Chapter 6
I f she looked the lady, he surely looked the lord. Where had he obtained such fine clothes? Was he deliberately trying to beat her at her own game?
He was leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded. His tunic was of heavy dark green silk, finely worked in gold and black. The sleeves ended at his elbows, but he wore rich golden bracelets on each wrist. A leather belt was buckled with gold, and his knife hung in an engraved gold sheath. Of course he wore his heavy golden ring. For the first time he looked like a powerful lord. Imogen resented her own lack of bullion, and looked closely to check that none that he wore was familiar.
No, it all appeared to be his own.
An impressive collection of adornment, carelessly worn.
There was its equal and better in Carrisford’s treasure chests, though, and Imogen itched to get to it and put this man in his place. “As soon as I can reach the king,” she said firmly, “I am going to complain of Warbrick and get my jewelry back.”
A lazy smile creased his eyes. “I’ll give you some if you want.”
“No thank you. I prefer my own.”
“Warbrick will deny having any of it.”
“How can he do that? Half the country will recognize it as soon as it appears.”
He pushed off from the jamb and entered the room. “He’ll have it melted down. If necessary he’ll throw it in the ocean. He’ll do anything rather than give it back to you after you thwarted him.”
That was dismaying, but again Imogen felt warm pride at the notion that she had thwarted Warbrick. It had been a hard path, set with difficult choices, but she had traveled it. Now, all she had to do was rid herself of her escort—yes, that’s how she would think of him, her escort—and rebuild her life.
Her “escort” turned to Martha, and at a gesture the woman curtsied her way out. Imogen’s pretty bubble popped and the truth was laid clear. This man was more than escort; he’d risked his life and that of his men for her, and was now an unpredictable force in her home.
“You must have other jewels,” he said.
That snapped her wits back to the main point. He was sniffing on the trail of the treasure. No wonder he was being so pleasant. Well, she might be a half-wit at times, but she wasn’t as foolish as that. “No, I don’t,” she lied.
He walked toward her. Imogen stopped herself from retreating. “The jewels given Imogen of Carrisford by her father are famous. You kept them all in your chamber?”
“Yes.”
Cool fingers gripped her chin. “Even if you were so foolish, your father was not.”
“Unhand me, sirrah!”
He did, but only to grip her shoulders. His emerald eyes blazed down at her. “Are you determined not to trust me? If your jewels are hidden in the secret passageways, there are a dozen men who know those ways now. I wouldn’t trust most of them with a shilling, never mind a small fortune.”
“They’re your men,” she retorted. “Doubtless they take their standards from their master .”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you challenging me?” he asked softly.
It took effort, but Imogen kept her chin up and said, “Yes.”
And meant it.
Something flashed in his eyes that sent a shiver straight through her. “You are a foolish child.”
“So it would appear. I went to you for help. I’m learning fast, though.”
He forced her slightly closer. Thin linen and silk did nothing to protect her body from his hard warmth, and her breathing fractured....
“What are you learning?” he asked softly.
Imogen was no longer having to fight to meet his gaze. Rather, she could not look away. His eyes, she discovered, were not particularly unkind; they were almost warm....
Fool, she berated herself, and tore her eyes away. “Not to trust men,” she snapped.
He let her go and stepped away as if she were nothing. He turned to face her. “Am I supposed to have been your teacher?”
Imogen refused to answer.
“In what way have I proved untrustworthy, Lady Imogen?”
Her wanton body wanted that moment of warmth, of closeness, back. Imogen hated the wanting. Moreover she couldn’t think of an accusation to make in answer to his challenge. She suspected him of many things, but his behavior thus far had been exemplary.
She was forced to resort to history. “You went to Castle Cleeve to help your brother. Then, oh so conveniently, he died.”
His face hardened. “Don’t make accusations, Ginger, unless you’re willing to back them with your life. That’s merely gossip.”
“But it’s true.”
He studied her, hands on hips. “You think I intend take Carrisford from you?”
Imogen didn’t know for sure, but only decisive statements got through to this man. “Yes,” she said.
He raised a brow. “Then you were foolish to come to me, weren’t you?”
“I didn’t know you then.”
“And now you do?”
