The Conqueror

If he had curled his fingers around her throat and begun squeezing, she couldn’t have been more frightened. Indeed, this low restraint set her teeth clattering. He lifted his hand and ran his thumb along the underside of her jaw. Her swallow had to edge by his threatening caress, and he surely felt it.

“Had only I known, my lord,” she whispered. “Your tactics are far superior.”

“You did that, Gwyn, not I.” His thigh brushed against hers, a slight contact that sent an entirely different kind of chill through her body. “Go upstairs. Now.”

He lifted his hand and three servants appeared at his side, one with a tray of aromatic spices designed—she could tell by her nose—to have a sobering effect. She rose unsteadily.

“Show Lady Guinevere to our chambers,” he instructed the servant at his side, who nodded briskly.

Then he raised his cup, occasioning a likewise and immediate response in every castle dweller in sight. She sent a dagger-like look around the hall in general, but no one was watching her anyway. All eyes were on Sauvage. “To the Lady Guinevere, my betrothed.”

A hum of “Huzzah’s” and the thumping of fists followed her out of the hall, accompanied by three servants who hadn’t taken so much care with her since she’d been swaddled in cloths and burped on her mother’s chest.

“I’m not a child, John,” she snapped to one, a man she’d known for fifteen years.

“But he’s said to treat you like you were, my lady.”

She stopped so quickly the servants carried on a few steps before realising their cargo was left behind. John hurried back to her side. “He said to treat me like a child?” Her voice was high-pitched, incredulous, and aghast.

“Nay, nay, my lady,” he stammered, realising his error. The last thing he needed was two nobles angry with him. “He only said to treat you as we would a precious jewel and we decided, didn’t we?” he asked, sending an imploring look at his compatriots, who all nodded like sheep being led to slaughter. “We decided that meant like a child.”

“Well,” she snapped, picking up her skirts and walking again. “I am not a child, nor witless, nor drunk,” she added emphatically, then tripped on her skirt hem.

“Oh, no, milady,” he huffed, helping her regain her footing, then wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow. “Not a child.” Oh Lord, to truckle with two such fiercesome masters was too much to bear. Mayhap Wales held an easier lifestyle, with its bloody wars of succession and stern-eyed princes.

Chapter Eleven

She stood in the lord’s chambers with her arms wrapped around her waist, her eyes full of wonder. All traces of drunkenness had left; it must have been Pagan who was intoxicating her.

He had been wandering for many years by his own admission, but the sight before her did not bespeak the lifestyle of a nomadic warrior. The candles flickered, blown by small gusts of breeze through the open window as she walked around the perimeter of the room. A life of campaigns in the service of an itinerant lord was not the way to create what she saw in front of her. For that, one needed a home. He’d said that was Everoot. And it looked as though he’d been coming home for a long, long time.

She suddenly and quite unwillingly understood why he had come to the Nest with a sword in his hand and revolt on his mind.

A glance at the window ledge made her smile. Crossing over, she ran her hand over the orange-eared cat, ferociously-furred and purring, and continued her examination of a room that had been hers only a day ago.

It had been transformed from the cold, military-like chamber—which she’d had neither the time nor money to change—to a place of indulgence and refinement. Well-wrought iron sconces were affixed to the wall and beeswax—beeswax!—candles burned from them, leaving none of the smokey mess tallow did. Pelts of fur were scattered across the floor, the extravagance staggering. She bent over and touched one, then straightened.

A series of finely stitched tapestries rippled like floating velvet against the walls, coaxing the dreary room to practically undulate with warmth. A finely carved wooden table abutted the doorframe and burned with more fat, squat candles.

Against the opposite walls stood a pair of oak wardrobes, polished to a reflecting shine. The one Gwyn shyly edged open held such a tumbleful of silk and fine fabrics her mouth dropped open. Why, this was silk and samite and…Her hands delved greedily into the luxurious pile. Here was velvet…and…

“Merciful heavens,” she exclaimed aloud, backing up, “those are women’s clothes!”

He had brought her clothes.

Some were her own, she realised, moving forward again. Here was a samite overtunic, so worn and old it could barely hold stiff against her body, but most of them were not hers. She had no silk, not anymore, and had never so much as touched velvet. But here were textile riches, some already cut and sewn. She held one up to her body—it would fit—then hurriedly shoved them all back inside, grimacing as she wrinkled the lush fabric. Griffyn had been planning for her.

The notion was very disturbing.

A reflecting mirror rested on the large table set against a third wall. Backing away from the wardrobe, she wandered over, confused by the clarity of the reflection bouncing back to her. Polished metal never shone like that.

She stretched out her hand hesitantly and ran her fingertips over the smoothest, coolest piece of alloy she had ever touched. What was it? She bent closer, until her nose touched the surface and her eyes stared back at her.

A sound outside the door her made her jerk back and spin, but no one was there. The rumble of masculine voices and footsteps faded away. All was quiet again. Some miscreants from the feast, no doubt, stumbling around for a privy. She turned back to the glistening surface. What on earth would motivate a warrior in the midst of a war to lug all these treasures to a far-flung northern province?

Gwyn stared back at her unmarred reflection. Was that what she looked like? Two eyes, a freckled nose, and a crooked mouth? Simple enough, she thought, turning away. Thank goodness she hadn’t looked into a still pond of water since she was twelve.

Griffyn Sauvage may have estates in Normandy, but ’twas Everoot that had held his heart all these years, by the evidence of her eyes. And by that same stick, she measured his intent: he had been planning to make the Nest home for some long time.