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Philippe de Varenne was watching her, too, with a greedy look in his snake’s eyes and a hungry smile on his thin lips. Even the usually jovial George was eyeing the wench with serious speculation.
Fortunately, Donald Bouchard could be counted on not to — but the young man was staring at Gabriella Frechette as if an angel were serving his dinner! The only man who seemed oblivious to Gabriella’s presence was Seldon, who gave all his attention to his food.
Etienne’s scrutiny returned to the provocative movement of Gabriella Frechette’s shapely hips. Was it deliberately done or was it simply a gift of nature? Either way, if she stayed, she was going to cause trouble.
This situation could not continue. She must be made to leave before his men started quarreling over her and the other servants began to believe they could defy him with impunity.
“Gabriella!” he called, his voice slightly louder than usual.
She turned and walked toward him, a questioning look in her eyes, her dark, shapely brows lifted just a little, her pale, smooth cheeks tinged with a hint of a blush.
He could not go back on his ultimatum. That would be a sign of weakness that he simply would not permit. When he considered the state of his men, it occurred to him that she might be engaging in a different sort of battle, one that started with covert rebellion.
The little fool! He had seen campaigns of many kinds, including those waged by women, and he knew different attacks and defenses. He always got what he wanted. She should have heard enough about him to know that.
What did he want from her? To caress that shapely body? To crush those ruby lips against his own? To have her yield, willingly, fervently, with all the passion of her hate turned to burning desire...
His glance darted to Josephine, who was wiping her rosebud lips daintily with a napkin. God’s wounds, he must be going to mad to even think of kissing this wench when he had Josephine de Chaney to share his bed. What kind of spell was this dispossessed noblewoman beginning to exert over him?
Gabriella halted, her full lips pulled into a thin line of strength and she bowed her head in acknowledgment.
He must and would control this estate, this castle, this hall and most of all, this woman. “Fill my goblet,” he ordered.
Gabriella did as she was told, trying not to look at Baron DeGuerre’s lean, handsome face illuminated by the many flambeaux set in sconces in the walls Despite her self-confidence in the kitchen, she had dreaded meeting him again, and with good reason. His pale blue eyes were so intimidating in their inscrutability! The man was like a statue, betraying nothing of his feelings. Indeed, it was as if he were not quite human, but some kind of supernatural warrior put on earth to remind others that they were weak, frail vessels of humanity.
While she bent to fill his goblet with hands that must tremble, he moved not at all.
No, not a statue, she thought as she poured his wine slowly to avoid a spill. He was more like a cat sitting before a mouse’s hole. She was aware of the others in the hall, but all her attention was focused on the man in front of her although she did not look directly at his face.
She had already seen enough of it. The baron’s features, lean and battle-hardened, presided over by his cold, unrevealing eyes, might have belonged to a martyr. She doubted even being burned at the stake would make the man flinch. But he was no holy man. It was not hard to envision the baron’s slender, strong fingers, grasping the goblet before her, around a man’s throat, squeezing the breath from his body.
Gabriella forced herself to concentrate on her task so that she could finish and be gone, away from his intense eyes and unreadable face.
At last the baron moved, to lean back leisurely in his straight-backed chair with a motion of sinuous grace.
She tipped the vessel of wine up and backed away. Before she could leave, however, the baron smiled slowly, slyly, seductively, and said, “Go to my bedchamber.”
“Etienne!” Josephine de Chaney gasped. Suspicion and pain appeared in her lovely green eyes, her reaction giving Gabriella a confirmation she did not want.
“Being a servant is new to you, so this once I will repeat myself,” he said deliberately, ignoring his mistress. “Go to my bedchamber.”
Gabriella could only stare at him, shocked, aghast and horrified. Surely he didn‘t—couldn’t—mean it! She felt as if she had been stripped naked in front of everyone. A wave of hot shame washed over her as she hoped against hope that he would rescind his order. She may be no more than a servant now, but she was a free woman. If he took her against her will, it would be rape. He would be committing a crime. She would go to... whom? Who would stand up for her against the powerful Baron DeGuerre, favorite of the king, the terror of tournaments, a man who had once fought for ten straight hours simply to win a bag of silver coins?
While he continued to regard her with those implacable blue eyes, she began to understand that she had engaged an enemy whose power and influence she had never fully considered.
But she had power and strength on her side, too. He would be a criminal if he touched her, and all would know it. And if he thought it necessary to stoop to such tactics, who had the upper hand then?
With her back as straight as an arrow’s shaft, her carriage as regal as any queen, Gabriella turned and headed toward the wide staircase leading upward, toward the north tower and the bedchamber.