“Yes. You’re hard, ruthless, and take whatever you want.”
He smiled coldly and stepped closer again. “Then aren’t you a little foolish to be throwing down the gauntlet? Perhaps I want you.”
Imogen’s nerve broke. She retreated a few steps, desperately wanting her paunch back. “You don’t.”
His smile widened but didn’t warm. “Perhaps I find angry little cats desirable.” A few more smooth steps and she was pressed against the wall with him barring any escape.
“I’ll scream,” she warned.
He merely raised one sardonic brow. The castle was full to bursting with his men.
“You won’t rape me,” she said desperately. “I’d tell the king and you’d pay the price.”
“I don’t rape,” he said quite gently, and there was that touch of warmth in his face again. “Many men want you, Ginger, and for more than your castle. You’re very beautiful, you know, and your hair...”
She and Martha had not yet formed Imogen’s hair into plaits, and his eyes traveled its silky thickness down her body. Imogen felt her knees weaken, and it wasn’t with fear.
He leaned his arms on the wall on either side of her. Imogen found she felt strangely encompassed rather than trapped. Her heart was racing and dizziness was fogging her wits. She knew she shouldn’t let him do this, and yet, and yet...
“Stop it,” she whispered.
“Stop what?” he whispered back.
She stared at him and he lowered his lips gently to hers. They were soft and warm. Why had she thought they would be cold and hard?
He angled his head slightly and kissed her more firmly. Imogen raised her hands to push him away, but instinct took over and her hands slid up to rest on his shoulders—rock-hard shoulders, but flesh-warm beneath the silk.
His lips moved gently, caressing hers. She had never been kissed like this before. She liked it more than she had thought she would.
His tongue came out and ran along her lips like spice and fire. She gasped. His tongue moved in to run along the inside of her lips.
Imogen jerked back. “You mustn’t! This is a dread sin!”
“Is it?” he queried. There was genuine warm humor in him now. His right hand moved to gather a handful of her hair and cradle her head. His thumb stroked down her cheek like fire. “It’s not so evil to kiss, Imogen.”
“Father Wulfgan says it is....” Imogen knew she had to stop this before something terrible happened. The chaplain had warned her that such kisses led to lewd touching; lewd touching led to lust.
And lust led straight to the fires of hell.
Surely it was a brush with the fires of hell that had her so burning hot....
She ducked from between his arms and put the width of the room between them.
FitzRoger made no attempt to stop her but merely turned to lean against the wall, arms crossed. “Is he a scrawny priest with crippled hands? The one trying to impose penances on us for taking lives?”
She nodded and put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, but he’ll give me terrible penances. I’ll be on my knees for a week. All this killing over me. Letting you kiss me. And pretending to be...” She trailed off and eyed him nervously.
“I knew it was false, Ginger.”
That hurt her pride. “I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t lie. Or only when it’s absolutely necessary.”
“How did you know, then?”
“After your adventure yesterday, it was knocked out of place. I’d wondered before. It seemed very unlikely.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
He shrugged. “I was interested to see how long you could keep up the pretense. It was a cunning disguise, well carried out. When I first saw you I really thought you were going to give birth any minute. Another idea of your seneschal’s, I suppose.”
“No,” Imogen said proudly. “It was mine. He just helped.”
FitzRoger’s brows raised and he gave a nod which was an accolade.
“How is Siward?” she challenged.
“I’ve sent for him.” He pushed off from the wall and walked toward her. “You’ve done very well, you know, whoever’s was the guiding hand. You escaped from Warbrick and suffered that disgusting disguise. At least,” he said with a twitch of his lips, “it disgusted me. You walked till your feet were in shreds and still had spirit to stand up to me—figuratively, if not literally. Yes, for an untried girl, you’ve done very well.”
Imogen felt a new warmth start in her toes and spread up her body until it was a rosy flush in her cheeks. Pure, delicious pride. “I was terrified,” she admitted shyly. “I hated all that dirt. I hated being so alone and without protection. I hated having to make decisions. I just wanted to throw myself on your mercy and let you take care of everything.”
“We all get terrified, and once we learn to be clean we hate dirt. Some decisions never become easy. You did very well.”
