XV

XV

September 15, 1189

Montoui

Elise had never been so glad to see the stalwart ramparts of her castle rise against the blue morning sky.

Traveling with the sisters had indeed been safe, but it had also been painstakingly slow. A journey that should have taken her no more than seven or eight days had taken two full weeks. Sister Agnes Maria had suffered from severe corns, and Sister Anna Theresa had become the victim of painful blisters—upon her posterior, no less—and so the party had stopped many times, unable either to walk or ride.

The nights had been misery, spent in crowded hostels that were more often than not stale, dank, and dirty. But it had been more than the poor conditions that had kept Elise awake; as the others found the peace of sleep, her mind haunted her with battle. She could not forget the last moments she had spent with Bryan. But even as the picture rose of his stalwart concern for the injured, a new one replaced it. Bryan . . . and his fury on the night they had met. Bryan . . . with the taunt of triumph in his eyes when they had stood in the chapel.

Bending low over Gwyneth's hand, a tenderness that he had never directed at her softening the severity of his features.

Sometimes, when she had lain between the snoring nuns, she had found herself digging her nails into the bedding, touched by a strange bolt of heat that was followed by shivers that threatened to rattle her teeth. Heat caused by memory of his kiss that day in the chapel, a memory that combined with another hazy image, that of the night in the hunting lodge, and she would feel again as if she were swept by the maelstrom of the storm, and seared by the warmth of the fire.

When morning would come and she would awaken from broken and restless sleep, she would be more tired than when she had lain down the night before. Irritability would become the smoldering anger that was ever ready to rise, and she would be more than ever determined that she would best Bryan Stede.

The night before last had finally brought them across the Channel and to the Continent. Fine armored men, decked in the colors and emblems of Montoui, had been there to meet them. She and Jeanne had parted company with the sisters, after seeing that their cloister would be well endowed.

And now . . .

Now she could see the parapets, towers, and ramparts of home, so proud and beautiful against the rolling green landscape. Elise began to laugh with the sheer pleasure of at long last returning to the land that was hers, and she spun her mare about to accost her maid cheerfully.

"Jeanne! We're almost there! Ah, for a long bath and a night's sleep without the sound of snoring and being elbowed off the bed by Sister Anna Theresa!"

Jeanne smiled vaguely, but made no reply. Elise frowned at Jeanne's lack of enthusiasm, then shrugged and turned about to spur her mare forward once again. Jeanne had been behaving more and more peculiarly since they had reached the Continent. Which was strange, because Elise had been the nervous one in England, always looking over her shoulder to assure herself that no one was in pursuit.

She wondered if Jeanne was nervous because they did not know the guards who had come. Elise had been surprised herself that Michael had not sent men she knew well—Michael was always so anxious about her welfare and comfort. But unless Montoui had been burned to the ground and Michael de la Pole along with it, no one would be wearing the specially crafted armor of Montoui without his consent. And the young men sent to escort and guide them had proven themselves efficient and cordial beyond fault. It was absurd for Jeanne to be nervous now. Unless she was fearing the wrath of Bryan Stede.

But now . . . now Montoui was before them. Once they were beyond the sturdy walls of the town, nothing could touch them, except for the King of England himself, and Elise knew full well that Richard would not let such a petty matter take his time when he had the affairs of England to settle and a Crusade to launch. And the day of their homecoming could not have been more beautiful. Soft white clouds lightly powdered a brilliant sky, and the fields and forests were alive in verdant green.

She laughed again and gave her mare free rein. It felt wonderful to race with the breeze across the land. Uplifting, exhilarating . . . and free. So very, very free! It seemed as if it had been forever since she felt this wonderful sense of freedom, as if she was once again the mistress of her own fate.

At last she came to the town gate, and waved once more to the men-at-arms who saw her, and allowed her entry. She swept by the smithy and the market, and over the bridge, past the stones of the castle and into the keep. Only then did she pause her reckless ride and swing from the mare's saddle, too jubilant to care that she raced like a child into the entryway, then on to the great hall.

"Michael!" she cried, stripping off her riding gloves. "Michael!" She could see that a fire was burning in the hearth, and she strode to it. The day was not cold, but the castle was always damp, and the warmth of the fire seemed to welcome her home. She began to practice mentally what she would say when her steward congratulated her on her marriage, and thought about how she would explain that she intended to fortify her castle against her new husband.

