"She was mine to do with as I chose, my lord."
Though her voice was soft, there was nothing humble in the till of the girl's chin or in the eyes that met Adrian's without flinching. Yet she was not defiant. Defiance implied anger, but he saw no anger in her. The night-blue depths of her eyes were free and pure, and he knew intuitively that she was as untamed as the falcon she had released to the wind.
As he regarded the girl's slim figure and tangled raven-wing hair, Adrian felt something dark and dangerous shift deep within him. He wanted her with the same savage intensity that he felt when fighting for his life.
In a distant part of his mind he knew that this madness would wane, for a man could not live at such a peak without being consumed. But for the moment, he had only the most fragile of control over his actions.
Adrian knew that he should send the girl on her way with a simple warning to be more careful where she hunted, but he would not—could not—let her go. His voice strange in his own ears, he said brusquely, "And as a poacher, mistress, you are now mine to do with as I choose."
He gathered his reins in one fist. "We have wasted enough time here. Bring her back to the castle." To touch her himself would be disastrous, so Adrian wheeled his mount, leaving his men to obey his orders.
As he rode off without looking back, he tried to define what he had seen in the girl. Once he understood her allure, he would be able to treat her impartially, as he would treat any other peasant girl. But no matter how hard he tried to argue away his sudden, fierce attraction, Adrian was unsuccessful. The girl called Meriel was special.
And the word that haunted him as he rode away was "invincible."
Chapter 4
Meriel stared at the earl's retreating back, not quite believing that her freedom could be taken from her so casually. She had always lived within the security of a household or community, subject to rules but also having rights, and to be utterly powerless was profoundly disturbing. Even worse was knowing that not just her freedom was at stake. Her honor and her very life were equally vulnerable.
Both Sir Walter and Sir Richard looked surprised at the earl's command. Then the latter shrugged and rode after his lord. Before remounting his horse, Sir Walter gestured to one of the retainers. "Ralph, you take her."
A young man spurred his mount over to Meriel and extended his hand. "Come, mistress," he said, not unkindly.
Of course a servant would be given the distasteful task of conveying a muddy, common-born poacher, Meriel thought acidly. God forbid a knight should so demean himself. Once more she considered flight, but there would be no hope and less dignity in trying to escape, so she gripped the servant's proffered hand and let him lift her onto his horse.
With Meriel settled uncomfortably in front of the saddle, they began the journey to the earl's castle. The horse's steady gait was soothing and soon Meriel recovered her composure, though her ankle throbbed, she ached all over, and her fatigue was so great that it was difficult to stay upright.
The group rode single file along the narrow track, with Meriel and her guard at the end of the line. She was surprised at how soon they left the forest. She'd followed Chanson much farther west than she realized. No wonder Sir Walter had been skeptical of her statement that she had been hunting to the east.
As they entered an area of broad, well-cultivated fields, Meriel decided to learn what lay ahead of her. Ralph seemed a decent young man—at least he had the decency to keep his hands on the reins, where they belonged—so perhaps he would answer some questions. "What do you think the earl will do to me?"
"Since there is no proof you took the game in the forest and they were all humble beasts, you've naught to worry of, mistress. Earl Adrian is a stern lord, but a just one," Ralph said reassuringly. "Most likely he will scold you and let you go. At most, he'll levy a fine." He chuckled. "Mind, it would be a different story if you had been caught skinning a roe deer."
Meriel twined her fingers in the coarse black hair of the horse's mane. "I've no money for a fine, not so much as a quarter penny,'' she said in a low voice.
"Then he can't make you pay one, can he?" Ralph said, unperturbed. "Don't worry, the earl thinks it a waste of good labor to keep men in prison for any but the most serious crimes."
Meriel wasn't convinced by Ralph's belief that she wouldn't be severely punished. Since she wasn't one of the earl's serfs, he would lose none of her labor by imprisoning her until the forest court next met. That could be weeks, even months, away. Still, it was not uncommon to release minor offenders who had no worldly goods, and she was certainly of that number.