He really wasn’t such a bad man, after all. “Were you terrified in the passageways?” she asked gently.
All warmth fled and his eyes widened. “What?”
“You fear close spaces. Sir William told me.”
His eyes turned cold. “Did he? He exaggerated. Do you wish to come down to the hall for breakfast? Shall I carry you?”
Imogen shivered and knew better than to mention what Martha had said about him being sick. “I wish to attend mass,” she said quickly. She certainly needed all the holy guidance available. “I want to go to the chapel and pray for the dead as I wait for Father Wulfgan.”
“It’ll be a long wait. I’ve thrown your chaplain out.”
“You’ve what? ”
“I’ll not have such a guilt-mongerer about my men. I’ll find you a more suitable replacement.”
Heat roared into Imogen. The heat of rage. “Get him back!” she snapped. “This is my castle, FitzRoger, and he is my priest!”
He didn’t even blink. “I am your defender, and I must do what’s best for my men.”
Imogen leaned forward. “You doubtless want a priest who’ll pander to your evil ways,” she snarled, “and blink at all your wicked mischief. But I’ll have Father Wulfgan back and make sure he calls fire and brimstone down on your black heart!”
He stood there unmoved, and even amused.
He was ignoring her.
Imogen swung back and hit him with all the force she could command.
The sound of her hand on his face seemed to echo and the mark flared there. His face went utterly still, his eyes wide and emerald cold.
He, the agile warrior, had made no move to evade the blow.
Imogen couldn’t breathe. He’d kill her....
Then he relaxed. It was nothing distinct, just an easing throughout his whole body. “You must be allowed some powers, I suppose,” he said. “But I give you fair warning, do anything like that in public and you’ll rue it bitterly.”
With that he turned and left. Imogen collapsed, legs atremble, relieved to still be alive. She’d never hit a man before in her life. Of course, she’d never encountered a man like Bastard FitzRoger, and her father would have murdered any man who so much as looked boldly at Imogen of Carrisford.
This one had kissed her. Her breathing wavered at the remembered magic of his lips on hers. It had been uncommonly sweet. He had seemed quite different then—warmer, gentler.
Then it had all evaporated when she’d spoken of his fear in the passageways. She supposed a man would not like it known he was afraid of such a thing. She understood that.
Then he’d told her he’d thrown out her priest.
Her mind began to clear. She moved beyond dalliance and pique to consider his parting words about “powers,” and “authority.”
What had he meant, “ allowed some powers”? And what authority should not be challenged? Who was in control of Carrisford?
Did he think a kiss and a few kind words could buy her and her castle? She laughed out loud. He doubtless thought just that, but he wouldn’t make much progress when his benign mask slipped at every little thing to reveal the cold, hard tyrant underneath.
With a start, she realized he had not said anything about getting Father Wulfgan back. When next they met she would insist on it.
That would show who commanded in Carrisford.
FitzRoger went through the linked rooms that led to the majestic wide staircase which ran straight down the side of the great hall. Carrisford Castle was a magnificent building, far more sophisticated than any other he had seen in England. He wouldn’t mind incorporating some of the elegancies here into Cleeve one day when he had time and funds for it.
Funds made him think of the heiress and smile slightly.
A spirited creature, and one with brains when she remembered to use them. But pampered to death. Still, he’d been honest when he said she had done well, especially for one so protected all her life.
He entered the hall, which had an unusual vaulted ceiling, brightly painted walls, and a lot of narrow windows. With the shutters back in this fine weather, they allowed in the sunlight to make the room warm and bright.
The soldier in him said they were unnecessary and hazardous, but he liked the way they brightened the room. The hall at Cleeve was always gloomy.
The room had been cleared of the more obvious signs of carnage and looked very fine to him, but he knew from the comments of the servants that it fell far short of its former glory. There had been embroidered hangings, and displays of arms, and gold and silver on the sideboard shelves. The tablecloths had all been of woven patterns or embroidered.
He’d seen the weaving sheds in the bailey where the looms and frames stood idle for lack of the women to work them. There weren’t that many dead, so they must be around somewhere. Presumably they could re-create the simpler hangings, though he suspected the finer ones had been imported from Italy and the East.
