Lord of Vengeance Read online

  With a flippant toss of her head, she ascended the dais and stood beside him, glaring murderously lest he think to utter one word about their encounter that morning.

  “Please, sit,” was all he said.

  Raina frowned, warily seating herself beside him and refusing to look at him as he took his own chair. The hall was soon abuzz with eating and conversation, no one paying much attention to the dais at all. She breathed an inward sigh of relief that a confrontation had been avoided and dared a sidelong glance toward Rutledge. He poured a cup of ale from the decanter in front of him and passed it to her.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she asked guardedly.

  He peered into the cup. “'Tis ale,” he declared. “Do you thirst?”

  Raina simply stared at him, her frown deepening. He held the cup out for a moment longer, then shrugged and drank from it himself. He picked up a dark loaf of bread and broke it in half, tearing a bite from one piece as he set the other in front of Raina. Reluctantly, she accepted it, nibbling on the edge as he poked through the venison in the trencher with his poniard.

  Knowing that as the lord's prisoner, she would likely be left with whatever scraps he had the generosity to spare, she gnawed her bread more fervently. She would starve before she'd accept his leavings.

  Raina watched him from the corner of her eye as he speared a succulent morsel on his blade and brought it before him, inspecting it. Then he turned to her. She glanced at him in startled confusion as he held the offering out to her.

  Ordinarily it would not be uncommon for a man and woman to share a trencher, but the way he was doing it, and the look in his eyes...it was unseemly. In front of the entire hall, he intended to feed her from his poniard.

  Like a lover.

  He grinned wryly. “I am not entirely devoid of breeding.”

  Awkwardly, tentatively, Raina moved forward to take the small chunk of meat in her mouth. She pulled away as soon as her lips closed around it, feeling a drop of the tasty brown juice dribble from the corner of her mouth.

  His attention fell to her lips and remained there as she quickly and self-consciously swiped the juice away with her fingers. His mouth spread into a lazy smile, but his eyes were dark, his gaze unwavering as he regarded her for a long moment.

  Raina chewed the tender bit of venison for what felt like an eternity, the small morsel seeming to expand to fill her entire mouth under Rutledge's pensive scrutiny. At last he turned his attention back to his meal, taking a bite for himself as Raina gulped down the mouthful of meat.

  Raina shook her head when he presented her with another bite from his trencher. “Please,” she whispered, looking about the hall at the men gathered there. “You are embarrassing me.”

  Rutledge scowled. “Embarrassing you, how?”

  He moved the poniard closer to her lips and Raina swatted his hand away. “They will think we are lovers.”

  “Let them,” he answered with a shrug, then handed her the poniard. Reluctantly, she accepted it, and took the chunk of meat in her mouth. Rutledge watched her intently, remarking, “'Twill be true soon enough, I reckon.”

  She glared at him, feeling her color rise to her scalp. Her fingers closed about the poniard and she counted him a fool for giving her a weapon.

  “If you act on that ill-conceived notion, lamb,” he warned sweetly, “I'll have you over my knee in a trice with your pert little arse bared for all to see the penance of your folly.”

  “You don't mean that,” Raina returned, though she set the poniard down just the same. “I suspect your bark is worse than your bite.”

  “Really?” he said, his brows rising in challenge. “Perhaps you should ask those assembled here this eve whether or not I mean what I say.”

  “I've no need to ask them,” she replied smartly, very pleased with herself. “Inasmuch I already have my proof.”

  He chuckled, eyeing her over the rim of his cup. “What proof?”

  “I saw Alaric this morning on my way back from...” Her voice trailed off as he slowly lowered his cup, and she immediately regretted bringing up either uncomfortable topic.

  Unbelievably, Rutledge's face blanched. “What did he tell you?” Raina watched the emotions play across his features, first surprise, for she surely had caught him off guard; then a certain anxiety drew his mouth into a scowl. He blinked and fury burned in his dark eyes. “What did he tell you?”

