LordoftheKeep (14 page)

Emma stared at the pile of gems. She did not gasp as he
expected. With her lip between her teeth, she stirred the pile with a single
fingertip. She rejected a fortune. Then, finding what she wanted, she drew from
the tangle a delicate chain of silver. Although of fine workmanship, it was of
little value.

“Take what else catches your fancy,” he urged her, but she
shook her head.

He saw tears in her eyes as she slipped the chain over her
head. “This is all I need.”

* * * * *

Gilles stepped over Angelique as he drew on a long linen
shirt. He toed a stuffed leather ball in her direction, and then reached for
his surcoat, but Emma stayed his hand. “Wear this instead, my lord.” He took
the bundle from her. A small thrill ran through him as he touched the beautiful
cloth she’d handed him. His long fingers stroked the pewter-colored fabric. He
unfolded and shook out the garment.

“I thought the color would suit you…Gilles.”

He looked sharply in Emma’s direction. His hands stroked the
cloth. His eyes held hers. He watched a stain of pink rise up her cheeks. His
own face felt hot and flushed.

“‘Tis in thanks for the chain.” She touched the spot where
her mother’s cross lay between her breasts. “Could you watch Angelique whilst I
fetch May?” He nodded and she left him.

He gently laid the surcoat on his bed. The sheen of the wool
was so lustrous he needed to stretch out his hand and touch it. He walked about
the room and inspected the cloth from many different angles. From some angles
it appeared to be molten silver flowing in waves across his bed. From others,
it took on the dark sheen of moonlight reflected off a stormy lake.

The cloth was fluid, strong, sensual like the woman who wove
it. Without shame, Gilles allowed himself to pick it up and hold it to his
face; it was meant to be touched and savored. He knew without any prompting
that it was the right and proper color for his black looks.

Arousal came hard upon him because the cloth held Emma’s
scent. He pictured her at her loom, her hands weaving this cloth. His pleasure
was as ripe as any new pain could be. He drew on the tunic. Opening his coffer,
he brought out the first belt she’d woven for him, the one with hawks in
flight—linking one to the other, end to end, and settled it on his hips. Garbed
as finely as any king, he thought. He should not wear such a garment except at
some great occasion, yet he knew he must have it on, next to his bare skin
even. He resisted the urge.

A sharp tug on his hem brought him back to the here and now.

Angelique
.

He bent and scooped her up. “What is it, my child?” he
asked, nuzzling her neck and taking in the scent of innocence. She had become
his child in his mind. She
was
his grandchild, and he loved her to
distraction. His son, Nicholas, had no children yet, so Angelique was his
first—albeit through William’s loins. Though he could never acknowledge her,
she was his, and his grip tightened possessively as guilt assailed him. He
bedded his grandchild’s mother. Somehow it seemed incestuous, though Emma and
he shared no common blood.

“Gilles,” Angelique squeaked at his tight grip. She had just
learned to say his name. In fact, she practiced it by bellowing it down the
hall whenever she wished. That such a small set of lungs could give forth such
volume of demand amazed him. He thanked God she’d not been swaddled and placed
with a village woman. With a grin he rewarded her with a kiss and loosened his
hold, tossing her aloft and changing her squeak to a shriek of delight.

“She will vomit on your head,” William said from the threshold.
Gilles clamped his lips on a sharp retort and bid him enter, putting Angelique
down in a nest of blankets arranged for her comfort. May would soon come to
feed the child. Emma no longer nursed her. The image of Emma with her child at
her breast sent a bolt of possessive agony through him.

“What do you want, William?” Gilles strolled to a hearthside
table and poured himself a cup of wine. He strove for the impassive, cold
demeanor for which he was known. A wretched thought occurred to him. If William
sought to claim Angelique, he might not have this time with her. He let the
cool liquid slip down his throat as he listened to William’s litany of
complaints about an elusive band of thieves who had been taking advantage in
Gilles’ absence.

“You should seek the thieves yourself.” Gilles carefully
pulled Angelique back as she toddled too close to the hearth.

“You don’t wish to hunt them, my lord?” William cocked his
head to the side and studied Gilles in surprise. “You love a good hunt, be it
man or beast.”

“I think I’ll remain here. Take whom you wish and…good
hunting.” He watched Angelique try to sneak back to the forbidden hearth. For
the first time, Gilles understood how Roland could be content to remain by a
fire with the family he loved.

He had never sat at the hearth with his wife—nay, he’d
avoided her, and having fostered Nicholas early, had seen little of the boy.

