled, “if you wish ever to see your mother again—alive!”

Now it was stated plainly, what she had only suspected before, and she blanched, not doubting at all that he meant it. But the horror of what he intended…a substitute!

Desperately, she asked, “How can you even hope to perpetuate such a deception? The man is dead.”

“No one need know that until a sufficient time has passed to see you breeding. When you are not directly attending to that, you will stay in this chamber—”

“With his corpse?” she gasped, taking still another step back.

“Nay, I will get rid of the body,” he said impatiently. “When ’tis time to bury him, I will find another body to pass off as his. At any rate, he will be officially buried before his brother learns he is dead, and you will be for certain with child before the man arrives to try and wrest his due. But he will have naught. Godwine would have wanted it so.”

That was likely true, but did that justify what Gilbert meant to do? And he sounded so confident in his new plan. But why not? Again, he had to do naught but sit back and wait while her body was sacrificed on this altar of deception. And this time her mother’s life truly depended on her compliance.

Chapter 5

They set upon him on his way out of the common bathing room at the inn. Five of them there were, dressed in the leather jerkins of men-at-arms, yet he doubted they were that. Thieves, more like. Lawlessness was prevalent in most towns that had a weak or absent overlord, or corrupt aldermen. And he did not know the town of Kirkburough, had never passed through it before. For all he knew, this could be another pocket of high villainy where all travelers and strangers were set upon and robbed, or tortured if they could not promise fat ransoms. To travel in Stephen’s England alone or with a small escort was to risk penury as well as your life.

Truly, this had been an act of stupidity and conceit on his part, to come here with no more than his squire just because he wanted to beautify his appearance before he met his betrothed on the morrow. A bit of vanity, and look what it had wrought. Too long had he been confident in his reputation of swift retribution for any wrong done him, to keep offenders at bay. It had stood him in good stead for a goodly number of years, ever since he had turned his life toward vengeance. But for a reputation to do any good, it had to be known, and as he did not know this area, neither was he known here.

Warrick de Chaville could be forgiven his carelessness, though he would not forgive himself, for he was not a forgiving man. The town had looked peaceful and well ordered. He had a lot on his mind. He would soon be marrying for the third time, and he did not want this new wife to fear him as the other two had. He had much hope in the Lady Isabella. For nearly a year he had courted her when he could find the time, though that was not his way. Her father had given her to him at first asking, greatly desiring the match, yet Warrick had wanted Isabella’s consent, and would not make contract for her until he had it. Now he had it, and he was eager to make her his.

Lady Isabella Malduit was not only a great beauty and much sought after, she was also soft-spoken, sweetly tempered, and had a charming sense of humor. Warrick wanted humor in his life. He wanted love and laughter, which had been absent since his family had been destroyed and naught but hate and bitterness had filled him. He had two daughters, but they were frivolous and self-centered creatures. He loved them, but he could not abide them for very long with their bickering and pettishness. He wanted a home life like the one he had known as a child, that would draw him home, rather than send him eagerly into war. And he wanted a son.

He did not ask for too much, no more than any man could expect. And the right wife could give it all to him. He had found her in Isabella. Already he was very fond of her. He hoped it would soon be more than that, though truthfully, he was not sure he was still capable of that kind of love after so many years of hate. But ’twas not necessary that he love his wife, only that she love him. None of which mattered if he was to die here this night.

He was not even properly armed. He had left his sword and armor in the room he had rented, where even now Geoffrey would be cleaning it. He had come down to the bathing room with no more than a dagger tucked in his belt. Now he did not even have his clothes, for he had left them with the attending servant to be washed. He wore only a large bath sheet, wrapped and tucked in at the waist, with the short dagger stuck under the edge of it at his belly.

Even though he was so defenseless, the five men surrounding him were hesitant at first to draw their swords, for Warrick de Chaville was no ordinary-sized man. At six feet and three, he stood a half head taller than the largest assailant, and more still than the other four. With his arms and chest bare, there was no doubt at the strength contained in his large body. But more than that, he looked mean. There was a hard ruthlessness in his face, as if he would enjoy killing for the mere sport of it. And the gray eyes that had marked him as their target were so coldly chilling, at least one man wanted to cross himself before he drew his sword.

But they did draw their swords. And the leader would have spoken, mayhap to make a demand instead of fighting, except Warrick was not a passive knight. He was aggressive in all things, and this was no exception. He clasped his dagger in hand and let out a war cry that very nearly shook the timbers. At the same instant he charged forward, slashing the man nearest him across his face. He had aimed for the throat, but the man’s scream did him more good in putting fear into the others.

It became quickly apparent that either they were clumsy with their weapons or they were not trying to kill him. Well and good, that was their mistake. He wounded another, but then his blade began striking the steel of theirs. They had not meant to hurt him, but they did not intend to die either.

And then Geoffrey joined the fray with a less thunderous battle cry, having heard Warrick’s. The lad was only ten and five, and not the squire Warrick would have taken into any battle, for he deemed him not yet ready for that. He was skilled with a sword, yet his body was not fully developed, giving him not much weight behind his blows. He had more heart and will than anything else, but also the mistaken assumption that he could do exactly as his lord did. He charged, but without the powerful body behind it, no one stepped fearfully out of his way, and without his armor to protect him, he was gutted before he could even get in a full swing.