  Raina gulped. “T-that you lectured him...got him sick with wine--”

  “Damnation,” he bellowed, slamming his fist on the table. When several heads turned his way--Alaric's included--Rutledge lowered his voice to a tight whisper. “That boy doesn't know when to keep his fool mouth shut.”

  “Do not blame him. Even had he not told me, like as not, I would have seen the truth of it on your face. You didn't beat him,” she confirmed, relieved when the ire blazing in his eyes began to dissipate slowly. “You let me think you did, but you didn't. And now you would have these people think you have taken me as your whore.” She shook her head soberly. “I'll not be a party to your games, whatever your motives.”

  Rutledge moved so fast, she scarcely knew what hit her.

  In one swift motion, he had unseated her and laid her across the table on her back, covering her with his body. The hall, which had become as silent as a tomb just a moment before, now erupted into hearty cheers and applause as Rutledge pressed into her. Cupping her breast in one hand and holding both her wrists above her head with the other, he kissed her like the crudest of scoundrels.

  Scandalized to feel his hips between her thighs, Raina kicked and bucked beneath him, outraged that he would demean her in such a manner before his people. Her struggles only raised the din in the hall to a fever pitch as cups and knives were banged upon the tables in appreciation.

  “Unhand me,” she cried.

  “Breathe a word to anyone and you force me to prove you a liar...on both counts.”

  Raina felt pinned by his eyes, even more so than his body. His simmering gaze told her without a doubt that he did indeed mean what he said. “Beast!” she spat. But he only grinned, then he kissed the tip of her nose and stood up, straightening his tunic as if he had not a care in the world.

  Raina rose up on her elbows. “Repulsive churl.” She tried to land her heel in his groin, but he jumped nimbly out of the way, chuckling, so full of humor. So full of himself. “Despicable toad!” she screamed, seizing her half-eaten loaf of bread and hurtling it at his chest.

  “To the yard, men,” Rutledge called, weathering her assault and her epithets with irritating nonchalance. He flashed a devilish grin at her. “Ere this wench tempts me further with her dulcet crooning.”

  In a noisy blur of waving swords and scuffling boots, the men cleared the hall, whooping and cheering as they followed their lord to the practice field for an afternoon of war play.

  Raina stood, squaring her shoulders in preparation for facing Agnes, Odette, and Dorcas, who had begun gathering up the trays and cups. None of them said a word about what had occurred, neither did they glance her way. Finding herself fortunate not to have to withstand further denigration by these women, Raina busied herself with clearing the lord's table.

  Her skirts full of items to be cleaned or doled out to the animals, Raina followed the others out of the hall and toward the kitchens. The bread trenchers, which would have been given to the villeins at Norworth, were separated into two piles, one to be used again at the evening's meal, the other to be fed to the dogs. There was no leftover food at this keep, just a few scraps of bread and cheese, which the women sifted through and ate themselves. The cups and flagons were dumped into a washbasin to be cleaned.

  Raina pitched her collection into the water one by one, punctuating each toss with a curse on Rutledge's various body parts, beginning with his inflated head. It felt good to vent her frustrations, and she welcomed the respite from his vexing company.

  With a final, colorful oath directed toward his entrails, she threw the
last item into the basin, then peered about the kitchen, anxious to find something else to do. She had all afternoon to exorcise her rage and besides, Rutledge still had several body parts left to denounce.

  Intent on inquiring of the women what she could assist with next, Raina whirled about to face them and her question died on her lips. “What is wrong?” she prompted, her brows drawing together in a befuddled frown. “Why are you all looking at me so queerly?”

  Three female faces, each in a different stage of womanhood, looked upon her with soft, knowing eyes. Agnes smiled. They were all looking at her as if they wished to embrace her. As if they pitied her.

  Raina felt herself flush all the way to her bare toes with impotent rage and embarrassment. She shook her head, wanting to deny their suspicions, to defend her virtue--even if it were by some miracle alone that it yet remained intact. She wanted to speak out, but Rutledge's warning echoed in her ears.

  He would prove her a liar.

