Warrior's Deception

His gaze raked down the length of her body. She stood almost to his shoulder, and he savored the length of time it took to explore her body. With caged patience, she waited while he noted her generous mouth and elflike chin. He let his gaze linger on the mature breasts. The unpretentious gown hugged at the gentle swell of her hips. Dark braids hung between the valley of her breasts. Wisps of curls escaped the confines of the butter-colored ribbons of her plaits.

Roen studied the wavy mass of hair. At first it appeared dark brown, but as the sunlight filtered through the window, it highlighted the copper tresses. He smiled despite himself when, once more, the maverick lock of hair escaped from behind her ear and she replaced it yet again.

Aye, no English beauty: she was too dark and her features too irregular. Yet, she intrigued him, especially her eyes. Never had he seen eyes the color of gold, or ones that expressed so much of the person’s inner self. Now those eyes stayed on him. Surprised, Roen realized she was evaluating him.

Humph! Roen admitted to himself. The chit has backbone. A mere look does not send her off in tears. Finally, when he saw she would stand her ground, he answered, “I concede, and the other faults?”

The wench relaxed: he could see the tension leave her body. A grudging look of admiration tinted her eyes. “I’m afraid you’ve already had a taste of the other two. I’m exceptionally intelligent, and not afraid to let others know it. Lastly, I have a bit of a temper.” She held her fingers apart slightly to demonstrate how small a “bit.”

Hamlin bubbled with laughter, while Roen quirked his mouth into a reluctant smile. “I can readily see how those three particular faults might make it hard to find a husband, Lady…” Hamlin paused. “You know our names but yours remains a mystery.”

“I am Lenora de Marchavel of Woodshadow. My father is Sir Edmund. Now, do we have a bargain?”

Roen racked his memory for information on Sir Edmund. The king spoke of him often and considered the man a loyal friend. From what he had heard, the girl’s father was a man of honor and integrity. Would the same hold true for the daughter? Still reluctant to enter an agreement with a woman, Roen assessed his alternatives.

“You drive a hard bargain.” Lenora’s eyes gleamed. “I will give you the choice of one foal your animal sires. The foal will be worth a hefty bag of gold, not to mention the prestige of owning a Woodshadow mount.”

“Agreed. You will tell me truthfully of any woman I choose. In return, Destrier is yours for a month.” Roen knew he had the better deal, yet Lenora’s eyes troubled him. Instead of defeat, her warm spice-colored eyes shone with victory. Roen nodded toward the ladies milling about in the great chamber. “Pick one and tell me what you can.”

“Roen, there is no use wasting Lady Lenora’s time on all of these women.” Hamlin gave Lenora a crooked smile and pointed toward the crowd. “How about that one in the yellow gown? The one seated at the feet of the rather large dowager.”

“Lady Daphne. She is two years my junior. Her father is Sir George Champlain. He lays claim to much land, though ‘tis spread widely and difficult to oversee.”

“The condition of her inheritance?” Roen asked impatiently. He barely registered the presence of the flaxen-haired young girl.

“Well, she stands to inherit a sizable fief on the birth of her first child. In fact, that property is the major income for Sir Champlain.” Lenora bit her upper lip, the edges of her mouth upturned in an engaging grin.

Roen eyed his informant carefully. A faint light danced through her eyes. She held something back. “The rest,” he demanded.

An impish smile slid across her lips. “The only thing I could add is the fact that she is thrice widowed.”

“Three husbands!” Hamlin jumped up and peered at the innocent-looking beauty across the room. Daphne, her eyes downcast, continued to listen to the never-ending complaints of the older woman. “What happened to them?” Hamlin asked in a hushed voice.

“The usual—hunting accident, illness, thrown from a horse—things like that,” Lenora replied matter-of-factly.

“Why so many husbands lost to accidents?” Roen queried. He noted the intelligent sparkle in Lenora’s eyes. A ripple of admiration intrigued him, but he brushed the emotion aside.

“’Tis no secret, Daphne’s father does not wish to part with her dowry land. By allowing his daughter to marry but not to conceive, he keeps control of his best property and gains from Daphne’s inheritance as a widow.”

Roen slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. “He should be hanged. Why have you not taken this matter before King Henry?”