Warrick saw the look of disbelief and then horror that appeared on Geoffrey’s young face as he bent over the sword buried in his middle and knew he would be dead in moments. The lad had been fostered in his household since he was seven. Only last year Warrick had taken him under his own wing, even though he already had several squires and did not need another. He had developed a fondness for this boy who had always been so eager to please, and now he let out a bellow of grief-filled rage just before he threw his dagger at the man who had killed Geoffrey. It struck true, buried to the hilt in his throat, and no sooner thrown than Warrick had snatched the sword right out of the hand of the man nearest him.

He did not get to use this better weapon, however. Another sword hilt smashed into his skull, and he fell slowly to the floor.

The two men who had been fortunate enough to stay out of his reach now stood over him panting. A full minute passed before they thought to sheathe their swords. One nudged Warrick with his boot, just to be sure he would not be rising. Blood appeared in the dark blond hair that was still wet from his bath, but he breathed. He was not dead and so was still of use.

“This man is no serf, as we were told to find,” the one man said to the other. “The way he fought, he can only be a knight. Could you not tell the difference when you saw him enter the bathing room?”

“Nay, he was coated in travel dust. I merely noted he wore no armor, and he had the right color eyes as well as the blond hair Lord Gilbert insisted on. I considered it fortunate that I happened to see him at all.”

“Gag him, then, and hope Lord Gilbert does not decide to speak to him.”

“What difference? Half of Lord Godwine’s knights are naught but churls. And we have found no other with both the right hair and the right eyes. What is he wanted for anyway?”

“That is not our concern, merely do we do as told. But did you have to hit him so hard? Now we must carry him.”

The other snorted. “Better that than to deal with him awake again. When I first saw him, he did not seem so big as this. That boy, think you he was his son?”

“Mayhap, which means he will awake fighting again. Best to bind those hands and feet as well. Even Lord Gilbert might have trouble subduing this one.”

Chapter 6

Rowena had fallen asleep at the edge of the bed, staring at the spot on the floor where Lord Godwine had fallen. Gilbert had removed the body himself, then left her alone with the repeated admonishment to let no one in the room but him.

She would have liked to lock him out as well. If she had had a weapon, she might even have tried to kill him then, before he forced her to even more unspeakable acts. But she had no weapon. Nor could she run away without endangering her mother’s life. She could not even say which was worse, wedding and bedding Lyons, or what Gilbert planned for her now. Nay, what could be worse to a girl only just eight and ten than bedding that lecherous old man?

She could feel not the least pity for his death, even though she might have been partwise responsible. He had likely murdered a goodly number of innocent women who had had the misfortune to be his wives, simply because he had tired of them or needed a new dowry to fill his coffers. She knew there were many unscrupulous men who did exactly that, and without the least guilt. But then she also knew there were different men, decent men, like her father. The whole world had not gone to hell, merely this small portion of it during this reign of anarchy.

It was still dark, the keep still silent, when Gilbert came back to wake her. Rowena could not guess at the time, though the exhaustion of her body and mind told her she had not slept long. But Gilbert’s first words brought her wide awake.

“All is in readiness for you. My men were fortunate in their find. The hair and eye colors were what concerned me most, to be exactly those of your husband’s, for that is what is first noticed on a babe, and those we have matched.”

Blood rushed through Rowena, hot, then cold. Her stomach muscles tightened almost to cramps in her fear. He had really done it, found a man to throw her to, just as her husband would have done if she had not conceived soon enough for him. Two of a kind, they were, Lyons and Gilbert, even in their thinking. She would not be surprised if he had found the same man, this John whom her husband would have used. God’s mercy, why would this nightmare not end?

“Make haste,” he continued briskly as he pulled her off the high bed. “There are many hours before dawn, yet you will need ample time with the man, to couple more than once to assure his seed is well planted.”

“Why tell me?” Rowena snapped, trying to jerk her arm out of his hold as he rushed her toward the open door. “Give your vile instructions to the stud you have found.”

“You will see,” was all he said.

And she did see, almost immediately, for the man had been put in the small chamber directly across from hers. It contained a bed and two tall candle holders set on either side of it, but no other furnishings. It had been the room that her husband had used for his debaucheries with the female serfs under his rule, though Rowena did not know this. There were even chains attached to the wall above the bed, just out of sight below the mattress, though these were not used on the man, for he was too big. Gilbert had worried he might break those puny chains that had been made for females, and so had ordered long ones brought and strung under the bed, attaching wrist to ankle in this way so the prisoner could not move one limb without pulling on another.

All Rowena noticed was that the man was there, tied down to the bed, with no more than a large bath sheet draped over his bare loins. Tied down? Nay, she noticed now the iron cuffs at his wrists, which lay above his head. And two chains came out from under the bath sheet at the end of the bed to curve down under it. Chained down! He had to be chained down? And he was asleep—or senseless.

Understanding came easily enough, but all she could think to say was, “Why did you not just pay him to do the deed?”

Gilbert stood next to her at the end of the bed, still holding her arm. “Then he would take you. I give him to you to take instead, so you will not feel…”

He hesitated over the word long enough that she supplied it. “Raped?”

He flushed. “Nay. I merely thought to leave you to see to the matter in your own way. You would have given up your maidenhead this night either way.”

She realized he felt he was doing her a favor. She did not see it as such, for in her mind, this was wrong. Tying the man down and forcing him to participate was even more wrong. But Gilbert saw things only one way, the way of gain and profit for himself. Without a child to inherit Godwine Lyons’ estate, everything would go to Lyons’ brother, including the large army of mercenaries that Gilbert desperately needed. Her stepbrother could make use of that army in the few weeks he meant to conceal Lyons’ death, but a few weeks would not be enough to gain back all he had lost to Fulkhurst.

