Her Battle-Scarred Knight. Meriel Fuller
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘It is my business to deliver you safely. Do you think Hugh would ever forgive me if some harm came to you on the journey? He asked me to escort you and escort you I will.’ He dropped her hand.
‘Then go with me now.’ She cradled her released fingers, missing the warmth of his touch. What was the matter with her?
‘It’s not possible,’ Giseux replied firmly, steel threading his voice. Since when had women become so outspoken? He could travel if he wanted to; he could ride for days on an empty stomach with little sleep, but something in her manner made him want to resist, to squash her a little.
‘All right, we’ll leave tomorrow,’ she replied huffily, flouncing off to the kitchen. Leaning back in the chair, Giseux smiled. He suspected that he would have a battle on his hands, a battle that he would inevitably win. Oddly, he relished the thought.
Chapter Three
‘Oh, my lady, what in Heaven’s name are we going to feed him?’ Alys knotted her fingers together endlessly, running helpless eyes along the wide empty shelves lining the kitchen.
‘Nothing, if I had my way.’ Brianna braced her hands flat against the well-scrubbed planks of the kitchen table, trying to assemble her angry, scattered thoughts. Her eyes snapped over to Alys, fiery blue. ‘The man’s a complete oaf! Did you hear what he said to me? Hugh’s alive and he refuses to take me to him! He wants to wait … wait until tomorrow morning. Can you believe it?’
Alys hurried over to her, plucked at Brianna’s sleeve. ‘Keep your voice down, he’ll hear you!’ The thin skin of her face stretched over high cheekbones, mottled pink. She darted a nervous glance towards the open kitchen door.
‘What do I care?’ Brianna pushed her body upright, whipping around to face the door, wanting Giseux to burst through, wanting to challenge him. ‘He knows what I think.’
‘My lady, calm down,’ Alys pleaded, patting feebly at Brianna’s arm. ‘Come, let’s fetch him some food—what about the stew?’
Alys’s question forced her mind to concentrate. She considered the stew that she and her maidservant had been eking out for the last week: tough chicken legs occasionally enlivened with a few chewy winter greens. ‘Nay, too good for him,’ she pronounced, instead extracting a dry heel of bread from an earthenware pot, plonking it on a pewter plate. ‘There, that should
do.’
‘He’s a lord, Brianna,’ Alys whispered, ‘a nobleman. We can’t feed him on stale bread.’
‘I suppose he could have some cheese,’ Brianna conceded, grudgingly. She unwrapped a long piece of damp muslin from a round of soft cheese, fresh and crumbly.
‘And some mead.’ Alys dipped a pewter tankard into an iron-girded cask of the amber liquid, setting it down on the tray next to the plate.
‘Shall I take it?’ the maidservant offered reluctantly.
Brianna smiled. ‘Nay, let me. And he’d better appreciate it.’
Alys raised her eyes to Heaven.
Shouldering her way awkwardly back through the door to the great hall, carrying the tray, Brianna decided her main aim was to encourage Giseux, after he had eaten, to retire for the night. Alys had already prepared the guest chamber, accessed by a spiral flight of stairs from the entrance hall. Once he was asleep, it would leave the way clear for her to saddle up her horse and ride to Winchester.
Giseux’s legs gleamed in their metallic skin, his bulging calf muscles clearly visible beneath the chainmail as Brianna advanced towards the chair. He’d removed his chainmail gloves and they lay on the floor. She crashed the tray down ungratefully on the rickety, three-legged table at his elbow. ‘Here you are, my lord.’ Her bravado quailed as his eyes, midnight-fringed, devoured her with a single sweep.
‘What did those men want with you this morning?’ he demanded, ignoring the pewter plate at his side.
‘I … er …’ She hesitated, sweeping over to the shutters, checking the latches were secure, away from his heated perusal.
‘What did they want with you?’ Her spine shivered beneath the low rumble of his voice.
The metal hasp of the shutters felt cool beneath her fingers; she yearned to press her flaming face against the solid wood, to regain some solidity, some stability in her current situation.
‘Count John’s men?’ Brianna tried to keep her voice light, even. She couldn’t allow this man to know how much their beating had affected her. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she moved back to the fireside, perched tentatively in the seat opposite Giseux.
He bit into a hunk of bread, chewing slowly, silent.
Brianna shifted uncomfortably, stared at the floor, knowing he was waiting for an answer. ‘Count John wants me to marry one of his noblemen, so that Sefanoc comes within his jurisdiction. He sent his soldiers to persuade me.’
‘Their methods of persuasion leave a lot to be desired,’ he murmured, taking a swig of mead, running the tip of his tongue along the generous curve of his bottom lip to catch a wayward drip.
Brianna touched one finger to her throbbing jaw. ‘That’s why bringing Hugh home to Sefanoc is so important,’ she offered, tentatively. ‘When Count John sees he’s alive, well, then they’ll stop tormenting me.’
‘Then it’s fortunate he is home.’ Giseux steepled his fingers in front of his chest. ‘Otherwise you might have ended up in a marriage against your will.’
Her expression was bleak. ‘It would never happen; I told you before, I would rather die than have that happen again.’
His eyes flicked up at her final word; she clapped her hands to her mouth, startled, dismayed at her stupid mistake. Again. The word that gave away her past.
‘Again?’ Giseux queried, adjusting his position to lean forwards, elbows resting on his knees.
She sprang from her seat, mouth trembling, flustered, sweat clagging her palms. ‘You need to finish your meal,’ she announced briskly, ‘and I must change out of these clothes. Please excuse me.’
So that was it, Giseux mused idly, as he watched the flick of her skirt, the shining coin of her hair disappear through a door at the end of the great hall. She had been married before, and not happily, judging from her reaction to his question. Where was her husband now? Had she finished him off with her crossbow, with a swipe from the knife at her belt? His lips twitched at the thought—she was perfectly capable. In fact, he doubted he had met another woman who fought with such drive, such ferocity, to hold on to the things she held most dear. It appeared she was paying a high price.
Seizing the mud-encrusted hem of her loose peasant gown, Brianna struggled with the coarse material to pull it over her head. Why, why on earth had she said such a stupid thing? And to him, of all people: a complete stranger! Blood bolted through her veins, rattling her; she forced herself to breathe more slowly, to calm down. The sooner she was away from him, the better. Leaving her chemise and woollen stockings on, and still wearing her stout leather boots, Brianna moved to the oak coffer at the foot of the bed. The carved lid opened with a protesting creak as she riffled inside. She only had two suitable gowns and one, she knew, had a long rip along a seam that she had been meaning to repair. The green wool gown was presentable, if a little threadbare. She settled the material over her head, smelling the dried lavender that Alys placed in the oak coffers every year to keep the clothes sweet. As the folds fell down about her shoulders, the wool prickled a little against her linen chemise, damp from her earlier dunking.
Pushing her head through the round slash neck, her fingers brushed against the silver embroidery that decorated the collar, the design raised, intricate. Her mother had done this, her beautiful mother who had spent many hours working her fine needlework