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“Fodder for idle tongues,” Lianna snapped, stiffening her back as Bonne ran a brush through her hair.
“A child would be a blessing,” Bonne said boldly. “Perhaps it would even sweeten Macée’s disposition. She’s barren, you know.”
Lianna stared. “No, I didn’t know. Poor Macée.”
“Get a babe of your own, my lady.” Bonne’s eyes glinted with a sly light. “But for your womb to quicken, you must lie with a man.”
Lianna shot to her feet and whirled, her linen bliaut swirling about her slim ankles. “I’m not an idiot, Bonne. Lazare is in Paris. What would you have me do?”
“Take a lover. Queen Isabel herself has dozens.” Bonne moved across the chamber to the bed, whipping back the coverlet and brushing a bit of dried lavender from the pillow.
Lianna shivered. The king’s brother, Louis of Orléans, had paid with his life for consorting with Isabel. The Armagnacs credited the murder to her uncle of Burgundy. “Would you have me present Lazare with a bastard?”
“And who could call your child a bastard?” said Bonne. “The bloodied sheets of the marriage bed were duly inspected.” The maid brightened. “Perhaps you’re carrying a child now.”
“That’s not poss—” Lianna stopped herself. If word ever reached her uncle that the marriage had not been consummated, Burgundy would waste no time in getting it annulled and forcing her to marry the Englishman. “Enough, Bonne,” she said. “It is not your place to speak to me so.”
“As you wish, my lady,” the maid said without a trace of contrition. She patted the pillow. “Come to bed. Doubtless Gaucourt and the fifty extra mouths he’s brought to feed will keep you busy on the morrow.”
Lianna slipped beneath the coverlet and lay back on the pillow. Wisps of gullsdown drifted around her.
Bonne brought her lips together in a tight pout of irritation. “By St. Wilgefort’s beard,” she declared, “I told that slattern Edithe to mend the pillow.”
Lianna patted her hand. “Leave Edithe to me.” The maid looked so outraged that Lianna tried to turn the subject. “Who, by the by, is St. Wilgefort?”
Bonne sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward eagerly. “A new one, my lady, that Father LeClerq told me of. Wilgefort, it seems, was a matchless beauty. Growing weary of having so many suitors, she prayed to God for help.” Bonne hugged her knees to her chest and giggled. “She woke up the next morning with a full beard.”
Though she laughed, Lianna drew a painful parallel with her own dilemma. People lauded her beauty, but they kept their distance. She needed no beard, not with her domineering uncle, her scheming husband, and her own nature—a coolness born of confusion and ignorance—keeping men at bay.
Bonne started to withdraw, then returned to pick up a mug she’d left on a shelf. “Mustn’t forget my tonic,” she murmured, lifting the mug and draining it.
“Are you ailing?” Lianna asked.
Bonne laughed. “No, my lady, ’tis a draught of rue and savin.” She flushed. “Prevents conception.”
Knowing the substance to be a mild poison, Lianna frowned. “Is Roland so careless with you, Bonne?”
The maid shrugged. “Men. They are all alike. They spread their seed like chaff to the wind, heedless of where it takes root.”
That night Lianna had the dream again, the now familiar fantasy in which the husband who approached her bed transformed from Lazare into Rand. She awoke the next morning with a vague but compelling sense of new purpose.
* * *
During the three weeks since Rand had gone in secret to Le Crotoy, spring had pounced like a golden lion upon Picardy. Bees droned over the clover-carpeted meadow through which he walked, bearing hard for Bois-Long. In a distant field, cows stood motionless in the shimmering sunlight, and the scent of the salt marshes tingled sharply in his nose. Travel would have been quicker on horseback, but with Gaucourt’s hobelars about, Rand couldn’t risk detection.