Her spirits rising, Meriel tried to calculate how long it would take her to walk home after she was released. Probably two or three days unless she chanced on a cart going in the right direction. She hated to think how upset everyone would be at Avonleigh, but there was naught she could do to relieve their anxiety, so she returned to her questions. "Are the earl and Sir Richard brothers? They look like close kin."
"Half-brothers. Sir Richard is the elder but base-born," Ralph replied. "He is castellan of Earl Adrian's other castle, Montford, to the south of here, but he's visiting at Warfield."
Warfield! Sweet Mary, the empress's earl was Adrian of Warfield, who five years earlier had brought his wounded men to Lambourn Priory, and who had scolded Meriel for going out alone!
She cast her mind back to that brief meeting, which she had almost forgotten. It wasn't surprising that she hadn't recognized the earl. Not only had it been dusk on the earlier occasion, but Lord Adrian's distinctive silvery hair had been hidden by his mail coif, and the growth of beard that had obscured his features was of a darker, more golden hue than his head.
Mother Rohese had said that the soldiers had been led by Adrian de Lancey, Baron of Warfield, but the incident had been a minor discord in the gentle life of the priory, soon forgotten after the wounded men left through death or recovery. While the visit had helped Meriel recognize that she shouldn't take the veil, Lord Adrian himself had made no particular impression on her. How strange to find him now an earl.
She had not thought of the skirmish in years, yet Meriel had only to close her eyes to see Lord Adrian rallying his men to beat off the ambush, fighting as if possessed by the devil. The new Earl of Shropshire certainly deserved his reputation for military skill. And, she thought acerbically, he still did not believe in women traveling alone across the countryside.
Perhaps the earl was right. Several hours earlier she had been enjoying a quiet day of hawking and now she was a prisoner, just the sort of situation Lord Adrian had once warned her of. There was a certain bizarre humor to the thought, though Meriel did not feel like smiling. "Is Sir Walter one of the earl's household knights?"
"He is captain of the castle guard and has been for many years. They say the earl offered to enfeoff him, but Sir Walter wants neither land nor family of his own. I've often heard him say that women are the work of the devil." The young man chuckled and gave Meriel's nicely rounded flank an appreciative pat. "The old fellow doesn't know what he's missing."
She ignored the pat, which was the sort of casual gesture that a girl of common birth would be accustomed to. Then Ralph's horse crested the hill they'd just ascended, and what Meriel saw in the middle distance drove all other thoughts from her head. "Sweet Mary!" she breathed. "That is Warfield Castle?"
"Aye," her guard said proudly, halting his mount so she could absorb the sight. "Lord Adrian found a master mason who'd traveled to the Holy Land and studied Saracen fortifications. There's not another castle in England so strong."
Ralph was biased, but he might be right. Warfield Castle stood on an upthrust of rock that was almost an island, surrounded on three sides by a river. A moat cut across the neck of land on the fourth side so the only access was over a drawbridge. Two separate rings of curtain wall protected the keep and the inner bailey, and the village below the castle had a wall of its own.
"So many towers!" she exclaimed. "Why are they round
, not square?"
"The mason said round towers are stronger." Ralph set the horse moving again. "There is enough food stored inside to withstand a siege of a year, and we'll never run out of water."
"Has Warfield ever been besieged?"
"Nay, who would dare?" Ralph scoffed as they rode down the long hill. "There isn't a lord in England who could hold an army together long enough to force Warfield to surrender."
As they rode through the prosperous village, Meriel's awe increased. This close to the castle, it was impossible to imagine any force successfully storming the walls which stood so tall and sheer above the river and moat.
The horse's hooves rang hollow and ominous as they trotted over the drawbridge, and she could not repress a shiver of fear as they passed through the massive gate. These walls would not only keep enemies without, but also prevent any within from leaving against the lord's will.
