The Maiden And The Warrior. Jacqueline Navin

obeyed. Catching herself, she slowed her steps, squared her shoulders and told herself to, above all, remain calm.

      “Lady Alayna of Gastonbury,” he said. His gaze flickered over her, and Alayna was at once taken aback at his bold, assessing glance.

      Up close, he was more forbidding than he had been on horseback. And more handsome. Even with the offensive proof of his day’s chores staining the black chain mail—or because of it—he was an awe-inspiring sight. The chiseled features she had first noticed in the bailey were more appealing upon closer inspection—the straight, proud nose, the planes of his face, the firm set of his broad, sensuous mouth. Blood and grime streaked his face, and his hair was matted in some places, wild in others, giving him an untamed, almost feral look.

      His face was unreadable, dark and scowling, while his eyes seemed to bore into her with black regard. It was perfectly reasonable, she told herself, that her knees seemed to suddenly go weak. After all, he was the warrior victorious, and she stood before him awaiting his pleasure. Anyone would be daunted in these circumstances, yet it was not like her. Even against Edgar she had stood in contempt, but this man…it gave her some disquiet to acknowledge he affected her like no other.

      Seized with a sudden self-consciousness, she smoothed a stray lock into place, an unsuccessful venture as the tendril promptly sprang back into its original position. She forced her hand to her side, not wanting him to see her discomfort.

      “Aye, I am,” she answered, annoyed that her voice sounded meek. It took every ounce of courage to stand unflinching under the steady glare.

      “As Edgar du Berg’s widow, I will hear your pledge of fealty first.”

      A wild hope leaped to life. Was that all he wished? “Sir,” she began, her voice stronger now, “I will gladly recognize any claim you make to this castle and its lands, or call you by any title you covet. It is nothing to me.” She hesitated, gauging his reaction. He still regarded her with that uncanny calm. “I care nothing for Gastonbury, it is not my home.”

      “You are mistress of the castle,” he said evenly. “How can you say that you do not belong here?”

      Alayna swallowed hard. Her sharp eyes caught the whitening around the scar on his cheek, the only visible sign of his annoyance. “I was wed only two days, and I have been at Gastonbury for little over a month. My home is in London, where my mother is one of Eleanor’s ladies.”

      He studied her for a moment. “And?” he rumbled.

      “Since Edgar—my husband—is dead, then I wish to return to my family.” He was so hard. Did he do it apurpose, she wondered, leveling that murderous glare to make her quake?

      “You are not going anywhere,” he said with finality. Again the easy mien of command took over as his irritation receded.

      “But—” she began, hardly knowing what it was she would have said in objection. But his hand stayed her.

      “It is not that I do not sympathize with your wish, my lady.” A sardonic smile twisted his mouth, making him appear the scoundrel for a moment. “I do, in fact, understand the wish for freedom, perhaps more than you know. It simply does not serve my purpose to let you return to your former life, not just yet. You will indulge me in this, I trust, and when matters have been settled here to my satisfaction, we shall see about you.”

      He leaned against the hearth, striking an insolent pose that matched his manner. Pinned by his hard stare, she found herself wishing incongruously that she had taken the time to freshen her appearance.

      Shaking off the thought, she ventured, “What matters?”

      “I am most anxious that my work today has not been in vain,” he explained. A faraway look came to his eye that was chilling. “I have been waiting a long time for this day, and have come far to see it through. Defeating du Berg is only the beginning. I will take everything of his as my own.”

      Though unsaid, the implication that she was to be counted among his booty made Alayna stiffen her spine. She certainly had no quarrel with the man desiring revenge against Edgar du Berg. No doubt Edgar was deserving of it. But to include her was not fair.

      “I do not understand,” she said. “What does any of that have to do with me?”

      “Are you unaware of your position, or merely think me daft?”

      He was growing irate again, and the thought of his wrath directed at her nearly made her retreat. But Alayna was not without a temper of her own, and it rose now in her defense. “I have not called you daft. I only wish to leave.”

      “And go to Henry and plead your rights as widow of this burh? No doubt you are much put out by the loss of your husband. It would be advantageous for you if you could manage to win back what you have lost.”

      “I have no intentions of doing anything of the sort!” she objected. “I want nothing to do with this place. And make no mistake, my lord, I do not mourn any of my losses, least of all my husband!” With everything she had endured at Edgar’s hands, this suggestion stung most. “I hated him, perhaps more than you did, de Montregnier. He tricked me into coming here and forced marriage upon me.”

      An insolent look lifted his brow in vague interest. “Trickery was du Berg’s specialty. How is it you were duped?”

      Taking a deep breath, Alayna steadied herself. She would have to explain it. “He sent a message telling my mother that he was a cousin of my father’s and inviting us for a visit. My mother was anxious to get me away from court, for the intrigue and debauchery there troubled her, so she accepted. My father is dead these six years, you see, so she did not suspect Edgar’s claim to be a relation was a lie. Once here, he set a trap with that vile creature who has the audacity to call himself a bishop, claiming my reputation had been compromised.” She drew a breath, noting that he had the grace not to look bored with her explanation. “My choices were marriage or the stake.”

      “Now, is that not a bit dramatic?” he asked.

      “Yes, I thought so, but the suggestion was bandied about just the same. You know, they can burn an adulteress. Edgar would have done it.”

      “Why did your family not intervene?”

      “I was forbidden to write to my mother. She never knew.”

      His eyes narrowed to slits of black. “And what was the late Lord of Gastonbury’s motivation for this great scheme?”

      “My lands, you dolt!” she snapped, then immediately regretted it. This man was not someone to goad. He was not, however, perturbed by her insult; he didn’t flinch. She continued in a calmer vein. “He sought me out because I was an heiress.”

      “A terrible tale,” de Montregnier tsked insincerely, “but quite irrelevant, even if it is true. You will remain. At least until I can see what is to be done.”

      “You cannot do this!”

      He smiled with audacious smugness, spreading his hands out before him. “Demoiselle, I have just killed your husband and defeated his army. I assure you I can do anything I wish.”

      When she opened her mouth to protest again, he held up his hand, forbidding her entreaty even before it was made. “My lady, I have allowed you much freedom in expressing your displeasure. But I warn you not to try me.” Again that superior grin appeared. “I have had a difficult day.”

      A slow burn of rage claimed her, banishing her previous fear and propelling her headlong into open rebellion. “You have no right—”

      “But I do, lady, for all of Edgar’s possessions revert to me.”

      “I am not a possession!”

      “A modern opinion, but not one shared by our law,” he drawled, watching her reaction through hooded eyes. “You were Edgar’s property, and now you are mine. And since you will be here, where I can watch you, you can spread no mischief for me.”

      Alayna