He would like to restore Imogen of Carrisford’s home for her. He began to plan the restoration work. Food, supplies, tableware, hangings, table linen...
The trestles were still set up for breakfast—bare of cloths—but the meal, such as it was, was over and the hall was deserted. FitzRoger hefted a jug, found it still had some ale in it, and filled a wooden beaker. He added ale and wine to his list of requirements. Carrisford had some ale, and the brew house had already started operation again, but Warbrick had opened the cocks on all the casks of wine. Heaven knows when the stink would leave the cellars.
Even with supplies, living would be sparse here for a while....
His thoughts were interrupted by Renald de Lisle’s jovial voice. “Unless that’s a maidenly blush, my friend, the lady slapped your face. I thought you said she’d be easy to persuade.”
“I haven’t tried to persuade her of anything yet.” He poured ale for Renald.
“Then why did she hit you?”
FitzRoger’s lips twitched. “She wouldn’t like to admit it, but I think it was because I stopped kissing her.” His friend choked on the ale. “Her excuse was something else. That priest, Renald, the one who was screaming about us doing penance for each life taken.”
De Lisle nodded.
“Get him back.”
Renald looked over in surprise. “Why? He doubtless believes in hair shirts and flagellation.”
“The Flower of the West commands.”
“Ah,” murmured Renald. “You think to buy her favors with sweets? Buy her favors with her own sweets? When are you going to tell the luscious little blossom that she hasn’t been rescued so much as plucked?”
“You make her sound less like a rosebud and more like a scrawny hen. If I’m going to marry her, I might as well make it as easy on her as I can. Perhaps she’ll just think of it as being transplanted into new earth.”
“At least with her carrying a child, you have plenty of time to confuse and persuade her. And kill the man who made her that way.”
“It was her seneschal,” said FitzRoger, taking another draft of ale.
“That old man!” de Lisle exclaimed, his hand flying to his sword. “I’ll gut him.”
FitzRoger put a hand over Renald’s. “I think you have a taste for flowers too,” he said, quite pleasantly. “Lose it, my friend. She’s mine.” He removed his hand and refilled Renald’s mug. “The seneschal is being brought here to take over the running of the castle.”
“You’ll overlook such behavior?” exclaimed Renald, his fine eyes flashing. “I most certainly will not.”
“Lady Imogen assures me it was done with her consent,” said FitzRoger blandly. “Was, in fact, her own idea. She’s very proud of the achievement, and if she isn’t unhappy, who am I to take offense?”
De Lisle was staring at him as if he’d grown an extra head. FitzRoger glanced up and drew his friend’s attention to the stairs. Imogen was gingerly descending them, startlingly beautiful in bright silks, and remarkably shapely for one so far gone with child. And obviously not the victim of a sudden miscarriage.
“It was all a hoax?” Renald asked blankly. “I’m surprised you didn’t beat her for it.”
“I don’t crush such a lovely blossom, not even for perfume. I’d guessed,” he said softly, “and it really didn’t make any difference except that it gave her a false sense of security.” He walked forward and offered his arm to Imogen of Carrisford.
Imogen eyed him warily, but he seemed calm. She was pleased to see that her handprint on his lean cheek had faded, though she couldn’t help wishing that the full strength of her arm could make a more lasting impression.
“How are your feet?” he asked kindly. “I will see if there’s a cobbler available to fashion some kind of footwear for you.”
“I can walk for short distances.”
Imogen had been concentrating on the stairs and FitzRoger as she descended, but now she looked around the hall and could have wept. There was little sign of mayhem except for some raw gashes on woodwork, but the place was stripped naked. The beautiful hangings were gone, the floor was bare, the sideboards held no goblets and dishes, and there were so few people. Only the three of them in here at the moment, and no sound of bustle nearby.
Where was everyone?
Afraid. They would return.
The sight of four hounds curled near the table was reassuring, until she realized they weren’t her father’s familiar hounds, or her own pair, but strange dogs belonging to strangers.
This place scarcely seemed like her home at all.
She would restore Carrisford, she promised herself, restore it as it had been such a short time ago. For that she would need a little help from FitzRoger, but she must make it clear that he was her instrument in this, and that was all.