Then she froze slowly, for she realized that she noted something that wasn't quite right . . .

Elise felt herself turn as if she were in a dream, for what she had seen from the corner of her eye could not be. It had been a trick of the light, and nothing more.

She stood deathly still as she stared down the hall to the head of the banquet table; it seemed that even her heart had ceased to beat.

He was there. Bryan Stede. Sitting in Duke William's elaborately carved chair. His legs were stretched out upon the table, one booted foot crossed over the other. One set of long fingers strummed idly upon the table; the other held a silver chalice. He took a sip from it as he stared at Elise, one raven's brow raised slightly, a sardonic smile slashing a grim line against his jaw.

"Home at last!" he murmured, making no effort to move. "The journey took you long enough."

She could not accept what she was seeing: Stede, here, ensconced in Duke William's chair, her chair. It was too bitter an irony to accept . . .

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice heavy and too slow. Her mind was spinning, and she felt as if she could not breathe.

"What am I doing here?" he repeated politely. But then she heard the hard edge to his voice, and ruthless tension swept the smile from his lips. "You wrote of a problem in Montoui. It was surely . . . noble . . . of you to take the responsibility upon yourself, but you need not have done so. Indeed, you might have traveled here far more swiftly in my company." He set the chalice down and swung his feet to the floor, rising. "But do you know, wife, upon arriving I discovered something strange? Your steward assured me that there had been no problem. In fact, Michael was quite offended. He is a competent man, adept at handling the affairs of the duchy in your absence. He was quite surprised to see me; he had assumed that I would be arriving with you. Apparently, when you wrote asking him to send an escort to the crossing, you neglected to tell him that you were rushing home alone."

Instinctively, Elise backed away from him, although he had as yet to take a step toward her.

"Where is Michael?" she heard herself ask, and then she wondered what difference it made. Aging Michael could not possibly protect her against Bryan Stede.

"Seeing to a feast to welcome you home, Duchess," Bryan replied evenly. "The north tower guard saw your party arriving some time ago."

Elise found her lips too dry to form words; she moistened them with the tip of her tongue, then spoke quickly, way too quickly. "This conversation is a farce, and we both know it. You cannot stay here; I will not allow it. You may leave in peace, or I shall call my captain of the guard and see that you are expelled by force. I do not wish to humiliate you so, but if you leave me no choice—"

She stopped speaking suddenly, because he was laughing. But his laughter was dry, and the husky timbre held a threat more chilling than the loudest shout. "Elise, a wife with no wish to humiliate her husband does not desert him hours before the marriage is to be consummated. You are welcome to call the captain of the guard, but I am afraid that you will not know him, nor will he be willing to remove me by force."

Floodwaters of dismay waved all around her, but she fought them. "Stede, you're a fool! You may have replaced a few men, but my garrison is five hundred strong, and my people are loyal—"

"Oh, very loyal. But when you wrote to inform Michael that you were coming home, you also neglected to warn him that you had decided to go to war against your husband. And you underestimated our king. Richard sent out his own letters—among them, one to Montoui to inform your steward of your marriage, and of my status. Michael was pleased to welcome a new duke. Your young captain of the guard . . . well, he was most anxious to accept an offer to journey to London to serve King Richard. You'll find that a number of the men—among them the five who escorted you here—are mine. Old friends who fought with me long and hard at Henry's side. Those men who are not my own . . . well, not even your most loyal servants would dare defy orders written by Richard himself, claiming me to be the Duke of Montoui."

"You . . . cannot . . . stay . . . here!" Elise lashed out.

He smiled. "I do not intend to stay here. But neither shall you."

"What?"

"We leave tonight. Your antics have dearly cost me time. Richard gave me two months, and no more, in which to settle my affairs. I must go to Cornwall."

"So go to Cornwall!" Elise whispered. "But I am not going. This is my home. Where I belong. I am not going anywhere."

He stared at her a long moment. She was trembling so that she feared she would stagger and fall at any second; it appeared that he had outplayed her every move, and now she was cornered, with no move left to make.