Damn that warmonger to hell, who was as bad as, if not worse than, Gilbert. If not for him, she would not be forced to go through with this. If not for him, she would not have been forced to wed in the first place.

Having mentioned her maidenhead, Gilbert must have recalled that she was, in fact, merely a maiden. “Do you, ah, do you know what to do? If not, I will fetch someone to assist you. I would do so myself, but I do not think I can bear to…”

She looked at him in amazement when he did not finish speaking. “You yourself find this distasteful, yet you would still force me to do it?”

“It must be done,” he replied, tight-lipped. “There is no other way to secure Kirkburough.”

That he seemed now not to like it any better than she gave her hope. “You will lie about the old man’s death,” she reminded him. “You could lie about a child, too, long enough to use his armies.”

“And when no child is produced of the lie? Nay, this is a rich fief, the town a large one. I will not lose it because of your squeamishness. You will do as I have commanded you, Rowena. I have put him close so no one will see you come here each night. During the day you may sleep, for I will put it about that Godwine has taken ill and you nurse him, as is only proper. The servants will be kept away except for your own maid, who I trust will do as you instruct—if you wish to keep her.”

More threats? Mildred expendable, too? God, how she hated him!

“How long, Gilbert?”

He knew exactly what she asked. “Until you conceive. Do you find it so distasteful, I would suggest you avail yourself of his rod more than once each night. Aye, two and three times each night would not be difficult for this virile lout to manage, and would the sooner see the thing accomplished.”

So the nightmare was not even to end with this night, but go on and on? And now it had become someone else’s nightmare as well, this poor man whose misfortune it was to have gold hair and gray eyes.

“You mean to keep him like this the whole time?”

“You need not concern yourself with him,” he answered carelessly. “He is no more than a serf, and will be disposed of when his usefulness is finished.”

“A serf?” At first glance she had seen the man was large, but now she looked at his length again and could see his feet at the end of the bed, his head far up at the other end. “He is too big to be a serf. What have you done, Gilbert, stolen a freeman?”

“Nay, some lord’s by-blow, mayhap, but no more than that,” he said confidently. “If a lord had come to Kirkburough, he would have presented himself at the keep to pass the night at no cost to himself, not stayed in the town. Even a lowly, landless knight would have sought the companionship of his kind and come to the hall. A freeman he might be, however, but still no one of import, mayhap no more than a pilgrim.”

“But you mean to kill him?”

The question caught her stepbrother off guard, and he snapped impatiently, “Do not be stupid. He cannot be left alive to lay claim to the child when we are done with him. No one would believe him, yet it might cause rumors, rumors that Godwine’s brother would leap upon.”

So even if she did exactly as Gilbert wanted, someone was still to die. That knowledge released the anger at the injustice of it all that her fear had been holding in abeyance.

“God rot you, Gilbert, and your cursed greed,” she swore softly as she jerked her arm away from him. His surprised expression, as if he could not imagine what he had done wrong, was the breaking point for her, and her voice and fury rose to a shout. “Get out! I need no help to rape this man. But send Mildred to me, for I may need help to revive him. Little purpose he serves as he is.”

It was her anger and bitterness that made her speak so, but those shouted words were what Warrick heard as he regained his senses. He did not open his eyes. He had been a man of war too long to give away such an advantage. But this time it availed him naught, for no more was said, and a moment later, a door was slammed shut.

Silence. He was alone for the moment, but that screeching female would likely be back soon if her words—nay, he could not credit those words. Females did not rape. How could they when they had not the proper parts? And she could not have meant him, in any case. A jest, then, from a crude wench. No more than that. But as long as he was alone…

He opened his eyes on a view of the ceiling. The room was well lit, the glow of candles on either side of him just discerned without his moving. He turned his head to find the door, and pain sliced through it. He stilled for a moment, closing his eyes—and became aware of things without seeing. He was lying in a soft bed. A gag pulled at his lips. He was as he had been when he was taken, without his clothes. That did not alarm him. There was no reason to dress him when he could do it himself once he was awake. The bed? Better than a dungeon, he supposed.

And then he felt the manacles on his wrists. He tried to move one and heard the chain rattle—and felt the tug and scrape on his ankle. God’s blood, bound to himself, and with chain, not rope!

If it was ransom they wanted, then they knew who he was and were risking his vengeance, which was always swift. Thieves and outlaws, however, took anyone for whatever they could get. They did not care if they captured knight or merchant, lady or fishwife, and torture of one kind or another was swift to come if they did not get what they wanted. He had taken the keep of a robber baron once, and even he had been sickened by what he had found in the man’s dungeon—bodies that had been slowly crushed under heavy stone, naked bodies hung by their thumbs with smoke-blackened skin, some with feet nearly burned off, all dead because they had simply been forgotten by their tormentors once he had laid siege to the keep. And this was no mean hut or forest floor, nor even the inn where he had been taken. Stone walls meant a keep. A petty lord, then, and just as bad as a petty thief.

Warrick opened his eyes again, ready to ignore the pain in his head to see what he could of his soft prison. He lifted his head and saw her there at the foot of his bed—and decided he had died, for that could only be one of God’s angels, made perfect in the afterlife.

Chapter 7

Rowena was still glaring at the door that had closed on Gilbert when she heard the chains creak and looked back at the man on the bed. His eyes were shut, he lay perfectly still, but she sensed instinctively that he was now awake. She had not looked at him closely before, had not seen him as much more than a male body, a large male body. He lay flat on his back without a pillow, while she stood several feet beyond a mattress that was as high as her waist. She still could not tell much about him from this position. Then his head lifted, his eyes riveted her to the spot, and she stood perfectly still, forgetting even to breathe.