Nicholas
. His son would return to Seaswept in a day
or two. Gilles felt guilty he had taken his son away from his new wife
throughout the season of celebration and feasting.

He also felt guilty he’d not mentioned Emma to Nicholas. Nor
mentioned Nicholas to her.

What did he fear? Disapproval from his son? Or the look on
Emma’s face when she met his son and the realization struck that to have a son
a of more than a score of years, he must be near or more than two score years
himself. Another thought intruded. Like William, Nicholas was a comely man.
Women sought him. Gilles thrust the thought aside.

William paced the large bedchamber. He looked for signs of
Emma about the room, but saw none. He was beyond curious. Emma ignored him at
every turn. She didn’t meet his eyes. She didn’t acknowledge his words. He had
to have the haughty bitch. As his eyes took in the huge carved bed, the
luxurious furs, the scarlet bed curtains, he grew hard thinking about subduing
Emma on those soft furs, tying her down, mayhap, with the golden bed cords.
Envy that she lay on such finery consumed him. Needing to take a wench in some
dark corner rather than on a feather bed made him more resentful.

“I’ll mind leaving for only one reason.” William climbed the
low dais on which the bed stood and flopped back onto the fur coverlet to savor
its feel. He closed his eyes and stretched, missing the glint of anger that
coursed over Gilles’ face at the audacity of William, lying upon his lord’s
bed. “This wench I’m bedding, I’ve just taught her the ways of a man’s tongue.
‘Twould be a pleasure to have her kneeling, plump ass in my face, on this fine
bed, my tongue and hers busy with each other.”

“Take your muddy boots from my fine bed—now.” Gilles’ words
were softly spoken, but the menace in his voice was real.

Angelique, sensing his displeasure, slipped her fingers into
his, and hid her face against his knee as he spoke. William rose hastily and
swung his feet to the ground.

“Forgive me, my lord. I forgot myself.”

“So I see.” He lifted Angelique into his arms. The images
that had risen in his mind tormented him—Emma kneeling over William’s huge
phallus. Her carnal kiss of the previous night had stunned him. Now he knew her
tutor.

Chapter Twelve

Gilles found no joy in the fine supper of sauced partridges
and leek pie. A traveling troupe of mummers did not amuse him either, for they
baited the women of the hall. Their ribald songs and poems chafed at him. He
was not pleased at the women’s blushing discomfort, or Emma’s in particular.
Worse, William entered into the amusements. His rich voice held every woman of
the keep enthralled. Silence fell whenever he sang. The room was mesmerized by
his words, the richness of his voice.

Gilles lifted his hand. William caught the barely
perceptible gesture, gave a nod, and brought the song to a close.

One woman wept as William’s song ended. Emma sat
stone-faced.

“A voice to match the face,” Nicholas d’Argent remarked to
the company as he lifted his tankard of ale. “I would imagine he’s had every
woman worth having hereabout.”

Gilles bit back a sharp retort. He shifted his gaze from his
bastard son to his legitimate one. The two men held little resemblance to one
another save height, breadth of shoulder, and fierce fighting ability.

Nicholas had blue eyes, too, but a soft blue, like his
mother Margaret’s. His arched brows and full lower lip all reminded him of
Margaret. Only Nicholas’ black hair, long reach, and sure foot were his. And
mayhap his sharp tongue and quick temper.

Beatrice leaned between them and refilled Nicholas’ tankard.
She issued him a silent invitation. His son seemed oblivious. It pleased him.
Gilles liked Catherine, his son’s wife, very much. It would sadden him to know
that so soon after the nuptials, Nicholas sought another woman. A few months
ago, he wouldn’t have cared if Nicholas was constant; a few years ago he
wouldn’t have known it mattered.

“Will Catherine ever forgive me for calling you away over
the Christmas season?” Gilles asked, smiling as he pictured the tiny woman who
had captured his son’s heart.

An answering smile lit Nicholas’ face. “Aye. As she still
stands in total awe of you, she would forgive you anything. But I should soon
return. How can we get you your first grandchild if I am here and she is
there?”

Gilles’ face stiffened. He already had a grandchild—one he
could not acknowledge. “Then, by all means, provision your party and take to
the road.”

Gilles left the table abruptly, but a few moments after he
had gained his chamber, the door opened and Emma slipped in as silently as a
wraith.

She took his hand and led him to a seat by the fire. Acting
the part of squire, she eased his clothing off, taking each piece and laying it
carefully aside. She slipped out of her own clothing and wrapped his black silk
robe about her. The sleeves hung inches too long at the cuff, the hem trailed
like a train behind her. She returned to where he sat naked, feet outstretched
to the leaping flames at the hearth. Slowly, she skimmed her fingertips along
the tendons knotted in his neck. Gooseflesh broke out on his arms.