He strode to the fire and reached his hands out toward it, staring into the flames. "Milady, I'm afraid that you leave me with no choice but to threaten you in return. We leave tonight. As soon as you have had time to dine, bathe, and rest. You may come with me peacefully, or by force. I do not wish to humiliate you, but if you leave me no choice . . ."

His sentence dangled mockingly, then faded away.

For once, she sensed that he was about to move before he actually did. "I am not leaving Montoui!" she snapped out determinedly. And then she tore swiftly for the stairs, racing along their length to the door to her chamber. Once inside, she slammed the door and drew the heavy wooden bolt firmly into place. She slumped against it, shaking.

No force on earth would make her open that bolt.

He watched her run up the stairs as swiftly as if she floated, and he locked his jaw as he heard the slam of the door and the thud of the bolt. Then he stared at the fire again, his hands clasped behind his back.

It had gone as he had expected.

Well, so be it, Bryan thought with angry impatience. He had been worried sick when he hadn't been able to find her the night of Richard's banquet. Eleanor had calmed him by suggesting that Will and Isabel had seen her home, since trouble had promised to plague the streets through the night.

But then he had arrived at the town house to find her note, and all the worrying had knotted into a hard fury in his stomach. She had duped him. Cleanly and precisely. No wonder she had waited so obediently for their wedding and walked so calmly through the ceremony; it had given her time to plan. Once she reached Montoui, it would take a war to drag her out . . .

Even now his stomach knotted again with the sick fury that had assailed him with the knowledge that she had taken him completely.

But there had been another note left him; it had taken him a long while to cool his mind enough to see it.

The second note was from Elise's maid, a woman he had scantly noticed before. It began with a confession, and a plea. She, Jeanne, had been the one to poison his wine—but not enough to kill; by the Virgin Mary, she swore it. Only in retribution for what he had done. But now, since he had righted his wrong before God, Jeanne wanted to right hers before him.

And so he knew that Elise would travel slowly with the holy sisters. And he knew that she had decided not to order her castle armed against him until she could do so in person.

He had gone to Will that very night, enduring his friend's laughter with a scowl in order to gain his support.

"What will you do?" Will had demanded. "Richard wants you here to help assure him that he leaves England in good hands—and comes up with the money to pay Philip and finance the Crusade."

"I cannot let her get to Montoui ahead of me! She will fortify the castle, and then, by God, Will, it would take bloodshed to get her out."

"Bryan—"

"Don't tell me, Will Marshal, that you would allow your wife to desert you, and bar you from your own lands!"

"Her lands," Will had reminded him softly. "Elise was born the lady to inherit—"

"She is my wife."

"All right," Will promised at last. "I will help you present your case to Richard. But Bryan . . ."

"What?"

"Promise me one thing."

"What?"

"That you will go gently with her. Let her know you for the man you are. She is a woman. Let her come to you. Remember that she is young, her heart is tender—"

"As tender as stone."

"Promise me that you'll be gentle."

"For the love of God, Will! I'm not a cruel or vicious man! I promise that I shall try."

Now, Bryan's gaze traveled up the stairway to the bolted door and he sighed. He already knew that there was going to be no way to remove Elise gently from Montoui.

A movement in the hall arrested his attention and he turned to see a slender, graying woman enter, then stop short, color flooding her cheeks as she saw him.

"Jeanne?" he asked.

She nodded wordlessly, and he knitted his brows, perplexed by her apparent fear of him. Then he realized that she must surely be wondering if he meant vengeance against her for his painful bout with the poison. He offered her a disarming and rueful smile.

"I'm taking the duchess with me tonight. We will travel to Cornwall alone, but I am leaving men to escort you and Michael to the new residence. I'm sure I'll need your able assistance to set matters right; God knows what condition we'll find the estate in."

Jeanne's face brightened. "Thank you, milord."

He grimaced, then walked up to her. "The Duchess is not enthused at the prospect of leaving; nevertheless, we shall. She needs a meal, and a long, hot bath. Since I'm afraid she would bar the door to you if she believed me near, I will be out in the keep with my men, in full view of her window."

"Yes, milord," Jeanne murmured with a little bob. Bryan smiled again, then walked on past her.