  “Ye needn't be ashamed,” Agnes soothed, patting her hand and leading her to a chair. “Ye've lost yer 'eart to a man who only wanted yer virtue. 'Tis a woman's folly--”

  Raina drew her hand from between Agnes's. “Nay, you don't understand--” she began, but Odette interrupted her, her voice surprisingly contemplative, rational.

  “There's nary a woman alive these days what 'asn't been bought, sold, or traded for somethin' a man wanted.” Raina knew from her bitter expression that the woman spoke from experience. “'Tis only yer body they want. I say, make use of what ye got...while ye got it.”

  Dorcas, the petite blonde who had been so kind to Raina since she had arrived, hushed Odette with a curt wave of her hand. “Lord Gunnar's really not all that bad.” She gave Raina a wistful little smile. “Have patience with him, and mayhap you can convince him to keep you.”

  “I assure you,” Raina interjected, “I have no intention of trying to win that man's affection. Nor do I want him to keep me.” The three women merely smiled indulgently and went back to their cleaning. “'Tis the truth,” Raina insisted. Damn him and his bullying ways. She refused to be the butt of his jest a moment longer. “And further,” she said, stamping her foot and balling her fists on her hips, “I am not his leman!”

  This vehement declaration earned a bout of giggles from the two younger women. Odette snorted as she plucked a fatty chunk of venison from a sopping trencher and tossed it to a waiting hound. They didn't believe her.

  “I'm not,” Raina cried, her face warming from humiliation.

  “Come on now,” Agnes said, hooking her arm through Raina's bent elbow. “There's no need for all of us to sit about in 'ere. We've plenty of work to keep us busy elsewhere.”

  Raina peered over her shoulder as Agnes led her from the kitchens. Odette stood, mimicking Raina's angered stance of a moment before. “I'm not his leman,” she cried in a falsetto voice, stomping her foot. “I'm not!”

  Dorcas threw a wet washrag at the older woman, and both burst out in peals of laughter.

  * * *

  The remains of a tallow candle flickered in a puddle of lard and burned out, drawing Raina's gaze up from her mending. She stretched her arms and her back, then tried to rub the tight kink from her neck. She had spent the entire afternoon sequestered in Rutledge's chamber, even refusing to take her evening meal in the hall. Blessedly, he had not insisted on her presence beside him, and had allowed a tray of food and a tankard of wine to be brought up to her.

  Raina picked at the portion of cold, boiled fish, then settled on the bread, washing it down with a mouthful of strongly spiced wine. With the chill night air blowing in through the window and the sting of embarrassment still fresh in her mind, she found the warmth of her drink a welcome balm to both her body and her soul. Tipping the cup to her lips once more, she drank until she spied the bottom of the tankard.

  Her father did not permit her to drink anything but honeyed mead and occasionally ale at Norworth, as he himself never imbibed wine. The devil's own nectar, he called it. Raina didn't find it altogether unpleasant, though it was fast making her eyelids heavy.

  She yawned and her eyes drifted to the empty, oversize bed. Draped in fur blankets with a fluffy down-filled bolster, it looked so inviting, so much more comfortable than her straw pallets of the past few nights.

  Raina crept over to it and sat on the edge of the bed, testing the mattress, and decided there would be no harm in lying down, just for a moment....

  * * *

  Gunnar's empty cup hit the table harder than he'd intended, the wine having dulled his senses to a blissful numbness. Though he prayed for it, the drink did little to dull his awareness of the enticing creature awaiting him in his chamber. The hour was late, the evening meal long since cleared away as Gunnar sat with his men, partaking of his dwindling store of wine.

  He was not surprised, and more to the point, he was inwardly thankful that Raina had declined to eat in the hall.

  Loath to face her rightful outrage over his behavior in the pond and his crude display of the afternoon, neither was he sure he could endure another meal in such close company with his captive. His plan to act as if she were his lover had been hastily concocted when he spied her distress as she stood alone in the center of his hall. The need to protect her, to shield her from insult struck swiftly, urging him out of his chair and requiring her to sit beside him.