The gray of his eyes was more silver, soft and luminous in his surprise. Even with the gag dividing his face, she could tell it was a handsome face, the features well defined and—arrogant. What made her think that? The broadness of his cheekbones? That hawklike nose? Mayhap that sharply squared jaw, thrust out more because of the gag. She had to be mistaken. Arrogance was a trait of noblemen. Arrogance in a serf would get his back whipped raw.

But this serf did not lower his eyes or look away in the presence of a lady. Bold he was, or still too surprised to recall his place. But what was she thinking? He could not tell she was a lady, when she wore her bedclothes. But then she realized he certainly could, for her white shift was of the finest linen, soft and nearly transparent, it was so thin. Her bedrobe was that rare velvet of the East, given her on her fourteenth birthday by her mother, sewn by her own hand.

A by-blow, then, as Gilbert had said, and apparently proud of it. And what did she even care what he was? She could not care—he was to die. But first she was to give him her maidenhead—oh, God! How could she? Fool, how could she not when her mother…?

She wanted to sink down on the floor and cry. She had been raised gently, with love and care, the cruelty and harshness of life kept at bay. It was difficult for her to see her life now as real, because it was so alien to her. She was supposed to take this man, in truth, to rape him. How? In anger she had told Gilbert she needed no help, but she did, for she knew not the first thing about begetting children.

There was no longer surprise in his eyes. They were now—admiring. Was that good? Aye, ’twould be better for him did he not find her repulsive. She was glad of that at least. And he was nothing like her husband. He was young, clean, even handsome, his skin smooth, his body firm—nay, nothing at all like her husband. Even the gray of his eyes and the blond of his hair were different shades than Lyons’ had been, the one lighter, the other darker.

She had the strangest feeling she could read his thoughts through his eyes, for she imagined a question there now. Had he been told why he was here? Nay, likely not, since he had been senseless until moments ago. And why would Gilbert bother, when the man had only to lie there and accept what was done to him? She was the one Gilbert had instructed, for she was the one who would be doing what must be done. But that question was there in his eyes…

It was left to her to tell him, and she could not even reassure him that he would be released when it was over. Her anger surfaced again, this time wholly for his sake. He had done naught to deserve this. He was an innocent, snared in a monster’s plans. She would take his seed, but then Gilbert would take his life. Nay, she could not allow that. She would do the one, she had to for her mother’s sake, but somehow she must prevent the other. Somehow, she would help him escape when the time came, before she told Gilbert that his seed had taken, thereby ending the man’s usefulness.

But she could not tell the man that. She would not give him false hope, in case she was unsuccessful in helping him. All she could do was try. And he did not need to know he was to die. There was no reason to tell him that. Let him think what he would, and why should he think that he would not be released when she was done with him?

Again he was communicating with her with his eyes, and again she understood him. He was dropping his eyes down toward his gag, then looking at her again. He wanted her to remove it so he could speak to her. That she would not do, for she did not think she could bear it if he begged her for his release, adding more heavily to her guilt. She knew what she must do was wrong, but what choice did she have? But to hear him beseech her—nay, she could not.

She shook her head slowly, and his own dropped back to the mattress so he no longer looked at her. If she did not know better, she would think she had been arrogantly dismissed, having denied him what he wanted. Like as not his neck was strained from being lifted so long. She came around to the side of the bed so he could see her without straining, but his eyes were closed now. He did not care that she stood there. Or mayhap he had not heard her approach in her bare feet.

She paused now that she could see him more clearly. His big body truly filled the bed. She thought he might even be taller than Gilbert, though she could not be certain, but he was surely much broader of chest. His arms were thick and long, and well corded with muscle from shoulder to wrist. His shoulders, neck, and chest were likewise thickly muscled, the sun-gilded skin taut, with no softness to speak of. Whatever he did to earn his keep, ’twas obvious he worked hard at it. A woodcutter, mayhap. One on her father’s fief had been brawnier than any knight.

She realized she was staring, but she could not help herself. Strong he was, very strong, and she found herself being thankful to Gilbert, after all, that the man was tied down, then was ashamed of the thought. Yet this man could easily snap her in two with his bare hands, and ’twas better for her that those hands could not reach her.

“I am sorry,” she began, wondering why she whispered when they were alone. “’Tis better I do not hear what you have to say, but I can tell you why you are here.”

His eyes opened again, his head turning slightly so he could stare at her. There was no question there now, no curiosity of any kind. Patience, she realized, was what he was displaying. He fully expected to have all his questions answered, but she was not as brave as that. She would tell him only what she had to and nothing more.

But now that it was time to do so, she could feel heat stealing up her neck into her cheeks. “I—I—you and I—we—we must—we must—”

The question was back in his eyes, and if he were not gagged, he would be shouting it. She could not blame him for losing his patience, but she could not say the word. She was too ashamed. She tried to remind herself that he was only a serf, and she had always been kind but firm with her servants, as her mother had taught her. But he was like no manservant she had ever ordered. And that arrogance—she could not get it out of her mind that he was more than a serf, and although that should make this no worse, it did.

And then she heard the scratch on the door and almost melted with relief that Mildred had finally come. She gave not another thought to the man on the bed, who had strained nearly every muscle in his body waiting for her to get to the point in her explanation. An explanation that was no longer forthcoming as he watched her rush from the room.