When he was gone, Jeanne felt her old knees tremble with weakness. She thought of the beautiful sparkle in his eyes—they were the deepest blue she had ever seen!—when he smiled. And that smile! Perfect, even teeth, God bless them! Dimples in his bronzed cheeks. He had spoken to her so pleasantly, and she had been in mortal terror of him. Her belief in the sanctity of marriage had compelled her to leave the note, but her love for Elise had compelled her to admit that it had been she who seeked revenge against him. For what she had done, many a man would have had her back flogged to ribbons, at the very least . . .

He was far more of a man than Percy, Jeanne decided, at peace at last with what she had done. He was young, honorable, strong—and handsome enough with his indigo eyes and pitch-black hair to make even her old heart flutter.

If only Elise would realize what she had!

Jeanne sighed as she started up the stairs.

And Bryan, carefully situating himself before Elise's window as he drew a stable boy into conversation, was unaware that he had just acquired a most devoted and loyal servant.

* * *

Elise still slumped against the door when the soft rapping sounded upon it, startling her so that she stood and bolted halfway across the room before responding.

"What?"

"'Tis Jeanne, milady. I've . . . brought a tray of food."

"I'm not hungry."

"Michael saw carefully to the preparation of this meal. All the things you like, Elise. Lamb simmered in wine and seasoned with herbs. Swimming with summer vegetables. Fresh, hot bread, milady, the likes of which you did not see in England, I'll swear it."

"Where is the . . ." Elise hesitated a long time about whether to call Bryan by his title. Others might have plainly accepted him as the Duke of Montoui, but in her own mind, as long as she didn't, he was not. But their marriage had given him all his titles, and he was all those things. Only a fool would say otherwise. "Where is the duke?" she asked Jeanne wearily through the closed door.

"Out in the keep—"

"Don't lie to me, Jeanne! I swear that I can be far more the tyrant than he if—"

"Milady! I would not lie to you!"

Elise hesitated, closing her eyes. She could smell the lamb; the delicious aroma wafted through the thick door. It was true; no meal in England could begin to compare with one prepared by her cooks. She was terribly hungry, as last night's meal had been at a tavern where the meat had been too fatty to stomach. Breakfast had been a piece of hard bread . . .

"If he is in the keep, Jeanne, then I shall see him," Elise announced with menace. She walked firmly to the window so that her footsteps could be heard. She did not at all expect to see Stede; she was certain he had a knife to Jeanne's back, entreating her at pain of death to betray her mistress.

But Bryan was in the keep. A smile lurked upon his features as he apparently discussed horseflesh with Wat, her stableboy. To Elise's irritation, she noted that Bryan looked very noble in his flowing red mantle, and that he also looked very much at home. Comfortable, and confident.

She left the window and drew back the bolt. She did not allow Jeanne to enter, but deftly plucked the tray from her servant's hands.

"Wait! Elise!" Jeanne cried out. Elise paused and Jeanne continued hurriedly. "I'll have your bath brought while he remains in the keep."

Elise hesitated only a second; she longed dearly to submerge herself in fragrant oils and steaming water. "Hurry! And, Jeanne, bring me several pitchers of fresh, cold drinking water . . . and whatever bread and cheese you can find." Her order to Jeanne was unintentionally snapped out, but it was imperative that the bath be delivered quickly—and she be prepared to hold out in her chamber.

Jeanne nodded. Elise heard her calling for assistance as she rushed down the stairs. She moved back to the window and breathed more easily as she saw that Stede was still talking with Wat, and was now busy examining the teeth of one of the heavy plow horses.

Jeanne had whipped the servants into quick action; when Elise opened the door again, they sped into her chamber with her tub and with a multitude of misting buckets, balanced two at a time by beams across their shoulders. The house servants all greeted her warmly after her absence, and Elise had to remind herself to be gently cordial in return, as she was so anxious to bolt the door again that she barely heard a word issued by the strong young peasant girls.

"Where are the water and food, Jeanne?"

"Elise, I just brought you a tray—"

"And I want the other, too. Now! Quickly!"

Jeanne called to one of the girls; she waited silently alongside Elise until several pitchers of water, two loaves of thick-crusted bread, and a wedge of sweet white cheese had been brought.

"Milady—"

Jeanne tried to remain with her; Elise firmly pressed her out of the door.