“Because I have no evidence. Though I nursed the poor girl through two miscarriages, I’ve no proof her father caused them or the demise of her husbands. A village woman who came to me to speak of the tea Sir Champlain forced upon his daughter prior to her miscarriages died on her return home. Daphne knows what her father and brothers are capable of, as do I. She would never live to testify against them.”

Lenora drew back and leaned against the cold stone wall. Misery dulled the glow in her eyes and face. “Someday that man will pay for the way he treats his daughter.”

Brittle agate eyes displayed anger, sadness and fear. Roen knew Lenora did not lack spirit, for few men stood up to him as she had. Lord Champlain must be a monster to cause her such dread.

“Your counsel is well taken, go on to the next.” Roen waved his hand dismissively toward the great hall. For the next hour lie listened to Lenora recite all she knew on each woman Hamlin pointed out. She informed them of gambling debts, land disputes, how complex their obligations to area lords and the disposition of each woman. Roen sat on the pew with his long powerful legs stretched out, ankles crossed, disinterested. If he bothered to ask a question, it dealt with the woman’s holdings or family reputation. Finally, he rose, his frustration and disdain erupting.

“I have had enough. Every woman here has either a poor dowry, a plain face or some other shortcoming.” Roen paced in front of his two confidants. He stopped and turned to face Lenora. “Are there no women here capable of meeting the most basic of standards?”

“What do you expect?” Lenora could hold her anger no longer. “You look over a possible wife with the same enthusiasm as purchasing a…a cow for pasture. Do you feel that you are so great a prize? Think what the woman gets in return from a marriage to you. Nothing, since you bring no land and she becomes the brood mare for an overbearing oaf. A dullard who can’t even think up a proper name for his own horse.” Lenora took a breath, ready to continue her tirade.

“Who is that?” Hamlin interrupted the tongue-lashing and pointed to the opposite side of the room. Lenora swiveled, looked at the young woman Hamlin pointed at and groaned. She swallowed hard and cursed Beatrice’s timing. Why couldn’t she have remained hidden for just a while longer? By Hamlin’s dropped jaw, she could tell Beatrice had made an impression, the wrong impression. Lenora stepped back and stumbled into the wall-like chest of Roen de Galliard. His strong arms wrapped around her and pulled her tight against him.

“Steady, Lady Lenora,” Roen whispered in her ear. His breath caused gooseflesh to race down her neck. She closed her eyes to regain her composure. Instead, it fortified the sounds and sensations about her. She heard the pounding of his heart, felt the rise and fall of each breath he took. Suddenly, the sensations stopped. Roen released her as if she were a cocklebur bush. He stepped away from her and moved toward Hamlin. The siege commander took a deep breath and surveyed the room. His eyes settled on her cousin. Lenora knew his thoughts, what size dowry did Beatrice possess and would she act the docile servant of her husband.

“Who is she?” Hamlin did not drag his gaze away from Beatrice. Lenora hesitated. When she did not answer, Hamlin looked over his shoulder, misery evident on his boyish face. “She’s married to someone already, isn’t she. A beauty like that could not remain unclaimed for long.” He sighed and shook his head sadly. His ashen locks swayed with the movement.

“Tell him,” Roen ordered.

Lenora thought fast. If she told them Beatrice was married it might work for a time, but Aunt Matilda would find a way to introduce Beatrice to Roen and eventually her lie would be discovered. The greedy lout might marry her cousin just to get even with her; he was mean enough. The knight had more pride in himself than any man she had ever met. Pride! The answer to her problem unfolded. She could save Beatrice.

Lenora straightened up to her full height and crossed he arms. She looked the knight in the eyes and stated, “That is my cousin, Beatrice de Greyere. She is unmarried, but unavailable.”

“Why is that?”

“Because she is in love with someone.”

Roen stared at her, incredulous. “And why should that deter me? Women are always falling in and out of love. It means nothing as long as she has an acceptable dowry and is obedient to her vows.” He laughed like a satyr and turned to his friend. “Come, we will introduce ourselves to this beauty that has so bewitched you.” Roen pretended to close Hamlin’s gaping mouth and lead him toward Beatrice.