She addressed him in a brisk, authoritative tone. “There is obviously a great deal of work to be done, my lord. After breakfast I will inspect the castle and interview what people are still here. I must see what can be repaired and what needs to be ordered. If there are military needs, Lord FitzRoger, you must tell me of them and I will see if they can be met.”
Though she kept her voice firm, Imogen’s heart was pounding as she threw this challenge down. She was as good as relegating him to captain of the guard.
“Of course,” he said as he escorted her to one of the two large chairs. “Your main requirement is men-at-arms, Lady Imogen. I’m afraid none of your father’s garrison survived.”
It was like a blow. “All? All dead?”
He nodded and poured her ale. “Warbrick was thorough.”
“As were you!” she replied angrily. “I saw you kill that man after you had him at your mercy.”
“As am I,” he agreed, and continued, “You will, of course, make some provision for the families of the dead men.”
“Of course,” she said, though it hadn’t immediately come to mind. So many things to be borne in mind.
“I have rather more men than I need at present,” he said. “I would be willing to hire twenty to you for a period. Twenty men is an adequate garrison for Carrisford, and should be able to hold it against everything but a long siege.”
Imogen flicked him a wary glance. He was politely impassive and impossible to read. With his men garrisoning the castle, she’d be as good as a prisoner in her own home, but what alternative did she have? Until the king came, or sent his agent, she was at FitzRoger’s mercy. Her only hope was the dubious one of his good intentions, and the rather better one that he—unlike Warbrick—would not want to cross the king.
“Thank you, Lord FitzRoger. I will take the garrison until other arrangements can be made.”
He nodded. “This place should be impregnable. Warbrick must have been given access to the castle.”
“I know,” said Imogen with a frown. “I don’t know who would do such a thing.”
“Possibly one of the garrison. If so, Warbrick has taken care of the problem for you.”
“Impossible,” Imogen protested. “They had all been my father’s men for years. I cannot believe one would suddenly turn traitor.”
He sat in the other chair and sliced a half loaf and some cheese, passing it to her. “Lady Imogen, the survivors’ stories suggest that most of the garrison was drugged before the invasion.”
“So it must have been someone in the castle. I can scarce believe it....”
“Were there any strangers here?”
“No,” she said as she nibbled the cheese. “There were no travelers those last days. Only some monks from Glastonbury Abbey. And once my father was known to be dying, the castle was sealed.”
She saw FitzRoger and de Lisle share a glance and then the darker man slipped away. “Monks!” she exclaimed. “That cannot be.”
“You have a remarkable reverence for religion, Lady Imogen. A habit is easy enough to put on.”
“But they were here from before my father’s injury, even. And they had tonsures, I am sure of it.”
“And were the tonsures as brown as their faces?”
“I don’t know,” she confessed. There had never been any need in Carrisford to inspect strangers closely, or doubt people’s goodwill. At least not that she had been aware of. She looked up at him. “Am I never to trust anyone again?”
He tore off part of the crust, but turned it in his fingers rather than eating it. “At least learn to give your trust sparingly, Lady Imogen. You’ve made a good beginning,” he added with a dry smile. “You don’t trust me.” He at last took a crisp bite of the bread and chewed it. “What you need is to marry, demoiselle, then your husband will take care of all these things for you.”
Here it comes, thought Imogen, and stiffened her spine. “I don’t want to be taken care of anymore, Lord FitzRoger.”
“You want to fight your own battles?” he asked skeptically. “Drill your own soldiers? Command your own executions? Squeeze information out of your own traitors?”
How did he always make her seem a fool? Imogen glared at him. “I will petition the king for a husband, then.”
He laughed out loud. “He will be enchanted. He has any number of debtors to pay.”
Imogen had already realized that, but what was the alternative? None of her suitors appealed.
“My father left me to King Henry’s care,” Imogen said, trying to sound more assured than she felt. “It is my duty to wait on his will.”
“Very likely,” said FitzRoger, “but it is one thing to leave the choice to the king, and another to go to him and ask his consent to your wedding a particular man. As long as your choice is reasonable he has no right to object and can only demand a fee for his blessing.”
Imogen eyed him uncertainly. His words made sense, but he had already admitted that she was wise not to trust him.
