Hers To Command

With a gasp, Mathilde turned to flee—until she saw Giselle’s worried face.

What would Giselle say if she ran away? That she had been right, and Mathilde wrong. That Mathilde’s plan was foolish and impossible. That they should wait and see what Roald would do, rather than take any kind of action.

That she didn’t want to do, so she mentally girded her loins and reminded herself that this man was merely lying on the bed, apparently fast asleep, or passed out from drink. If he was in a drunken stupor and since he had no weapons near him while she carried a knife she wouldn’t hesitate to use, surely she had nothing to fear.

He certainly looked harmless enough in his sleep, although his back bore several small scars and welts that were surely from tournaments or battles. She also couldn’t help noticing that there wasn’t an ounce of superfluous fat on him, anywhere. But then, the Normans were notorious warriors, descendants of piratical Norsemen, without culture or grace, so what else should she expect?

“Is he alive?” Giselle whispered behind her.

“He’s breathing,” Mathilde replied, moving cautiously closer. She sniffed, and the scent of wine was strong. “I think he’s passed out from drink.”

Closer now, she studied the slumbering man’s remarkably handsome face, slack in his sleep. He looked like an angel—albeit a very virile one, with finely cut cheekbones, full and shapely lips, a straight nose and a strong jaw. His surprisingly long hair fell tousled in dark brown waves to his broad shoulders. His body was more well formed than most, too, from his wide shoulders and muscular back to his lean legs.

She glanced at the clothes lying on the stool. He might be alone now, but he likely hadn’t been last night. She wondered where the wench had gone, and if he’d even noticed.

Her lip curled in a sneer. Probably not. Like most men, he had likely thought only of his own desires.

She turned away. “This is not the sort of man we require,” she said to her sister. “Come, Gis—”

A hand grabbed hers and tugged her down onto the bed. Mathilde grabbed the hilt of the knife she had tucked into her girdle with one hand and struck him hard with the other.

“God’s teeth, wench,” the young man cried, releasing her as he sat up, still unabashedly naked. “No need to rouse the household.”

His eyes narrowed as she jumped to her feet, weapon drawn, panting and fierce, before he tugged the sheet over his thighs and belly. “Tell your husband or father or whatever relation the innkeeper is to you that I have paid for a night’s rest, and I will get up when I decide, and not before.”

“Our apologies, Sir Knight,” Giselle said from the foot of his bed as Mathilde breathed deeply and tried to regain her self-control. “We should not have intruded upon you.”

The knight glanced at Giselle and then, as often happened when men first beheld Mathilde’s beautiful sister, his eyes widened and his mouth fell open. Giselle, meanwhile, lowered her eyes and blushed, as she always did when forced to endure a man’s staring scrutiny.

Totally ignoring Mathilde, the Norman got to his feet and wrapped the sheet around his slender torso. He should have looked ridiculous, but he carried himself as if he were a prince greeting a courtier.

“May I ask what brings you to my chamber, my lady,” he asked as genially as if they were in their hall at home, “for I can tell you are a lady by your sweet and lovely voice.”

Giselle looked at Mathilde with mute appeal.

“We require a knight’s service,” Mathilde decisively announced, her dagger still in her hand, “but—”

“Indeed?” the Norman interrupted, his brown eyes fairly sparkling with delight, as if they were offering him a present.

“How charming,” he continued, addressing Giselle, “although I must confess, I usually prefer to choose my bedmates. In your case, however, my lady, I’m prepared to make an exception.”

Of all the vain, arrogant presumptions! “That is not what I meant,” Mathilde snapped, her grip on her weapon tightening.

The knight turned to look at her. “Why are you so angry? I’m the one who ought to be offended. You invaded my bedchamber when I was asleep and unarmed.”

“But not for…for that!”

“No need to dissemble if it was,” he replied with an amiable smile and a shrug of his broad shoulders, and completely ignoring her drawn dagger. “This wouldn’t be the first time a woman has sought my company in bed, although they don’t usually come in pairs.”

“You…you scoundrel!” Mathilde cried, appalled at his disgusting comment, as she started for the door.

The Norman moved to block her way.

“Let us go!” she demanded, tense and ready to fight, while Giselle shrank into the nearest corner.

“Gladly, after you explain what you’re doing here,” the knight replied, no longer amiable or merry as he grabbed her wrist and forced her to drop her dagger. He let go of her as he kicked the dagger away, but continued to regard her sternly.

Looking at him now, she could well believe he was a knight from a powerful family, and of some repute.

“Is this some sort of trick?” he asked, raising a majestic brow and crossing his powerful arms. “Should I be expecting a visit from an irate father or brother insisting that I marry this lady? If so, he’s going to be sorely disappointed. I might have welcomed her into my bed, but I will never be forced to take a wife.”

Giselle let out a little squeak of dismay. “Mathilde, tell him why we are here,” she pleaded, her face as red as a cardinal’s robe.

“If we explain, will you let us go?” Mathilde asked warily.

He inclined his head in agreement.

“Then I will explain,” she replied.

Determined to get this over with as quickly as possible, she planted her feet, looked him straight in the eye and said, “We require a knight, and we thought, since we heard you did not have much money, that you would—”

“Do I look like a mercenary to you?” he interrupted, lowering his arms, his face flushing and his brown eyes glowering.

“At the moment, you don’t look anything except half naked,” Mathilde replied, managing to sound much calmer than she felt. “Perhaps if you had some clothes on, I would better be able to judge.”

He snorted a laugh. “Aren’t you the coolheaded one,” he remarked, leaning back against the door and once again crossing his arms. “So, you need a knight. For what, if not for pleasure?”

Mathilde cringed at his reply, but gamely continued, still determined to get away from him as swiftly as she could. “To be at our side should our cousin come to the estate our father left us and try to take it from us.”

“You seek a knight to fight this cousin over an estate?”

“Not fight,” Giselle anxiously interposed from the corner.

The knight regarded her with confusion. “Why do you need a man trained for battle, then, if not to fight?”

“To impress him,” Mathilde said. “To show him that we are willing to defend our rights and that we are not without some means to do so.”

“I am to be for show?” the Norman asked with a hint of indignation.

“We hope to make Roald think twice about trying to steal our inheritance.”

The knight tilted his head as he studied her. “Roald is an unusual name. Might I have met him at court?”

Perhaps he had, Mathilde reflected, and if so, she would have to be careful. It could be this man was Roald’s friend, or as much as any man could be the friend of anyone so selfish as Roald. “Our cousin is Sir Roald de Sayres.”

The Norman’s lip lifted with derision. “I thought that might be who you meant. You’re related to that blackguard?”

“You know him?”