As his long strides carried him across fields and through forests, he discovered a deep appreciation for the beauty of the land. To the east a field of blue flax and budding poppies waved in restful harmony; to the west loomed the highlands bordered by chalky cliffs and stunted trees. The Somme coiled inland, fed by scores of tributaries. A forest of beeches and elms, their powerful trunks nourished by rich earth, sprang from the marshy valley. Ahead, a line of blazed poplars nodded in the breeze. The gateway to Bois-Long.
His French heritage linked him to this land. His English title made him master of it. Yet Burgundy’s new plan made secrecy necessary. The duke had promised that the demoiselle would soon be free to wed; he seemed confident of an annulment of her marriage to Mondragon. Rand was only too happy to leave the intrigue to Burgundy.
Cautiously he approached his destination. He misliked stealth; he had no prowess at it.
As he edged along the bank, keeping to the shadows of great water beeches, he saw, for the second time, the impregnable magnificence of the château. Only now he looked at it, not as his future home, but as a fortress to be breached. He calculated the height of the walls and determined the route he’d take when he came for his bride.
With a bit of charcoal he made a sketch on parchment, noting the locations of the sentry towers, the number of windows in the keep proper, the merlons in the battlements.
The idea of sneaking into the château and abducting an unsuspecting woman filled him with distaste, but he had no choice. Gaucourt’s presence made an overt attack ludicrous; the idea of returning unsuccessful to England was unthinkable.
The clopping of hoofs on the causeway snared his attention. Muscles coiling, he pressed back against a thick tree trunk and watched a small contingent of men-at-arms emerge from beneath the barbican. At their center rode a woman.
The Demoiselle de Bois-Long.
It could be no other, for she perched on her saddle with an air of haughty authority and was robed in a gown of sumptuous red. King Henry’s gifts of cloth and jewels should please her, Rand thought. She favors rich dresses.
Feeling both detached and uneasy, he studied the woman who would become his wife. Her face was milk pale; she had ripe red lips, sleek black hair, and fine-drawn brows that swept high above eyes too distant to discern the color. Beauty, not warmth, was the chief impression Rand gleaned from his glimpse of the demoiselle. She was Burgundy’s kin, he reminded himself. Why look for kindness in her?
She reined in and snapped an order to one of the men. When he made no move to respond, she gave a little screech, produced a stout riding crop, and laid it about the man’s shoulders until he dismounted and adjusted her stirrup. Then they were off again, crossing the causeway and turning east along a dirt road.
As he stared at the narrow back and raven locks of the demoiselle, Rand felt each breath like a harsh rasp in his throat. This woman, with her hard red mouth and cruel white hands, was to be his wife, the mother of his babes. Not only was he condemned to asserting his control over a French keep; now he knew his wife had a temper he’d have to tame.
Troubled, he glanced up at the westering sun. I’ll come in the late afternoon each day, and wait until the hour of the woodcock’s flight. Lianna’s words drifted into his mind, pulling him to the place he knew he should not visit.
* * *
Lianna visited the glade with less and less frequency, for her hopes of meeting Rand again had begun to wane. He’s a knight-errant, she told herself. His home is where he pitches his tent and tethers his horse.
But the spring-soft afternoon and the terrifying goal she’d set for herself brought her back to the glade. Bonne’s words haunted her: Men. They spread their seed like chaff to the wind. At last Lianna was ready to admit that Bonne was right; Gaucourt was right. She needed an heir to prevent her uncle from tampering with her marriage to a Frenchman and to prevent Gervais from inheriting Bois-Long.
Walking through the long stretch of woods, she pondered her plan. Surely Rand, if she could find him again, would plant a child inside her, and Lazare would be too proud to deny the babe was his own.
So simple, she thought. So cold-blooded. So damnably necessary. She wondered if she had the courage and callousness to bring her attraction to Rand to its natural conclusion.
She did. But not by virtue of her courage, which she doubted, nor by virtue of her callousness, which had been soothed to tenderness by Rand’s loving hands. She was motivated by more than the simple need for an heir. She wanted Rand to make love to her, to fill the void that had gaped like an open wound in her heart all her life. He’d awakened the dreamer within her, given her the will to reach out with both hands for the love that had ever eluded her.