"I wish to be alone, Jeanne." She closed the door firmly, then slid the bolt into place, checking the strength of its bracket. It was secure, she assured herself before turning back into the chamber to decide if she would rather enjoy the comfortable luxury of the meal first, or that of the bath.

In the end, she drew a trunk near the wooden tub and set her tray upon it. Before casting off her traveling clothes, she lit a fire in the chamber's grate, building it to a cozy warmth with the ample supply of wood stacked before it. She frowned as she did so, curious that the pile of logs should be so high and neatly stacked when she had been absent so long. But then she clenched her teeth together with a rush of anger. The answer was obvious. She didn't know how long Stede had been at Montoui, but it was apparent that he had been using her chamber as his own.

No more, she told herself impatiently. She was not coming out, and he would have to tire of his vigil and make haste toward his Cornish estates before too much time passed.

Weary from the tension that tormented her since her arrival, Elise at last shrugged out of her travel-stained clothing, poured attar of roses into the water, twisted the length of her hair into a high knot, and sank into the tub. The water was wonderful. She leaned her head against the rim of the tub and allowed herself a moment just to enjoy the comfort. Then she lifted her meal tray from the trunk, set it across the tub, and lit into her food with a healthy appetite. The lamb was delicious; she savored it until the final mouthful had been consumed. It was, she decided, despite all else, a delightful way to dine, and she would remember it in the future.

She poured herself some wine from the silver carafe that was set upon the tray, then rested her head comfortably against the rim of the tub once more as she sipped at it slowly. Was it possible that she could still win this war? Yes, by God, it was!

She smiled as she continued to sip her wine. So . . . he had proven himself the Duke of Montoui. For the next few days, he was welcome to wield his power. He would soon tire of the game. His English possessions were the more valuable ones—to an Englishman, that is.

The mesmerizing fire in the grate, the sweet taste of the vintage wine, the soothing heat of the soft, oiled water—all combined to ease the strain from her body and the tempest from her soul. Her lids began to flutter, and half close. She heard a soft clanging sound and jumped, then laughed at herself as she realized that she had dropped her wine goblet. She closed her eyes again and allowed a light doze to enwrap her pleasantly.

* * *

"Milord?"

He was standing before the fire again, hands clasped behind his back as he stared at the flames. He turned politely to Jeanne as she approached him.

"I have had provisions packed as you ordered, and the horses are ready, awaiting your leisure. But . . ."

"But what, Jeanne?"

"I can assure you that the Lady Elise will not come out."

"I will wait. She'll have to come out—when she grows hungry or thirsty enough."

Jeanne shook her head, nervous despite her new admiration for him; she had also heard his voice rage when he was in a temper, and she did not care to have his temper directed at her.

She moistened her lips. "She demanded that several pitchers of water be brought to her. And bread and cheese. She can easily remain within her chamber for perhaps three . . . or four days."

He didn't move, and he didn't speak, and it took Jeanne many long seconds to realize how angry her words had made him. His emotions were only visible in the tightening of the bronze flesh across the strong bones of his face, and in the slight narrowing of his eyes.

"I see," he said quietly, turning back to the fire again. When he spoke, it was with his back to her. "Jeanne, ask Michael to see that the servants are kept busy in the kitchen or elsewhere."

Jeanne edged quickly away to do as told. When she was gone, Bryan slammed his fist hard against the mantel, then regretted the action as his hand immediately began to ache.

"Be gentle!" he muttered dryly beneath his breath. Casting his eyes up the long stairway, he sighed, then resolutely and resignedly squared his shoulders. Silently he began to tread up the stairs.

* * *

Elise jolted from her dozing the second time with confusion; the sound she had heard was not the soft clattering of light silver against stone. It had been a shuddering thud, and she shook her head briskly, trying to dispel the sweet mist of her sleep. She frowned tensely, waiting for the sound to come again so that she might ascertain what it was.

It came again, and there was nothing left to ascertain, for with the sound, both the heavy wooden door and the stalwart bolt seemed to shiver, then dissolve into splinters. She was so stunned that the door had been broken that she didn't think to be alarmed as it groaned on its hinges, then limped uselessly inward.