“Well, well, well, what are we to make of that?” Philippe de Varenne asked, gesturing with his head toward Gabriella as she disappeared inside the tower and those assembled in the hall broke the silence with a flurry of murmurs and whispers.
Sir George de Gramercie, usually so quick with a witty remark, could only raise his shapely, patrician brows and shake his head.
“I mean, I think we can all understand his intentions,” Philippe went on before taking a large gulp of his wine. “I know what I’d do if I had a wench like that at my service.”
“He’s not going to hurt her,” Donald said, both shocked and defensive.
“Oh, no, I never said he would hurt her,” Philippe replied with a wink. “I’d give a purse of gold to know what Josephine is thinking at this particular moment.”
The men glanced at her. Both the baron and Josephine de Chaney were eating as if nothing at all unusual had happened, which was very far from the truth.
“She’ll never question him,” George said with absolute certainty. “She’s far too clever for that.”
“Which makes her the perfect mistress, eh?” Philippe noted. “That and other talents.”
“You are speaking of a lady,” Donald said severely.
“A soiled dove of a lady,” Seldon observed with more honesty than tact before shoving a large morsel of beef into his mouth.
“But a lady nonetheless,” Donald answered. “Nor do I think it fitting to bandy about the name of the baron’s lady, or to make such jests.”
Seldon, who usually agreed with Donald and followed his lead, shrugged his shoulders George grinned and Philippe clicked his tongue in disgust.
“Pardon me for offending your delicate sensibilities,” Philippe said, “but no matter how beautiful she is, Josephine de Chaney is still a—”
George held up his hand. “Not exactly, and I believe the distinction is worth noting,” he warned the impetuous young man beside him. “And she is a noblewoman.”
“Yes, she is,” Donald said firmly.
“Aye!” Seldon seconded, wiping his lips with his large hand.
“Oh, very well,” Philippe grudgingly conceded. “However, that Gabriella, she’s not anymore.” He smiled, and it was not a pleasant sight. “Let us drink to the impertinent Gabriella,” he said, raising his goblet. “I daresay she’ll be taught a lesson she won’t soon forget, eh?”
Donald-looked appalled. Seldon did, too, but it was George who was the first to speak. “Philippe,” he said with a touch of anger in his usually mildly amused voice, “you know the baron will not harm her.”
“Then why did he order her upstairs?” Philippe demanded.
George chuckled ruefully- “He probably has something he wants her to do.”
“That’s precisely my point,” Philippe said as he sullenly surveyed the others.
“I meant work,” George chided. “Maybe something to do with his boots or his cloak. He has no body servant, you will recall.”
“So you think he’s planning on having a female body servant? A most fascinating concept, I grant you.”
“All I’m saying is,” George replied, “the baron has never dishonored a woman in his life to my knowledge, and I see no reason for him to start now.”
“You don’t? Are you blind, man? She’s got the roundest, most detectable—”
“We noticed,” Donald interrupted, blushing like a boy.
“Did you?” Philippe asked Donald. “I thought you concerned yourself solely with the life to come.”
“And my duty here on earth,” Donald said stoutly. “It is our duty, as knights of the realm, to protect women.”
“Besides, why would the baron risk a charge of rape when she’s so skinny?” Seldon asked solemnly.
“You would dare to fight the baron over a serving wench?” Philippe demanded, ignoring Seldon.
“Yes, I would,” Donald replied with conviction.
“God’s holy heaven!” Philippe chided as he looked at Donald. “You should have been a monk.”
“That little bailiff didn’t look at all happy, poor fellow,” George remarked, obviously attempting to defuse the tense situation. “He ran out of the hall like he was pursued by one of the hounds.”
“What’s he got to be upset about?” Philippe said as he filled his goblet again. “He’s still the bailiff. For now.”
“I daresay he’s been harboring a tender feeling for his late lord’s daughter, if I’m any judge, and I think I am. He’s probably been pining in secret. Poor fellow, I don’t think he’d stand a chance with a woman of such spirit.”
“He didn’t defend her,” Donald said. “If he truly cared for her, he would.”
“Come now, Donald,” George replied. “He isn’t a knight. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s completely terrified of Baron DeGuerre. She wasn’t, though. Whoever would have imagined a woman standing up to Baron DeGuerre?”
“He’s not a god, you know,” Philippe said scornfully. “You all treat Baron DeGuerre like he’s the second coming!”
“You say that because you’re new to his service,” George said affably. “You’ve never seen him fight By God, you’d change your tune fast enough then.”
“Perhaps,” Philippe said, clearly unconvinced.