He captured her hand and pulled her around to stand between
his thighs. Very slowly, she sank to her knees, then sat back on her heels. Her
breath felt hot in her chest, her heart seemed to stutter.

Here, kneeling at the fire before him, she felt the full
weight of his scrutiny. All about them receded—the sounds in the hall below,
the call of a sentry overhead. He leaned forward and pulled the knot at her
waist. With a soft smile, he opened the silky material and slid it from her
shoulders, baring her breasts. Cool air swirled across her skin, tightened her
nipples. A heady, powerful feeling swept through her. She desired him, only
him, saw in his eyes, the flare of his nostrils, that he met her desire, wanted
her with an equal ardor.

Flames leapt in the hearth, reflected in his black eyes,
bronzed his skin. He lifted his hand, but she shook her head. With a low moan,
he let his hand fall back to the armrest.

Emma placed her hands on his knees and using the same light
touch as she’d used on his neck, she skimmed her fingers down and up his
calves, behind his knee and then finally coming to rest, hands spread high on
his thighs.

“
Mon Dieu
,” he gasped.

“Gilles,” Emma whispered, “I felt every moment of your
absence, here.” She touched her breast, then returned her hand to him,
tightening her fingers, feeling the leap of his thigh muscles.

“Emma,” he said. “I—”

The door swung open. “Father?”

An icy breeze swept the room. Emma froze, then fumbled the
robe closed. Gilles leapt to his feet, stepped in front of her, and snatched up
his tunic. “Nicholas!”

Nicholas
! Emma quailed.
Gilles’ son!

The young man standing in the chamber doorway flushed red
and backed hastily through the door. “Forgive me.” The door banged shut behind
him.

Gilles swore, pulled the tunic over his head, and jerked the
door open. “Nicholas. What is it?” he called after the swiftly retreating
figure of his son.

Nicholas turned on the stairs. He shrugged and held up a
stoppered skin one might use to hold wine. “I had forgotten in the confusion of
the siege. Catherine sent this for you. She said, that is…I just…” he
stammered.

Gilles decided to act as if naught were amiss; he went to
his son. “What is it?”

“Oil. For your back. She knows how your back aches…”

* * * * *

Emma hid behind the screen in the corner of Gilles’ chamber
until the men’s murmured conversation ended. The door opened. She bit her lip
and buried her face in her hands. Her face flamed.

“Emma?” She opened her eyes. Gilles hung a skin by the fire,
and then turned to her, his expression wary.

She flew into his arms, clutched him fiercely. “Oh, Gilles,
what must he think? Finding me on my knees, t-t-touching you—”

His grip grew painful; he jerked her away from him and held
her at arm’s length. “I care not what he thinks.”

For a moment they stood in silence, the only sound the
crackling of the fire. She looked away first. “Of course. It…it matters not.”

Gilles knew she was lying. Her face was pale, two bright
spots of color high on her cheeks. “He will know to send a servant next time he
wishes a word with me.”

“I must go.” She dropped the robe and fumbled for her
clothing.

He snatched her shift from her hand and threw it on the bed.
“You must go? Why? Lest my son think what is truth? You service me here?”

He wished the words snatched back into his mouth.

“Service you?” He saw the muscles of her throat work. “Is
that all this is to you?” she asked, her words barely a whisper.

“Of course not. But you have told me quite clearly, you are
free for nothing more.”

Her cheeks flushed a deep red. “And do the king’s knights
offer more than this to their weavers, my lord, should they be free, that is?”
She swept a hand to the bed.

He committed worse folly. “You come for your comfort.”

“Do I?” She backed away and groped in the bedclothes for her
shift.

Her question kindled a fire in him. Fatigue and jealousy, a
dangerous mix, drove words from his lips. “You give me no indication of
anything more.”

Every jealous thought that had crossed his mind since
meeting Emma reared its head to be examined anew. Every gesture, every glance
in William’s direction, every word she spoke came under scrutiny. Lastly, he
condemned himself for wanting the mother of his grandchild.

He knew he would soon be half-crazed and take her with
violence if he did not gain control of his envy. He might never know if Emma
chose him over William by choice or by the necessity of William’s rejection of
her.

She jerked her clothing on with agitated hands. In a trice,
she was gone.

He would never ask.

He would never know.

* * * * *

Emma found Gilles in a small chamber off the chapel, a room
with real glass in the windows. The walls held several shelves filled with
rolled parchments she supposed were castle records. To her amazement, she saw a
number of books, too. One lay open on the table before him. He intently studied
one page.