Elise stared from the fractured door to the man within its frame. Only then did she realize her position, and she floundered with horror from the tub, her eyes still upon him as she groped about on the trunk for her towel. He assessed her with a cool contempt as he approached her, and no matter how she longed to stand straight before him without betraying her dismay and fear, she scurried across the room—and succeeded only in cornering herself against the wall beyond the bed. She could only stare at him then, clutching the towel to her breast.

But he stopped when he reached her trunk, haphazardly removing the remains of her wine and meal to delve into it. He dug out a dark woolen tunic, a linen shift, and a pair of sturdy hose, knit for service rather than elegance.

Then he tossed the lot at her.

"Get dressed."

Elise swallowed and nervously moistened her lips, glancing longingly at her clothing. Her heart was thundering, and she was desperately trying to assimilate the fact that he had not broken down her door to attack her.

"Get dressed!" he snapped again. "We are leaving."

"No . . ." Despite herself, she mouthed the protest.

"You can dress yourself, or I can help you. Either way—as long as the task is accomplished quickly."

From the look in his eyes she knew he meant his words, and she edged to the spot where her clothing had landed upon the floor. Her fingers were shaking so badly that her every movement was awkward. The towel slipped from her grasp before she could pull the shift over her head, and she knew that her entire naked body stained with color before his hard, dispassionate scrutiny. His eyes upon her made her fingers all the more leaden. He cursed softly, and a step brought him before her. He reached down and jerked her to her feet, pulling the shift over her head, then repeating the action with the tunic before she could protest. His brusque touch slid along her torso, grazing her breasts and her hips, and she cried out softly when he shoved her negligently toward the bed so that he could slip her hose over her feet.

"I'll do it!" she swore fervently. He allowed the hose to fall into her lap, but continued to tower over her. Elise clenched her chattering teeth together and concentrated solely on easing the soft knitted wool over her toes.

At last he turned, scouring the room. "You need your heaviest boots." His eyes fell upon another trunk, and he was quickly delving into it, satisfied as he pulled out a pair of doe-skin boots. They were more delicate than he would have liked, but they would do. He brought them to her and dropped them in front of her. Elise bit into her lip as she slid her feet into the boots, then gasped again as she felt his fingers grip firmly about her arm, wrenching her to her feet once more.

They reached the broken door to her chamber and panic imbued her with a renewed and frenzied energy. She twisted furiously from his grasp and sought wildly to fight him, sending frantic blows flying across his chest and face. He allowed her to flail against him, then warned sharply, "Elise!"

She did not register the fury in his tone. Oaths were being sworn out in a high-pitched shrill; she knew only vaguely that they were coming from her.

Then she knew nothing, because he turned on her at last, clipping her jaw with the brunt of his fist. She recognized the taste of blood in her mouth, then nothing more. Consciousness deserted her in a burst of starlight. As limp and pliant as a bundle of rags, she fell into his arms.

Bryan hoisted her over his shoulder and left the chamber to start down the stairs without a backward glance. He left the hall for the keep, where the horses were waiting. Wat and Michael were there, looking keenly uncomfortable.

Bryan smiled at them. "It seems that the duchess will be riding with me," he said smoothly. "Give me a lead for her mare, Wat. And see that the packhorse is tied securely behind her."

Wat scurried to do as he was told. Bryan whistled softly as he stood with old Michael de la Pole. "Well, it's a fine night for travel, isn't it, Michael?" Bryan queried, still smiling, as if it were perfectly natural for him to be carrying his duchess over his shoulder like a sack of wheat ready for the mill.

"Aye, sir," Michael responded, trying, in turn, not to stare at this new overlord of his, or at the limp form of the duchess strewn over his shoulder.

Wat returned and secured the leads. Draping Elise over his destrier's shoulder, Bryan mounted behind her. He nodded to Michael and Wat. "Michael, I will see you soon in Cornwall. God knows, I shall have need of your administrative talents. And Wat, you are to come along, too. My squire died of a lung disease while I still fought with the old king; I have not acquired one since. I think you would do well for the job, if you've a mind to follow me to battle."

"Aye!" Wat cried out, dazzled by the offer. "Aye, milord! Thank you, Duke Bryan, God bless you, sire—"

Bryan saluted the young boy and the old man, then urged his horse onward. The gates of Montoui swung open, and he rode out into the night.