Warrick collapsed back and growled in frustration. Damn her. “We must”—what?! Why could she not just spit it out? But then he forced himself to relax. He could not blame her. She was a delicate thing, ethereal in her beauty, and she had not put him here.

He could not imagine for what reason she had been there, however, unless she had brought him food. He could see none left for him, but she could have set it on the floor. Yet she would not remove his gag, so how was he to eat it?

Questions without answers. Patience. Whatever was wanted of him would be demanded soon enough, and then he could think of revenge, for whoever had ordered his capture, whoever was responsible, would die. It was his vow, sworn to God many years ago when his soul had shriveled and died from the devastation of his losses, that no one would ever do him an ill again without paying for it in kind or worse. It was a vow he had kept for sixteen long years, half of his lifetime. It was a vow he would keep till the day he died.

The little wench intruded on his thoughts again, and he let her, for she was more pleasant by far than his dark musings. When he had first seen her, truly had he thought her an angel with her halo of golden hair glowing in the candlelight. All in white she was draped, and those flaxen curls cascading over both shoulders down to her hips.

Her sapphire eyes had dominated her small face, large and round and beguiling, hiding secrets, hiding thoughts—until he had seen that spark of anger. It had aroused his curiosity almost more than the reason for his being there. He had had the ridiculous desire to play the guardian to this angel, to smash and utterly destroy whatever was disturbing her.

He had wanted to ask her what caused her anger. He had tried to get her to remove his gag. Her refusal had surprised him, then annoyed him, enough that he had acted no better than a child in sulk, refusing to look at her again, refusing to acknowledge that she was even there. He thought now of what he had felt at the time and was amazed at himself. Truly, the wench had a strange effect on him.

But he had not been able to ignore her for long. In truth, he liked looking at her, she was so pleasing to the eye, and that she would tell him what he needed to know had been his excuse to look at her again. But he had been struck anew by her beauty at the closer range as she had stood beside the bed. Her alabaster skin was flawless, her lips lush, inviting, and to his chagrin, his loins had begun to heat.

He would have choked on his laughter if he’d given in to what he was feeling, but the gag that would have choked him had also kept him from seducing the wench to ride him while they were yet alone. But then bitterness reared its head to ask him, Why would she agree, when he was no more than a prisoner, and naked of his purse to offer her a coin? When he was released, he would see to the wench. When he was released, he would burn this place to the ground, so she would need another home. He would offer her his. He thought briefly of his bride, waiting for him even now, but that could not change his mind. He would still bring this wench to his home.

Chapter 8

“So now you know,” Rowena said dejectedly, having finished telling Mildred the whole sordid tale of her husband’s death and her meeting with his substitute. “And Gilbert meant it, stated it plainly this time. Either I get myself with child, or he will kill my mother.”

“Aye, I doubt not that he meant it. He is the devil’s own son, that one. ’Tis fortunate he does not want to stand there and watch. Your husband would have, if he gave you to his own man, that John.” Mildred sighed. “I suppose you must see it done, then.”

Rowena wrung her hands. “I know, but—how?”

Mildred’s eyes flared, closed briefly, then opened again, clearly filled with self-disgust. “I am that stupid, I am. How can you know how? Your husband would have taken what he wanted, with your having to do naught but lie there. But now you have to do it all on your own, and that lad in there not able to even direct you, with a gag in his mouth. And he is on his back, you say?”

“Flat on his back, and I doubt he can move at all, the chains are so tight.”

Mildred sighed again. “I am trying to see it in my mind—I have never ridden a man, you understand. ’Tis not natural.”

“Gilbert must think ’twill not be difficult, for he has left him bound so.”

“I did not say it could not be done,” Mildred said disagreeably.

This was a subject for kitchen wenches, not for her lady. Her cheeks were now as pink as Rowena’s were pale. But that wretched d’Ambray would no doubt be back with the dawn to see for himself that the deed was done, so there was no help for it.

“Aye, all right, I have it now,” she continued. “And I will speak plainly to get the telling over with quickly. You must straddle his hips, get his rod inside you, and then you ride it. There will be pain until your maidenhead breaks, but then it should not hurt so much. Just imagine yourself astride your palfrey at a canter. You bounce—nay, do not blush—you will likely adjust to this method as soon as you are seated. Just remember, that rod of his needs the movement to give up its seed, and you must provide that movement if he cannot. Just sitting on him once he is fully sheathed in you will not do it. Think you can do it now? Is there aught more that needs explaining?”

“Nay, I—nay.”

Mildred hugged her then. “Treat this as any other chore, my sweet one. I would have other advice for you, easier to stomach, were he not a stranger and to remain a stranger. But remember that is all he is, that you will never have to see him again once the babe is well planted, so he does not merit your embarrassment.”

But he had it, Rowena thought as she returned to the small room across the way, and the heat did not leave her cheeks again. His eyes were on her the second she opened the door, and he watched her approach the bed. Mere interest was all he showed this time, and she revealed nothing of her own turbulent thoughts.

A chore, like any other? Very well, she told herself. Just get it done.

She dropped her gaze to the bed, loath to watch him while she explained the horrid facts to him. “I must have a child, and it must be conceived immediately. You were chosen to aid me because your hair and eyes are the same as my husband’s, for the child needs have the look of him. So we must copulate this night, and the next, and the next, until your seed bears fruit. I like this no better than you, but I have no choice—and neither do you.”