  Rattled from their encounter in the pond, he had merely intended to share some of his discomfiture with Raina, and if his men thought the two of them were lovers, so be it. The idea would surely keep them at bay should any man fancy himself a candidate for her charms. But when she so unexpectedly blurted out that she had talked with Alaric and knew the lad had escaped punishment, it was all Gunnar could do to contain himself.

  It wasn't bad enough his loose-tongued squire likely told her all he'd said in his drunken lecture. In truth, he could scarcely recall what he'd said himself, but what he could remember created a dull throb in his temple even now. He'd carped on most of the night about women and the way they wormed into a man's resolve, leaving him crazed with want and willing to promise anything he had for the chance to taste of their sweetness.

  The worst of what he had said was clear enough to be painful: He had admitted his attraction for Raina, and--curse the wine--he thought certain he'd confessed that he thought she would make some lucky bastard an enviable wife.

  Gunnar groaned just to think on it. If Alaric let that unfortunate admission slip when he spoke with Raina, he'd bloody well pull the little whelp's tongue out.

  Damnation, but he needed another drink.

  “Boy,” he barked, sitting up sharply and waving his cup to Rupert, his page. “Another flagon of wine.”

  “Have a care, milord,” one man said with a wink. “Much more drink and you risk disappointing your lady.”

  “Or passin' out down 'ere with us again when ye could be abovestairs!” someone else added.

  Gunnar groaned. The last place he wanted to be was abovestairs in his bedchamber. His men thought he had already sampled Raina's pleasures and in fact had been singing praises to his virility most of the night, which made his decision to refrain from doing so that much harder to uphold. His only hope was either to outdrink or outlast these men and he would gladly take whichever occurred first.

  “Another flagon, I say!” He clutched his head in his hands, frowning into his empty cup as the knights around him chuckled.

  “'Twould take a bloody barrel of wine to keep me from beddin' that beauty,” one man announced to the delighted assent of the others.

  Where the devil was that page?

  “She's a proud one, that wench.”

  “Aye,” agreed another. “What I'd give to be the one to tame her!”

  “Tame her?” countered the first man. “Mores the like she'd have you slavering at her heels.” His remark earned hearty chuckles from the others.

  Gunnar remained silent, scarcely aware of the conversation until someone said, “Why, if I
hadn't more sense, I'd say milord is afeared of that wench!”

  “Who said that?” he barked, his head snapping to attention.

  A young knight gulped audibly. “'Twas a jest, milord.”

  Gunnar might have found it humorous if it were not so close to the truth. He rose, ignoring the swimming haze clouding his vision and making his legs unstable. Rupert arrived at last with the requested flagon of wine, which Gunnar snatched roughly from his hands. He put the decanter to his lips and took a long draught, negligently letting the wine trickle down his chin and onto his tunic. He exhaled deeply as he brought the flagon down, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth as the knights stared up at him in wonder. “Now, if you'll pardon my haste, lads,” he said with a wolfish grin, “I'll leave you to your jests. There's a wench abovestairs in need of my attentions.”

  With flagon in hand, Gunnar strode away from the table and out of the hall, leaving the goading laughter of the knights behind him. He started up the stairs and paused.

  Jesu, was he afraid of Raina d'Bussy?

  He thought of what he'd likely encounter upon entering his chamber, pictured her haughty expression, her impudent mouth and flippant tilt of her chin...the tempting softness of her curves.

  Hell yes, he was afraid of her. But like any other fear he had learned to overcome, he had to face her. That was the only way he could rid himself of the bothersome feeling.

  He took the rest of the stairs two at a time then drew himself up to what he hoped was an intimidating height and opened the door to his chamber. The light from a torch in the corridor traced a glowing path through the dark chamber to his bed. The scowl he had prepared to greet her with faded the moment his eyes lit on her sleeping form.

  Curled up on his bed like a babe, Raina slept quietly, her breath coming in short puffs between her parted lips. Gunnar stared at her for a long moment, fighting the urge to cross the room and touch her, contenting himself simply to gaze upon the willful beauty in repose.