‘Then why won’t you fight me? Because I’m a woman? Aren’t I worthy?’
‘Worth has nothing to do with it. I don’t fight women.’
‘But you’ll fight for one?’
‘There’s a difference.’
She took a step closer, pushing the tip of her sword against his chest, though he didn’t so much as blink. She felt a wave of resentment, building to fury. If she were a man, he might have accepted her as an equal and acknowledged the challenge. As a woman, he deemed her of so little importance that he could simply refuse to fight her without any dent to his honour. Was he determined to humiliate her in front of her men, to show them how little authority she now had? Or was he just trying to make her feel as powerless as possible? Worst of all was the fact that, short of impaling him on her sword, there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.
She dropped her weapon at last, pass
ing it back to its owner with as much dignity as she could muster. The intractable expression on Lothar’s face was the final straw. She’d hoped that he might be impressed by her sword skills, but he was just as disapproving as every other man she’d ever met outside Haword. Somehow, she’d thought that he might be different—she’d wanted him to be different—but clearly he thought her father had been wrong in the way he’d raised her, too. That was why he’d mentioned sewing and poetry. Those were the skills he thought she ought to be practising, the ones Matilda had probably mastered! That was the kind of woman he’d be attracted to, the kind he was prepared to serve, not an unnatural woman like her.
‘Go back to your Empress, then.’ She jutted her chin out, refusing to show how much the realisation hurt. ‘Go back and serve a real lady. You’ve wasted enough time here.’
‘Lady Juliana...’
‘Goodbye!’
She didn’t wait to hear what he was going to say, swallowing her tears as she fled across the bailey. This was the second time he’d humiliated her in front of her men, but she wasn’t going to cry, no matter how great the indignity. She wouldn’t give any man that satisfaction. Bad enough that he’d taken her castle and her position, but now he was trying to take away the only skill she had any pride in! If he didn’t leave soon, she’d have nothing left, nothing except her secret—and she’d be damned if she was going to give him that, too! After what had just happened she’d rather take her chances with Sir Guian. With any luck, she’d never see Lothar the Frank ever again!
Chapter Fourteen
Lothar watched her go with a pang of regret. He wasn’t accustomed to the feeling. Most of the time he didn’t care what people thought of him. He was answerable to the Empress. No one else’s opinion mattered. Yet the fact that Lady Juliana had misunderstood him, that she’d interpreted his refusal to fight as an insult, bothered him in a way that made him want to run after her. Almost. He set his mouth in a stern line. But what would he say if he did? If he explained his reaction, then it would only lead to further questions and he had no desire to answer any of those. No, it was better to leave it this way. He’d done what he’d come to do—ended the stalemate, restocked the castle, made sure the fortifications were in good enough condition to withstand another siege, and advised Lady Juliana to go to Stephen. He’d even dealt with Sir Guian, terrifying him even more thoroughly than if he’d used actual violence, using his peasant upbringing as a blacksmith’s son to describe what could be done with a few tools and a branding iron. That was all he could do, all he could be expected to do, and the sooner he put some distance between himself and Lady Juliana, the better. In all likelihood, he’d never see her again, so what did it matter how he left things between them? He had neither the time nor the ability to soothe hurt feelings. Far better to stop thinking about it and go before he could change his mind.
‘We’re leaving.’
He summoned his men, surprised to see disapproval on the faces of both sets of soldiers. Apparently they thought he’d been overly harsh, too.
‘Now!’
He stood to one side whilst they packed up their weapons, trying and failing not to think about her. He oughtn’t to think about her and definitely not in the way that he wanted to. Even if he did like her, she wasn’t the kind of woman he could ever aspire to. Unladylike as she was, she was still a lady, part of the nobility, whilst he was a peasant by birth. He’d no right to think of her other than as someone to serve. Not that she’d think of him in any other way either. The more he thought about their kiss, the more he decided it must have been a pretence. In all likelihood, he’d simply mistaken his own ardour for hers. It wasn’t as if she’d ever looked pleased to see him since, and now...well, judging by the look on her face as she’d stormed away, she never wanted to see him again.
He felt a constricting sensation in his chest. It didn’t matter how much he was attracted to her. Nor that her sword skills were equal to most of his men. Her eagerness to show them off had been strangely endearing, though the very idea of it, coming so close to what he’d told her about his mother, had made him sick to his stomach. Her sparring with his soldier had been bad enough, but when she’d challenged him to fight, a grey pallor had seemed to descend over the scene, as if winter clouds had suddenly obscured the autumn sunshine. It was the same icy feeling of horror that always accompanied any thoughts of violence against women. Fighting her was the one thing he would never do—never raise a finger, let alone a sword, to any woman, never behave in the way that his father had done.
He pushed the memory aside as he led the way to the stables, surprised to find Ulf already waiting with his stallion.
‘Lady Juliana said you were leaving, sir.’
‘Did she?’ He scowled. Apparently she really was keen to be rid of him. ‘Where is she?’
‘Back in the keep.’
He took hold of the animal’s reins, trying to ignore the feeling of mounting pressure in his chest, as if there were actually a band tightening around it. Perhaps he’d ridden too much that morning after all...
‘In that case, tell her I said goodbye.’
‘I will, sir.’
He put a foot in the stirrup and then paused, arrested by a gleam of something in the other man’s eye. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing, sir.’ The gleam vanished at once.
He looked around. His men were busy fastening packs to their saddles. Some were already mounted. He ought to mount, too, ought to get on his horse and ride away. He rarely deviated from his purpose, but this time he felt as if his body were actually holding him back. Every time he tried to climb up on to the stallion the pressure in his chest only seemed to get worse. This was ridiculous. Why was he finding it so hard to leave?
‘Damn it.’ He rested his forehead against the saddle for a moment before dropping the reins with an oath. ‘Wait here, all of you.’
‘Sir?’