“May I ask what you are reading?”

His head came up, his eyes widened as she closed the door
behind her. “What are you reading?” she asked again, coming to his side.

Gilles frowned. “I am looking over this old book, a gift
from Abbot Ramsey to my father for a window my father gifted the abbey. A
collection of the Abbot’s favorite psalms, and so forth. Of no importance.” He
made a move to close the book, but she placed a hand over his.

“What beautiful work.” Emma leaned over his shoulder. Her
scent filled his head, distracted him, but he desperately wanted to close the
book. “What is the meaning of this lovely work?” Her finger hovered over the
large ‘C’ that began the page.

He cleared his throat. “It represents man’s journey through
life.” At the lower hook of the letter a babe rested; climbing the curved back
was a young man, hand outstretched, as if to claim a prize; and at the top of
the letter, hair grizzled, clung an old man, his life done.

“Read it to me.” She leaned on his shoulder as if no harsh
words had come between them.

He stalled. “You cannot read?” The room was stifling, kept
over warm to dry the air and prevent decay of the documents. Sweat bloomed on
his body.

With a quick touch, she tapped his cheek. “Oh, aye, I can
read, but ill. I would prefer to hear the words from your lips.”

Gilles cleared his throat. “Cast me not off in the time of
old age; forsake me not when my strength fails.” How the words tore at him. How
could he have been reading just this page when she’d arrived?

“Beautiful. You have a wonderful voice for reading.”

Before she could ask for more, Gilles closed the book. He
redirected her attention by pointing out the marvelous gilding of the leather
cover. “Had you need of me?”

Emma moved around to the front of the table and faced him.
“Nay. But I regret our angry words. Forgive me?”

He smiled. “There is nothing to forgive. I fear I was out of
sorts—too long from Hawkwatch.”

For a moment, they just smiled at each other. Then she
frowned. “There is a boy from the village, Gilles, he has nowhere to go; his
parents are dead.” She knotted her hands.

“Shall I take him in?”

Her eyes grew round. “You would do that? Take the child into
your household?”

He shrugged and reclined back in his seat, stretched out his
legs, and stroked his mustache. “If it would please you, aye.”

“I fear he is a thief.” She rested her hip on the table and
laughed. “Yet, he might make you a worthy page if you lock up that pouch of
jewels you have in your coffer.”

He loved the way her eyes gleamed like sapphires in the
afternoon sunlight that shone through the window.

“But I have another plan,” Emma said.

“Pray tell.” Impulsively, he rose, circled the table,
scooped her into his arms, and returned to his seat. She settled into his lap
as if she’d always curled there.

“The boy worships your armorer.” Gilles stroked his hand
from her knee to her ankle. When he tried to slip his hand under her hem, she
slapped his wrist.

“Big Robbie?” Gilles accepted her rebuke and linked his
hands about her hip. “He is a man much to be admired—and he and his wife are
childless. Do I understand the turn of your thoughts?”

“Perfectly. And the child’s name is Robert—”

“Soon to be called Little Robbie.”

“Big Robbie can teach the boy his craft; the child need no
longer steal—or starve.”

Gilles kissed her neck. “You are as lovely inside as out.”
This time when he slid his hand beneath her hem, she did not stop him. Her skin
was warm and silky against his palm.

When duty called Gilles away, a few minutes later, Emma
blushed at how boldly he’d touched her. She sat in his chair, chin propped on
hands. They’d not discussed what had passed between them, but at least the
thieving little boy would have a home—and a chance—before he must forfeit one
of his hands.

The beauty of the book lying on the table drew her. Before
she touched it, she wiped her hands down her skirt, then tried to find the page
from which Gilles had read.

Another artful page caught her eye, where delicate shades of
greenery entwining a letter ‘W’. Her throat constricted.

Who is she that
looketh forth as the morning,

fair as the moon,
clear as the sun, and terrible as

an army with
banners?

Army? Banners? That was not the way William had sung it. And
how could William’s song be here? Her stomach lurched.

She turned the pages rapidly, looking forward, backward,
heedless of their value.

His mouth is most
sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely.

This is my
beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters

of Jerusalem.

His mouth? Anger filled her. “What a fool you are,” she said
aloud to herself in the small chamber.

Each page of the holy book, each verse, seemed to be from the
scriptures. She didn’t understand the words—they were surely not meant to be
understood by mortal woman, but some things were now as clear as spring
rain…William was not only a liar, and a seducer of women, he was also a
blasphemer.

And she was a fool.