Close up, the castle looked raw and new and several outbuildings were under construction. All the buildings were stone and even the humblest sheds were roofed in slate rather than flammable thatch. Warfield would no more be burned than stormed or starved into submission.
Meriel had thought the courtyard at Avonleigh was busy, but the Warfield outer bailey was a veritable city of craftsmen, laborers, and beasts. Even Lord Theobald's sizable keep would go inside three or four times over. A still more formidable wall protected the inner ward, its towers commanding the whole of the outer bailey.
They rode through the chill shadows of the gate to the inner ward. In front of the massive keep, the earl stood in conversation with his brother and his captain of the guard. Ralph reined his horse to a halt and dismounted, but before he could help Meriel down, the earl came over and assisted her himself, his hands firm and strong on her waist.
Meriel hoped her weakness would not betray her, but her ankle had stiffened during the ride and it buckled when she touched the ground. The earl's grasp tightened, holding her steady while she regained her balance.
Warily she looked up into his face and was relieved to see not the hidden fire which had so alarmed her in the forest, but a cool impersonal detachment. Might Lord Adrian recognize her from that brief meeting five years ago? If so, he would know that she was must be Norman, for nuns were almost exclusively from the ruling class.
But it had been dusk then, and she had been swathed in veil and wimple. Surely he had forgotten her existence even before he had left Lambourn, for she was not a memorable person.
The earl asked, "Are you injured?"
"Not seriously, my lord. Merely a twisted ankle."
"Can you walk up a number of stairs?"
Pride made Meriel say, "Of course, my lord." But her ankle refused to obey, and when she tried to climb the stone steps, she almost fell again.
With a smothered oath, the earl caught her before she could crumple to the ground and scooped her into his arms. Without further comment he carried her up the stairs and into the keep's great hall. He supported her weight effortlessly, his right arm encircling her rib cage and his left under her knees. His welcome warmth dispelled the chill of her tired body.
But even through her exhausted dizziness, Meriel was astonished. What on earth was an earl doing assisting a muddy suspected poacher? She had not been cradled in a man's arms since she was a small child being borne off to bed by her father,
But she was no longer a child and she could not be unaware of the intimacy of their closeness. Meriel had a lover's-eye view of the smooth texture of the earl's lightly tanned skin, and of the silver and pale-gold strands that comprised his bright straight hair. With a slight shift of his grip, he could have stroked her breast or knee, or touched his lips to hers.
The direction of Meriel's thoughts embarrassed her, for there was nothing lecherous in the earl's touch. She might have been a sack of grain for all the emotion he showed, and for that she was profoundly grateful. It was only her fatigue that gave her such strange, improper fancies.
As Meriel studied Lord Adrian's still profile, it occurred to her that he was too cool, too unemotional, for such abnormal circumstances. She had seen his hidden fire, and uneasily she wondered if the fact that he concealed it now was ominous.
The thought increased her dizziness and she closed her eyes and rested her aching head against the earl's shoulder, her right hand masking her face. Dimly she was aware that she was being carried up another long flight of steps.
At the top was a passage with several doors opening from it. The earl stopped at one of the doors and dexterously opened it with one hand, then carried her inside.
The room contained a bed with a small chest at the foot, and for a moment Meriel was roused from her drowsiness by the alarming thought that she had been brought to the earl's own chamber. But the room did not have an air of occupancy. Warfield Castle must be large enough to have the luxury of guest chambers.
The earl laid her on the yielding surface of the feather mattress. Without asking permission, he lifted her injured ankle and expertly examined it, his fingers probing the crude bandage. Though his touch was gentle, Meriel winced, biting her lip to keep from exclaiming.
"Nothing is broken, but you had best stay off your feet for the rest of the day," he said.
When he released her, Meriel immediately tugged her skirt over her legs and feet. "Thank you for your concern, my lord."
His intense regard was making her uneasy again. As she could feel the moods of a horse or a hawk, she sensed that his present cool indifference was a facade, that behind that beautiful, pitiless face there was still dangerous wildness. But for the moment, at least, the earl offered no threat.