Since she was accustomed by now to finding the glade empty, her heart hammered in surprise when she spied Rand through a frame of budding willows. Filled with gladness and fear, she approached him from one side. The woods craft schooled into her by Chiang gave her a light, silent step. Rand didn’t notice her; he appeared deep in thought.
His back against the stone cross, his sun-gilt head bowed over his chest, he put her in mind of a sleeping giant, his power unsprung, hovering beneath a patina of repose. Hazy, diffuse light showered over his profile. His hair, she noticed with affectionate attention, had grown longer, the ends curling like a halo around the unspoiled beauty of his face.
His guileless pose, his pensive attitude, made her regret her intention to take advantage of their attraction, yet the heart-stopping magnificence of his long, muscled body filled her with guilty excitement.
She expressed her agitation with a soft gasp, a whispered greeting.
With a start that sent her stumbling back, he jumped to his feet and yanked out a pointed dagger. Recognition, then undiluted joy, blossomed on his face. The weapon disappeared back into its sheath. “You gave me a start.” His smile touched her heart like the shimmer of a sunbeam.
She flushed. “I didn’t mean to.” Studying the tender ferns on the forest floor, she felt suddenly shy.
“You always startle me, sweet maid,” he said, a strained note of longing in his voice.
Her throat constricted at the sight of those leaf-green eyes, that rugged face far more animated, more compelling, than the one she saw in her dreams each night.
With one swift movement he swept her into his arms. “Oh, God, Lianna, I have missed you.” He hugged her close with his powerful arms, buried his face in her neck, and plunged his hands into her hair. The plaited locks yielded to his fingers, and soon her hair lay loose around her shoulders.
He smelled of the sea and the sun. She felt as if she’d come home, with his arms tight around her, his chest solid against her cheek. “Where have you been?”
“Nowhere. I am nowhere without you.” He cupped her chin and tilted her head up. His lips began a slow descent onto hers.
Trembling, she clung to him, relished every tingling sensation that shivered over her as their lips melded into a long, slow kiss. Her hands ranged up his sinewy torso, feeling the sweat-dampened skin beneath his mail shirt. She twined her fingers through his golden hair and pulled him closer, her lips parting, inviting the velvety sweep of his tongue. He filled her with masculine sweetness, wrapped her with steel-tempered hardness, and kindled the fuse of her passion.
Seared by yearning, she pressed closer. He dragged his lips from hers. His eyes glinted jewel-bright with an inner torment that tore at her heart and filled her mind with questions. “Why did you stay away for so long?” she asked.
He touched her cheek, her brow. “Because it is wrong for us to meet like this, in secret. I can offer you nothing.”
“How can you say that? How can you belittle the friendship you’ve given me?” He started to pull away. She grasped his hands, leaned up on tiptoe, and kissed him hard on the mouth. Then she stepped back and let her hair fall forward to hide the fire he’d ignited in her cheeks. Peering uncertainly from between her locks, she wondered if her bold behavior appalled him. He’d certainly been disapproving enough of her interest in gunnery. Doubtless she violated every image this knight-errant had of feminine ideals.
He parted her hair with his fingers. With relief, she saw only affection in his smile.
“Would that I could give you more than friendship,” he whispered.
Hope billowed in her chest. “I’ve come here almost every day,” she admitted.
Taking her hand, he pressed his lips to the pulse at her wrist. “Testing your guns?” He sounded both teasing and annoyed.
She shook her head. “Looking for you. And I asked where you’ve been.” He didn’t speak. Raising one eyebrow, she ventured, “Doubtless on knightly business of utmost secrecy.” She fixed him with a probing stare. “But I’ve guessed your secret.”