His chains rattled, but she would not look toward those expressive eyes of his. Briskly, she took hold of the thick sheet covering him and flipped it to the end of the bed, where it slithered to the floor. She did not watch it fall. With a will of their own, her eyes were drawn to his manroot, and widened to their full roundness. There, truly, was the monstrous weapon she had heard tales of. It lay soft and still in a bed of golden curls.

A growl came out of his throat, making her start, her eyes flying up to his face. Expressive eyes he had, so expressive, and now they promised grim retribution if she did not desist. She took a step back, suddenly afraid. So much fury in an expression.

She had not bargained on this. Most men would not mind what she had to do. They spread their bastards far and wide, so what was one more to them? Nay, that was the attitude of nobles, not serfs. But male serfs took their pleasure where they could, too—only they rarely knew if a babe was theirs or not, for the maids they cavorted with were not constant—and they tended to marry if they were caught.

Did he think he would have to marry her? Or did he object to the way they would have to copulate, with her on the top, with her in control? Mildred had called it unnatural, so mayhap he thought so, too. Well, she could not help that. She could not help any of this.

“I am sorry you object, but that changes naught,” she said now, her tone tinged with bitterness. “I still must do it. But I will be quick so you are not disturbed for long.”

His eyes flared at her, as if she had said something incredibly stupid. She wished she could not read his thoughts so well. She wished he would make this easier for her, but why should he? He must feel as misused as she did. Well, she refused to look at him anymore. And she would get this done and over with.

So decided, she climbed up on the edge of the bed, but it suddenly shook so forcefully, she tumbled backward to land on the floor. She stared up at the ceiling, fighting for the breath that had been knocked out of her, wondering what had happened. But then she heard the chains settling down to silence and knew—and got mad.

Damn you! she wanted to rail at him, but all she did was get back on her feet and glare down at him. “I will copulate with you. Do you understand? I have to!”

She got back on the bed, ready for his violent thrashing this time, but less prepared to actually watch it. He was violent, and the power behind his bucking and twisting and writhing was terrifying to behold. His body strained beyond limits, seemed to grow in size. The entire bed bounced and moved across the floor. She lost her balance again, started to topple, but bent toward him just in time, so that she was thrown across his loins instead of to the floor.

He stilled instantly. She worried then that she might have hurt him, and lifted herself up to look under her. But his manroot still looked the same, so she could not tell if her belly had harmed it or not. But from that position she saw the blood coating his ankles. She glanced at his hands, and there, too, blood smeared over his wrists.

She hissed through her teeth at this evidence of his violence. “You stupid man. Why cause yourself pain over something you cannot prevent?”

He answered with another growl. But while he was still motionless, she swiftly threw her leg over his hips to straddle them and gave him a triumphant look. If he was going to buck now, it would be all to the good. But he did not. He just watched her with murder in his bright silver eyes.

Warrick had never been so furious in his life. She meant to steal a child from him, his child! If she succeeded he would kill her. Nay, that would be too quick. He would make her suffer the agonies of hell. But she could not succeed. What she intended enraged him, but it also left him cold, and the stupid wench did not even realize that, if that look of utter triumph she had given him was to be credited.

He watched her lift her shift just enough to bare her warmth and settle it against his loins. Perversely, it enraged him even more that she did not intend to remove her clothes. She could steal his child, but she would not show him her nakedness to do it. Well and good, she would learn soon enough that she was doomed to fail. To that end, he closed his eyes against the look of her, which was too lovely by half.

He fed on his anger. He seethed with it, his only desire to get his hands on her so he could beat her senseless. That she would dare do this to him! He recalled the words he had thought a jest, that she needed no help to rape him. For that alone he despised her. For that alone he could kill her, but she meant to steal from him as well, flesh of his flesh. The mere intent sealed her fate.

But she was a stupid wench to think it was even possible to rape a man. Had she kept her mouth shut and merely offered herself to him, she could have had what she sought. His flesh would have responded instantly to the invitation, as it had nearly done at the mere sight of her. But now he did not even have to fight to remain unmoved beneath her, for his killing rage continued to leave him soft and uninterested in her warm flesh.

She did not just sit there atop him and expect miracles. He could feel her fingers handling him, yet in a way that he had never been caressed by a female before. But when he became aware that she was trying to stuff his soft flesh inside her, his eyes opened incredulously. He saw that hers were closed now. She was biting her lower lip, and concentrating so deeply on what she was about, her features were scrunched together. He flinched when one of her nails poked him, but he realized she was not even aware she had done it.

He wondered how long she would continue to attempt the impossible. Not long. She finally released a sob of frustration, and without meeting his eyes again, she gave up her seat and nearly ran from the room in defeat.

Warrick felt such fierce satisfaction, he wanted to shout with it. To have thwarted her so easily, with no effort on his part. He had won. She had failed.

But she returned.

He had not thought she would. And her face was now flame-bright, but also filled with such a look of determination, he felt his first stirrings of wariness, and rightly so. She slowly shrugged off her bedrobe and let it drop to the floor. When she reached for the hem of her shift, he closed his eyes tight.

Her voice came softly to him. “You can fight me, sirrah, but I have it on good authority ’twill do you no good.”

He would not have answered that even if he could, but he would like to cut the throat of whoever had just given her the courage to try again. He strained to hear if she approached. Her small hand lighting on his chest told him she had.

“You must have realized I am a virgin.”

He did not know it, but the word had the desired effect on him, even though he did not believe it. But so, too, did her hand, tracing a slow path down his chest to his belly. He expected his rage to distract him, but her voice continued to distract him instead.