“Very well, then.” Lenora took one more chance, a dangerous one, but calculated to prey on the man’s overbearing pride. “I’ll introduce you, but you do not strike me as the type of man who could make love to his wife knowing she wished he were someone else.”

The sound of his quick intake of breath warned her to brace herself for the storm of his anger. She contemplated running, but where could she go that he could not find her? Roen advanced, his square jaw clenched, neck veins visible. His huge hands were balled up into fists at his sides. Lenora had a momentary vision of those two clubs pummeling the life from her body. She steeled herself to meet his gaze. His eyes were no longer the color of thunderclouds. Now they reminded her of a full-blown gale, one that would wreak havoc for days.

“By God’s Wounds, woman, you go too far,” Roen snarled. “Do you doubt I can command obedience from my wife? I will not tolerate a whore for a wife.”

“I’ve no doubt you would try to command your wife’s very thoughts. You can use those powerful hands to control a body, but not a mind, and never a heart.” Lenora stood firm, anger overruling her fear as usual.

“Sir Roen,” the young page from the stable interrupted. He smiled at Lenora and handed Roen a message. He turned with a smart bow to the lady and started to leave.

“Hold, boy.” Roen’s voice stopped the page in a dead halt. “When you deliver a message, you wait on a reply.” His gaze dropped from Lenora and spotted the insignia of King Henry scrawled across the bottom of the missive. Damn! He would have to attend to the business of royalty before the woman’s punishment. Lenora’s jabs had hit close to home. His father’s attempt to control his mother’s heart with fists and cruel punishments had been to no avail. His mother still had betrayed him and left Roen to suffer the painful taunts of his brothers and the mental and physical blows of his father. How many times had his father told him not to trust the heart of a woman? No woman would ever hurt him again, least of all a mouthy shrew.

“This is not over.” Roen glanced up from the message, but the woman had vanished. There were many dark recesses and support beams in the great hall, too many places that could cast shadows even in daylight. He could not keep Henry waiting. Cursing under his breath, he barked at the page, “Where is the king?” Roen did not wait on a reply but marched ahead. The boy scurried to catch up with the knight’s long strides. Hamlin followed behind, craning his neck to watch Beatrice.

When she saw the two men leave, Lenora stepped out of the shadows, shaking her head in disbelief. What a bore, an unimaginative mass of brutality. No matter what the cost, she would not let this brute have gentle Beatrice. He would have her cowering in some corner at his first angry glare. Lenora picked up the edge of her gown and raced across the hall to her cousin. Beatrice must be warned; they must leave immediately. For Beatrice’s sake and, as she thought of the knight’s fury, her own.

Roen climbed the stairs to the king’s bedchamber and wondered why the need for such privacy. In the close confines of the castle, the king’s chamber was the most secure place. After instructing his second in command to patrol outside the room, he entered and greeted his king.

“Your Majesty.” He approached the red-haired man seated near a table. Henry stood and grasped his extended hand in a bone-crushing handshake. Not as tall as Roen, the king was still an impressive man. His love of hunting and riding kept him trim and washed his freckled face with healthy color. Faint laugh lines creased his mouth and eyes.

“Roen, my dear friend, so how goes the hunt?” The king gave him a wicked grin. Roen knew to which “hunt” the king referred. Henry had followed the same hunt several times. With his wife, Eleanor, living in Aquitaine, the king consoled his loss with several mistresses, the Lady Rosmund in particular. Roen wondered how wise it was of Henry to parade his lovers at court so openly. Queen Eleanor was a shrewd and jealous woman. Henry could not afford an arranged annulment and lose his wife’s overseas holdings.

“I prefer to speak of more pleasant subjects,” Roen answered dryly. There was more on the king’s mind than just teasing him.

Henry crossed to the table and retrieved a letter. “Read this. Tell me what you think.” The king sat down, arms folded across his barrellike chest.

Roen browsed through the letter to the king. The sender stated his opinion on a nearby land dispute. Odd choices of words made the letter somewhat convoluted but the gist could be easily understood. He stroked his chin and looked at the missive again. From the corner of his eye, he spied King Henry watching him for a reaction. There must be something he had missed. He restudied the letter.