"Rest," he said quietly. "I will speak with you tomorrow.''
Before he had reached the door, Meriel had slid into exhausted slumber.
* * *
For the rest of the day Adrian carried on his normal routine, but all the while he was aware of the girl sleeping upstairs, and the thought of her pulled him like a lodestone. After supper he excused himself, leaving Richard and the other knights to an earnest discussion of the best method to tunnel into a castle. His departure caused no comment, for he was known to have an unnatural appetite for privacy.
He unlocked the door to the girl's chamber and quietly entered. The sky was darkening outside, but enough light came through the two window slits for him to see her clearly. She lay on her side, her long lashes dark against the subtle curve of her cheek, one thick ebony braid trapped under her slim body while the other spilled over her shoulder to her waist.
Indeed, she was so still that for a moment he was afraid, until he saw the steady rise and fall of her breasts. Using every shred of his hard-won discipline, he'd suppressed the perilous madness she had initially inspired in him, and by the time they reached Warfield he had been able to touch her without risk of losing control. Now he rewarded himself with the pleasure of studying the girl as she slept.
Meriel. He repeated the name silently in his mind, thinking that the gentle musical sound suited her. Though she was slightly built, her softly curving body was that of a woman, and he guessed that she was at least eighteen, possibly older. Certainly old enough to be a wife, though she wore no ring. Considering her age and station in life, likely she was not a maid even if she was unwed, and he was glad of that.
What was it about her that drew him so? Certainly she was pretty, but not a striking beauty. Was it the graceful freedom of her movements that reminded him of the young nun he had glimpsed years earlier, forbidden but never forgotten? Or was it her quality of innocence?
Adrian studied the girl's calm sweet face, then shook his head. What she had was far rarer, for what men called innocence was usually no more than inexperience. The clear, unconquerable simplicity he had seen in Meriel's gaze and manner was not an accident of youth, but a wise honesty that came from the soul.
Or perhaps he deluded himself that a young peasant woman possessed qualities he had never found in a woman of his own class. Perhaps it was only her Welshne
ss that made her seem so rare. The Welsh were a wild strange folk, whose women had far more freedom than the women of the English and Normans.
Adrian ached to touch her but restrained himself. Instead, as he gazed hungrily, his fingertips burned with the memory of the petal-soft texture of her skin. With equal exactness he recalled how she had felt in his arms when he had brought her here, and the precise shade of her eyes, that brilliant Celtic blue that made the summer sky seem pale. Meriel's small bones, glistening shadow-black hair, and flawless white complexion had the distinctive look of the Welsh, a beauty very different from the Norman ideal, but nonetheless comely.
The night would be cold, and she lay on top of the embroidered coverlet, protected only by her shabby gown. Moving quietly so as not to wake her, Adrian took a woolen blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed and laid it over her, folded in half for maximum warmth.
This close he could no longer resist the desire to touch her, and he gently cupped her cheek with his hand. She stirred, her eyelids fluttering as if she was on the verge of waking. Then she turned toward his palm, her movement making his gesture a caress. As she settled again, he felt the delicate structure of bones beneath her silken skin. He drew his hand away carefully, his fingers trembling with the strain of suppressing desire.
Even more than desire, he felt tenderness, the wish to shield her from all harm. He surrendered to one last temptation and leaned forward to brush his lips against her forehead in a gossamer kiss. Her hair had the faint, sweet tang of mint.
Adrian straightened, cursing himself for having yielded to the mad impulse to bring her here. He had released greater offenders with no more than a warning. Indeed, Meriel claimed to have committed no crime and there was no reason to disbelieve her. Tomorrow he would discover where she lived and return her to her home with an escort for protection.
He walked to the door, then turned and looked back at Meriel, who was a barely discernible shape beneath the woolen blanket. His mouth tightened. For the benefit of his soul and hers, he should send her home—but in his heart, he already knew that he would not.