“In my ignorance, I did not even know you were not ready for me—that you needed encouragement of a certain kind. I did not even know that this soft flesh of yours would change and grow to a hardness like the rest of you.” She touched him, there, as she said it. “I find it hard to believe, for ’tis already large, yet did Mildred assure me ’tis so. I am eager to see this strange happening for myself.”

Did she know that what she was saying was as stimulating as her touch? Damn her and her advisor to perdition! Sweat broke out on his brow. He would not succumb to this seduction.

“I am to kiss you and—and lick you, everywhere, even as a last resort—there. Mildred said you would have to be dead do you not respond if I kiss you there.”

He was already responding. His mind screamed his rage, but his flesh was a betrayer of the worst sort, with a mind of its own, tantalized by her promise. He strained at his bonds. He went wild, trying to dislodge her hand. But she stood beside the bed, undisturbed by his thrashing, and her fingers closed around him, holding on tight. He stilled when he realized all he did was aid her.

“I would not have believed it did I not see it,” she gasped.

There was awe in her voice. And she was petting him now, giving that worthless piece of flesh praise for obeying her instead of him. She did not even know he had not reached his full size, that he still fought with every particle of his being.

“I suppose now I need not kiss you.”

Was that disappointment in her voice? Oh, God, he could not stand much more. What he had thought impossible was not. She could have what she wanted did she continue, and he had no hope that she would not continue.

When she climbed onto the bed, he thrashed again, but she grabbed hold of his hips and hung on. And he could feel her nakedness now as she hugged him, her breasts pressing against his skin, nearly at his groin. This, too, merely aided her, forcing more blood to rush to that traitor, so he stilled again, hoping he was not hard enough to penetrate her, praying she was a virgin so she would not know the difference and would still fail.

She crawled up him, still holding on tightly in case he tried to throw her off again. Warrick groaned at this further stimulation. And then she was seated, and he was hard enough that she only had to nudge him in the right direction.

Heat. Scalding heat and moisture. Why could she not be dry? Why could she not…?

Her whimper went through him like a lance, even as he felt the cause of it. She was still trying to seat herself fully, but her maidenhead would not give, and she was progressing too slowly to do aught but cause herself pain. He felt a savage pleasure in that. So she was a virgin, and her own pain would defeat her where he could not.

To move now would truly aid her, so he remained deathly still. Yet she was so small and exquisitely tight, the urge was there, nigh overwhelming, to thrust deep into her. He killed it swiftly. He could not control that traitor, but he still controlled the rest of his body.

He heard another whimper, louder, and he opened his eyes to feed on her pain. Tears streaked her smooth cheeks. Her sapphire eyes, glassy with wetness, reflected that pain. But he had forgotten her nakedness.

She was a small woman, but she was generously formed, her breasts bountiful, her waist tiny. The spread of her hips over him, her splendid breasts bouncing with her soft panting, the feel of hot wetness squeezing only half of him—the sight of that part of him inside her…It was his undoing. He did not thrust. He did not have to. The blood rushed to swell him to his full, throbbing length, which pushed right through her maidenhead without either of them moving to help it.

She cried out as it happened, and her weight carried her down to sheathe him fully in her depths. Warrick ground his teeth against the gag in his mouth. His muscles strained, but he remained still otherwise. He fought now for impotence. He fought to ignore the powerful urges of his body. It was torture. He had never resisted anything so hard, never wanted anything so much that was so opposed to his will.

She moved on him, hesitantly at first, clumsily. She was still hurting, still crying, but still determined. Her breath, which was coming so hard, fanned his belly along with her hair, providing another caress, another torture. And he knew exactly when he lost the fight. He tried one last time to throw her off, welcoming the pain in his ankles and wrists, but she knew, knew, and she held fast to him. And then he no longer cared, was mindless in the throes of primal instinct, which took over completely to drain his seed with explosive, unbelievable relief. Damn her, damn her!

Chapter 9

I am glad ’twas you.

Warrick would never forget those words, nor would he forgive them. He recalled them again and again in those next days while he lay chained to that bed.

She had collapsed onto his chest when it was over, her tears wetting his skin. She had found no pleasure in their coupling, but she had gotten what she wanted. And before she left him, she had touched his cheek and whispered, “I am glad ’twas you,” and his hate had increased tenfold.

Her servant had come after that, to tend his wounds. The older woman had clucked her tongue over what he had done to himself, but she had also found the blood-encrusted lump on his head and cleaned that, too. He had let her. Devastated by his failure, he no longer cared just then what was done to him. Nor had it bothered him when the man came in still later to stare at the blood and seed still wet on his loins with an odd mixture of satisfaction and fury.

“She tells me you fought her. That is good, or I think I would kill you now for what you had of her.”

The man had turned about and left after that, nor had Warrick seen him again. But those few words had given him a wealth of information. He knew now that he was not meant to leave here alive. They wanted no ransom from him. They wanted only the babe he might already have planted in the wench’s belly. He also knew the man was jealous of him, that he would take pleasure in killing Warrick when his usefulness was at an end.

Still he did not care, not that next day, not about anything. He did not even feel the humiliation of having Mildred feed him, bathe him, and assist him to relieve himself right there in the bed. He did not even try to speak to her when his gag was removed for the feeding. His apathy was almost complete—until the wench came back.

Only then did he know it must be night again, for there were no windows in that small room to tell him of the passing hours. And only then did he come alive again, his fury driving him nigh mad. His thrashing loosed his bandages, embedding the iron manacles deeper into his still raw flesh.