“I know Henry and his current situation,” he added. “To gain the approval of the English of his claim to the Crown, he has had to promise much relief from taxes. If you leave the choice to him, Lady Imogen, he will sell you to the highest bidder. Even Warbrick is possible.”
Imogen paled. “He couldn’t. Not after everything.”
“It’s not very likely, I admit, because that whole family is out of favor. They chose to back Normandy in the recent conflict. But it all depends on what Warbrick is willing to pay, or promise. Warbrick might think it worth a lot to have the Treasure of Carrisford in his grasp, and Henry could well see it as desirable to suborn Belleme’s brother.”
Imogen considered this scenario. Robert de Belleme was using the unrest, the conflict between the Conqueror’s sons over England, to try to carve out a fief for himself here on the borders. King Henry would definitely consider any means to weaken the man, but she doubted he’d be fool enough to trust Warbrick with the power represented by Carrisford.
She called FitzRoger’s bluff. “You’re deliberately trying to frighten me,” she said, and saw that she had scored a hit. “What do you want, Lord FitzRoger? State it clearly.”
Again there was that gleam of admiration in his eyes, and he nodded. “Your welfare.”
She would not be wit-softened again. “I find that hard to believe.”
He showed no disappointment at her tone. “As you will. Whom then do you wish to marry, demoiselle?”
She was relieved that he accepted the situation so calmly, and he had been correct in advising that she face the king with the choice already made. After all, there doubtless were other men like Warbrick seeking a rich bride. Imogen reviewed her discouraging list of suitors.
Finally she said, “It will have to be Sir Richard of Yelston or the Earl of Lancaster.”
“Really?” he said.
He hadn’t given up. He wanted her to choose him. She couldn’t bear this cat-and-mouse game. “I will not marry you,” she said firmly.
Not even a twitch. “Negative decisions are not very productive, Lady Imogen. Whom then will you marry?”
She had to put an end to this. “The Earl of Lancaster,” she declared. “He has power enough to see to my security, and has stood friend to our family for many years. He even sent his personal physician—a man of great skill—to tend my father...” To no avail, she thought sadly.
“Then you had best send him a message to tell him of his good fortune, demoiselle.”
Imogen had expected more protests. Thrown off balance, she began to retreat. Perhaps with time a better prospect would occur to her. “I need to have Carrisford restored to its glory,” she said, “before I can hold a wedding.” She rose to her feet.
“As you will, Lady Imogen,” he said amiably. “Just tell me when you need a messenger.”
“I can find my own messenger,” she declared. He raised a brow and she realized she couldn’t.
She was tempted to hit him again. How did he bring out the very worst in her? She realized in time that there were servants in the hall now.
“Very wise,” he murmured.
“Let me make it clear,” Imogen said with icy precision. “You, My Lord of Cleeve, are the last man in England I would ever consider marrying.” With that, she stalked back up the stairs, even though it hurt her feet.
De Lisle returned in time to catch the end of this. He looked amused. “The monks were here when Warbrick got in, but they were among the dead.”
“Warbrick wouldn’t balk at killing his own tools.”
Renald watched Imogen disappear around the bend at the top of the stairs. “You do have a way with women, don’t you?”
FitzRoger cut more cheese. “What of the priest?”
“I’ve sent some men to trace him. He can’t have traveled far. Apparently he’s crippled in the feet as well as the hands. Made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, was captured and crucified by some infidels. The people ’round here regard him as a regular saint. They don’t like him, but they revere him. By the way, he would have nothing to do with the monks. Said they were vicious and ungodly.”
“Vices, not habits,” mused FitzRoger. “When you find the priest, bring him back slowly.”
“What’s going on? First you throw him out, then you want him back. Now you want him back, but not soon.”
FitzRoger turned his great golden ring thoughtfully. “I think I’m going to have to seduce my future wife. The last thing I need is a resident thorny conscience.”
Renald hooted with laughter. “I think you’ve got a long way to go, Ty, before you get Imogen of Carrisford soft and rosy beneath you. You heard her. You’re the last man in England she would consider marrying, and she said it like she meant it.”
FitzRoger just smiled. “She did, didn’t she?”