He fell still, seemed not even to breathe. “Lianna—”
“Don’t worry,” she said, smiling softly. “I’ll not put it about that you’ve chased the Englishman from Eu.”
He blinked. “Chased the—”
“Aye, we heard that the god-don has sailed away.” Excitement danced in her eyes. “Did you fight him? Did you slay the man who came to conquer Château Bois-Long?”
“No blood was spilled.”
“Did he run back to England like the coward he is?” She touched his sleeve. “You wear no colors, my Gascon. Are you for the Armagnacs or the Burgundians?”
“I could ask you the same of your mistress. She is of the blood of Burgundy, yet she houses a supporter of Armagnac.”
Her eyes widened. “How do you know about Gaucourt?”
“His presence at Bois-Long is no secret.”
She regarded him with mock severity. “Perhaps you’re a spy for Burgundy...or the English.”
He grinned. “Suppose I were?”
“Then I would steal your dagger and use it on you.” She took his hand and laid it alongside her cheek. “Talk to me. I want to know you.”
“There is much I would share with you...if I could.”
“Have you a family?”
His expression softened. “If you could term a band of motley men a family.”
“Your men?” She turned to scan the area.
“My comrades. But you won’t find them here.”
“Tell me about them, Rand.”
“They are men like any other. They have mothers, sweethearts...except for the priest, of course.”
She smiled. “Somehow it seems fitting that you would keep constant company with a priest.”
Laughing, he said, “You’d not think so if you knew this priest. He’s more likely to be found ranging the fields on a hunt than in a chapel hearing confessions. He often says mass in muddy boots and falconer’s cuffs.”
“What of your other friends?”
A guarded look made him seem suddenly distant, unapproachable. “I think it is better for us both to keep silent about certain matters.”
Wanting to draw him back to her, she leaned up and kissed him lightly. It wasn’t fair to question him, not when she was full of her own secrets. She couldn’t tell him now that she was the Demoiselle de Bois-Long, and married, with the wrath of the Duke of Burgundy and the King of England down upon her. This glade was their private garden, a place to forget they were each part of someone else’s plan.
“Times are uncertain. I’ll badger you no more,” she said.
Cloaked in wildflowers, the fields beckoned. As they walked, Rand stooped to pick hepaticas, fire-pink gaywings, early yellow violets, and bluets barely furled from their buds. Lianna loved to hear him talk. His rich, musical voice revealed ideas as fine and fanciful as the flowers he gathered. With enchanting whimsy he told her improbable tales of gallantry, unconquerable villains, damsels in distress.
Stopping on a little rise in the middle of the field, he offered her the flowers. She shook her head. “What would you have me do with them?”
“Smell them, for God’s sake. Let them pleasure you.”
She laughed. “Pleasure me? What a silly notion?” She plucked a single stalk of mayapple from his bouquet. “Now this is useful in making a decoction for the grippe.”
He tucked it behind her ear. “To you, everything needs must have a practical use. Why is that?”
“I know of no other way to look at things.” Taking a violet, she stared intently at the blossom, then at the waving profusion of flowers all around her. “In sooth they all seem alike to me.”
He cupped her chin in one hand and rubbed the silken petals over her lips. “Then let me show you.”
Sitting down, he spread his hands and scattered the blossoms. The scent soon brought a flurry of butterflies.
She stepped back, her breath snared in her throat. He was so beautiful, so true of heart. She yearned for a measure of his charming insouciance, the self-assuredness that made him capable of exalting even a lowly mayapple. But, tainted by intrigue and secrecy, she knew she could never share his clear-eyed wonder. Stiffly she sat down beside him. A butterfly flitted between them.
“My sad girl,” he said softly. “Why do you look so sad?”
“I wish I could be like you, Rand. So...whimsical.”
“Whimsical! Dear maid, you unman me.”
“But it’s true. You’re so full of unexpected delights....” She let her voice trail off and frowned. “I am clumsy with words. I know not how to say what I feel.”