But she was patient that second night. She did not try to touch him until he had worn himself out. And she avoided getting on the bed until he was nearly full ready for her.

Three times she visited him that second night, throughout the night, and three times the next, waking him if she needed to. Each time, perforce, took longer, with his body already sated, yet that did not stop her. She had him at her complete mercy. She examined him fully in the guise of caressing and stimulating him to readiness, everywhere, but mostly between his legs.

She was fascinated by his manroot, brought her face and breath close to it, yet never did she actually do as promised that first night, for ’twas unnecessary. The mere thought that she might affected him as if she had. And he could not prevent any of it, could not stop her, could not smite her with a look or put the fear back in her that she should feel. She used him, she drained him, she no longer displayed the least remorse. She had no mercy whatsoever.

Ah, God, how he wanted revenge on her. ’Twas all he thought about the third day, what he would do to her if he could just get his hands on her. And to think he had actually thought to give her a home when he had first seen her. Aye, he would give her a home, in his dungeon. But first he would pay her back in kind. Nay, first he must escape.

’Tell me her name.”

’Twas the first time he had spoken to Mildred. She eyed him warily as she brought another spoonful of thick mutton stew to his lips.

“I think not. You do not need to know.”

“My men will find me, Mistress. Do you want to live through the destruction I will wreck on this place, you will cooperate with me now.”

She had the gall to snort at him. “You were alone when taken.”

“Nay, I was with my squire Geoffrey. They killed him, did you know?”

Such coldness had entered his tone, Mildred was suddenly afraid of him, even though he was bound fast. Then she scoffed at herself and at him.

“A knight? Nay, they were sent for a villein. Think you they would not know the difference?”

He did not try to convince her otherwise. “My men were sent ahead. I was to join them the next morn. Think you they will just ride on without me?”

“Methinks you spin a fine tale, sirrah, but to what end?” she asked.

“Release me.”

“Ah, fine tactics.” She grinned at him. “But ’tis unnecessary to tell me lies. If I had the key to release you from these chains, I would not use it, not until my lady has what she needs of you.”

She did not add that Rowena had already bidden her to find the key. But she had had no luck thus far, and she would not give him false hope any more than Rowena would.

The feeding had taken longer this time, because he would not be quiet. The extra time had given the red gag marks across his cheeks a chance to fade. She noticed this when she bent to tie a new gag in place, and the sight of him without those distracting marks gave her a distinct chill.

“God’s mercy, you have a cruel look about you,” she said more to herself than to him. “I did not see it ere now.”

Warrick did not need to be told that. It was why his first wives had feared him. It was why his enemies feared him. It was why that cursed wench should have stayed away from him. It was mostly in his eyes, so expressive of his black thoughts, but also in the hard, bitter slant of his mouth, which rarely smiled. And his expression was particularly bitter now that he knew she would not aid him.

“You would do well to remember that—”

She stuffed the gag in his mouth to cut him off, saying indignantly, “It does you no good to threaten me, sirrah. I do my lady’s bidding, not yours. ’Tis no wonder she is naught but aggrieved when she leaves you each night. ’Twould have done you no harm to have treated her gently when she had no choice in coming to you. But nay, you are as cruel inside as you are without.”

He had sunk back into pure fury at those parting words. Was he supposed to feel pity for a woman who repeatedly raped him? Was he supposed to feel sympathy when the purpose was to steal a child from him? When she was glad, glad that ’twas he at her mercy instead of another? And why was that? Why would she be glad, when women feared him? It had been thus since his sixteenth year, when he had learned of all that was lost to him, his family, his home, naught left but his life and a betrothal contract that could not be broken. He had changed then, changed utterly, not just in character, but in appearance, for the darkness that had entered his soul had also been etched on his face.

Since then, he had never taken a woman to his bed who did not at first fear that he would hurt her in some manner. Even after a second or third time, they still did not trust him not to visit some cruelty upon them. His wives…such timid, meek creatures, they never did get over their fear of him, even though he had never given them cause to think he would be brutal with them. But they had both died many years ago. And they had lived with him during the years when he had lived and breathed for revenge, when his every thought was of destruction and killing—as it was now.

How could she be glad? Because he was bound fast and could not touch her? Because she knew he would be dead before the chains were removed from him, so she had naught to fear of him? That was a very real possibility, that he would be butchered right here in this bed, without a chance of defending himself, without a chance of obtaining the least retribution.

He did not fear death. There was a time when he had even courted it, when his life had been so empty and miserable he simply had not cared if he lived or died, and not much had improved since then. But he would regret the loss of this chance he now had to better his existence with Lady Isabella. Even more than that, however, he would regret being unable to avenge himself on these people for the ills that had been done to him here, much less for his death.

So it was to Warrick’s utter amazement that Mildred came not with food the next day, but with a pile of clothes and the key to his shackles And she came at her lady’s behest, if her first words could be credited.

“’Tis well I found the key, sirrah, for my lady wants you gone, and it must be now, whilst her brother is in the town hiring his mercenaries.” She told him this while she removed his gag. “I will convince him your seed took root, but that does not mean he will not hunt you down.”

“Brother?” Warrick remembered the man, and his jealousy. “I warrant not by blood.”

“Nay, no blood betwixt them, thank the Holy Mother,” she said, not looking at him, wasting no time in unlocking his shackles.

“And if my seed did not take? Will another take my place here in this cursed bed?”

“That need not concern you, sirrah.”

“Then tell me why a child is needed