“Our Donald’s still suffering the effects of being trained by Fitzroy,” George said with a sad smile and laughing eyes. “That man’s notions concerning the fairer sex are even more strict than the baron’s.”
“Ah, yes, the famous Fitzroy,” Philippe said. “I wouldn’t mind facing him in a tournament someday. You fought him once, didn’t you, Seldon?”
Seldon looked away. “Yes.”
“And you lost?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t quite a fair fight, I believe?”
“Shut your mouth and leave it,” Donald snarled, rising. “That was a long time ago, and he’s made up for it since.”
“Of course, of course, calm yourself!” Philippe declared. “I simply asked.”
“Come now, we are getting far too worked up. It must be the fine wine,” George said. “We are all friends here.”
Donald was not appeased. “I’ve had quite enough of you for one night,” he said to Philippe, his teeth clenched. “Good night!”
He marched from the hall, followed a moment later by Seldon. “That wasn’t very nice, Philippe,” George said coldly. “Seldon was a boy when he did that unwise thing.”
“He’s still a dullard,” Philippe replied, reaching out for more wine.
George raised his wine in a salute. “Let us drink to women in general, eh, Philippe? Will that satisfy you?”
They raised their goblets and drank, then lowered them as Baron DeGuerre rose from the table. They watched silently as he spoke a few quiet words to Josephine de Chaney, whose face betrayed no emotion, before he went to the tower stairs and disappeared from view.
“One of us is going to be satisfied tonight,” Philippe said nastily.
“I think I’ll go, too. You’re getting drunk, and you’re rather poor company when you’re in that state.”
Philippe took a large gulp of wine and watched George saunter away. He didn’t care what they thought. They were all cowards, bowing and scraping before Baron DeGuerre.
He took a few more gulps. He didn’t care what the baron thought, either. The man was mortal, like all the rest, and he lacked breeding, too.
Why didn’t women see that? Why did they always pass over him, so much more deserving, and try to entice the baron? No matter what the others thought, he was sure that was what Gabriella Frechette was trying to do. She was a mere woman, after all.
A pretty, shapely woman with no male relative to protect her. God’s wounds, what he wouldn’t give to be in the baron’s place at this particular moment.
Well, let the baron tame her first. He, Philippe, could wait.
Chapter Three
Gabriella wiped her sweating palms on the skirt of her gown as she paced the length of her parents’ bedchamber and struggled to stay calm. It was a losing battle, every moment seeming an hour while she waited for the baron to appear, trying desperately to convince herself that he would not dare to hurt her.
Her eyes caught sight of the narrow bed, the replacement she had provided for her parents’ ornate one. Her gaze quickly returned to the marble beneath her feet.
Oh, if only Bryce were here! He would save her. He wouldn’t shrink from fighting the baron himself, if he had to. He was always ready for an altercation, with his father, with Chalfront, with the reeve, the miller, the cloth merchants. How many times had she acted as mediator? Too many to count. She had come to pride herself on her diplomacy.
What had happened to her skill when she had confronted Baron DeGuerre? Had pride made her foolish? Had she felt so secure in her place and in the servants’ regard that she had stupidly risked speaking without deference to Baron DeGuerre? Or had she been too upset to think with necessary clarity?
Whatever she had thought, she would never have guessed he would assert his authority by vile means.
She still could not quite believe it. She had never heard his reputation sullied with such an accusation, or any other abuse of women. He was said to be ruthless with his opponents in tournaments, but not vengeful. His ambition was considerable, yet many men wanted power and wealth. Women vied for his attention. Would they, if he was a rough and violent man?
Or was she desperately seeking succor where there could be none?
Once again she cursed herself for a stubborn fool. Would it have been so hard to bow her head, to act afraid, to cower before him? To at least remain silent in his presence?
Perhaps if she did so when he finally came here, he would let her go. She would kneel before him and beg forgiveness. Anything to let her retain her honor. After all, her personal honor was all she had left.
Yet what kind of honor was it that begged? If he harmed her, he would be in the wrong. She would know it, and the people would know it. Her family was not totally friendless. She could tell others what he had done. She would dishonor him.
What was she thinking? This was a man who lived openly with his mistress, and Josephine de Chaney was but one of a long line. He refused to give the proper tithes to the Church, and he was harsh in his punishment of those he perceived to have broken the law. It was said the only thing Baron DeGuerre respected was power, and she had none.
Gabriella pressed her frigid hands to her hot cheeks. Why did he not come? Was this part of her torture, this agony of waiting?
She went to the window and looked out in the faint light of the slender moon. Once this land had belonged to her family, until her father had let Chalfront take charge.
