Rhona took a steadying breath. Why did he disturb her so? What was it about him? She had manipulated many men, teased them into doing as she’d wanted and, occasionally, when it had been absolutely necessary, gone further. Her body was but a counter that she used to play the game, and hopefully win it. She did not allow her feelings to interfere in such matters; her father had taught her that when he had callously offered her maidenhead in return for land. Her purity as a Norman lady for a portion of the Welsh Marches.
The experience had not been as unpleasant as she had feared—she remembered her own sniveling terror and the man’s kindness. But Rhona had learned a lesson from that; she had learned that she had a very strong stratagem if she wished to use it. And if the use of her body would mean the difference between winning or losing, the difference between her father’s rage and his smiles, then Rhona felt she had no choice.
It did not matter anyway. It was just flesh. Those men might hold her and mold her to their hands, but they could not touch her heart or her soul. She remained free, she remained Rhona. At least that was what she told herself over and over again. Until she almost believed it.
This particular game she planned now was probably the most important of all, the most desperate that she had ever played. If Alfric failed, then her father would likely kill him. And Rhona did not think she could bear to be at Hilldown Castle all on her own….
“Surely ’tis too chilly out here for a fine lady like you.”
Ah, he had found her.
Rhona wiped the smug smile from her mouth and turned to face him. Jesu, he was bigger than she had thought! But then Rhona herself was small. Many people, particularly men, underestimated her for that very reason.
“And who are you, churl?”
His onyx eyes glittered a moment. Rhona couldn’t tell if her rudeness annoyed him or amused him.
“My name is Reynard, my lady. I am Lord Henry’s man, his servant. Before that I was a mercenary, and before that I worked with my father, who was…well, you do not want to hear about the life of a churl.”
Rhona lifted a thin, dark brow. “Why would I not want to hear? I am curious about all manner of creatures, great and lowly, kings and churls.”
He shifted on his feet, settling himself. The cold did not seem to affect him, while Rhona could barely contain her shudders. “My father was a shipwright in Brittany, and then here at Gunlinghorn. His ships sailed for ports as far away as Genoa. He always said his work would live on, long after he died, and so it has. His ships still follow the trade routes. Few men can claim that, my lady, be they kings or churls.”
The pride in his voice surprised her, threw her off balance. She had little pride in her own father, and certainly no love. For a moment she was actually envious of him, this servant with the intense gaze.
“Then why is his son a servant to Lord Henry of Montevoy?” she asked him coolly, hoping to sting him into a retort.
His dark eyes narrowed, but he was only considering whether or not to answer her question. She could see the exact moment when he decided nay—she had had practice herself in telling lies. Strangely, she was disappointed, which was plainly foolish. Why should he tell her the real story of his life, and why should she care?
“He pays better,” he said with a shrug of his big shoulders and took a step closer. His body gave out heat and the rare scent of cinnamon, such a pleasant combination it made Rhona want to move closer. Snuggle up against him. There was something about Reynard that made her feel safe.
To feel safe is dangerous. There is no safety in men. They are all of them out for what they can steal. And if they steal a woman’s self-respect, her pride, her virtue, even her life, so much the better….
“I can pay you, Reynard,” Rhona said quietly and gazed directly into his eyes. He was watching her now with rapt attention, and that was good. In a moment she would have him in the palm of her hand.
“In what coin, and for what purpose would you pay me, lady?”
“In whatever coin you wish, and for the purpose of passing on news from Gunlinghorn.”
He snorted. “Spying, you mean.”
“No, sharing what you hear. I need to know the situation between Lord Henry and Lady Jenova. My brother”—she sighed, and cast up her eyes in pretended despair—“he loves her still, and he wants to continue to woo her. At the moment she spurns him, but there will come a time, I am sure, when she will view his person with more favor.”
He watched her, reading her, and she awaited his answer as if her breath had not quickened and her heart was not tapping urgently against her ribs.
“Do the men you ask usually agree to your demands?” he said quite coldly.
Surprised, Rhona raised both slim eyebrows. “Usually, Reynard. Do you object to me asking? There is no law that I know of to stop me asking. And whatever answer you give is entirely your own.”
He ignored her measured response. “So money is enough for them?”
“Of course.”
He looked away, across the snowy ground to the wall that surrounded the garden. She thought he did it to gain time, so she held her peace, waiting, wondering what he was thinking. Some men found it more difficult than others to be bribed, but it was rare for any to refuse her. She tended to choose her victims well.
“I prefer my payment in flesh.”
Her breathing stopped, and then restarted with a gasp. “What did you say, churl?”