Alarmed now, and in absolutely no doubt about what he wanted in private, she cut in, “Nay, there will be no more kissing.”
“Why not?” he asked simply.
The question so surprised her that she turned to stare at him again. And he did seem genuinely confused, though no more than she was, since she had not thought she would have to give a reason. Nor did she have one that would not embarrass them both.
So she avoided an answer by countering, “Think you a woman needs a reason to say nay?”
“When ’tis her betrothed she is telling nay, aye, she does.”
“We are not joined yet.”
“I do not mean to bed you—yet—so what can you object to in a simple kiss?”
Jesu, she had known the subject would scald her cheeks again. And what could she say, that his kiss disturbed her so much, she could not take it in the light way he seemed to be thinking of it? Simple? There was naught simple about his kiss, nor what it made her feel.
She took a defensive tack. “You love another. Why do you even want to kiss me?”
His lips tightened. He obviously did not like the reminder that she was not his choice for a mate, any more than he was hers.
“Is that why you think to deny me? Because you love another? You will forget him, wench. The only one who will be kissing you henceforth is me, so best you resign yourself to that soonest, ere you cause us both grief.”
Having ground out those words, he abruptly left the table. Dislike the reminder? Nay, nothing so mild as that. It had made him furious.
Twenty-four
“How many men will you shatter today, ere you figure out what is bothering you?”
Wulfric glanced at his brother, who had come up beside him, then at the row of knights and squires Raimund was staring at, who were sitting nearby, nursing various bruises and contusions after the vigorous workout Wulfric had just put them through.
“There is naught bothering me,” Wulfric denied, though he did sheathe his sword and shake his head at the squire who was next in line to test his skills against him. He then scowled at his brother. “I should have looked for you instead.”
Raimund gave a hoot of laughter. “Thank you for sparing me. And you barely worked up a sweat. Or are those ice crystals I see on your frowning brow?”
“Mayhap you are due for a workout,” Wulfric rejoined menacingly.
Raimund grinned. “And mayhap you are due for a large tankard of mead and a shoulder to—bite on.”
“You should apply at John’s court for the position of buffoon, brother. Methinks you would be hired right quickly—and what has you in such silly humor?”
“I spent a very pleasant eventide with my wife, so why would I not be in good spirits? You, on the other hand, are obviously in an even worse mood than you were on the way to collect your betrothed, and I had thought naught could possibly get worse than that. What has occurred since I parted from you yestereve?”
“’Twould be better to ask, what has not occurred.”
Wulfric said it in a mumble as he walked away, not really for Raimund’s ears, yet did Raimund follow him quick enough to hear each word, and replied with a grin, “Very well, what has not occurred?”
Wulfric glanced back to give him a glare. His only answer was a snort. He continued on his way, entering the nearest stable, stopping by two occupied stalls. His stallion was in one. Milisant’s destrier was in the other. Surprisingly, it was the destrier, rather than his own horse, that Wulfric offered the sugar crystals to, which he pulled from the pouch on his belt. More surprising was that he did it at all.
“I wouldst fear for my hand,” Raimund remarked quite seriously.
“Nay, he has the veriest sweet tooth. There is not a mean bone in him when it comes to sugar.”
“’Twas brave of you to find that out.” Raimund chuckled, then, curiously, asked, “You offer her horse, but not yours?”
Wulfric shrugged. “Mine is spoiled enough.”
“Think you she does not spoil hers?”
Another shrug. “If she does, she will not be able to much longer. Once the guests begin to arrive, she will be restricted to the keep.”
“A wise precaution,” Raimund agreed. “But what is the immediate problem, that has you decimating the lower ranks?”
Wulfric sighed and raked a hand through his hair, so rankled that he forgot it was coated with sugar crystals, nor did he notice. “I find that I want to kill a man I do not even know.”
“Understandable. I wouldst be livid with rage did someone try to harm my—”
“Nay, I do not mean the one trying to harm Milisant,” Wulfric cut in. “That one will wish for a score of deaths ere I am done with him, once I have him. I mean the one she has given her heart to. I did not give him a thought at first. Now I can think of little else.”
Raimund was amazed. “When did you switch from hating her to liking her?”
“Who said aught about liking her?” Wulfric countered. “She is my betrothed, Raimund. I find it intolerable that I will be competing with someone I have never even met.”
“You have a name then, to know that you have never met him?”
Wulfric frowned. “Nay, ’tis a name I am wanting.”
“What keeps you from simply asking her for it?” Raimund ventured. “And have her think I mean to do him harm?” Raimund chuckled. “Is that not what you were just saying you wouldst like to do? Kill him, I believe were your exact words.”
Wulfric waved a dismissive hand. “An exaggeration, and give me none of your doubtful looks, brother. I cannot figure out how to end her attachment to him until I know why she did form one, and I cannot know that until I know who he is.” His look then turned thoughtful. “But methinks you can aid me in this.”
Raimund raised a brow, guessing. “You want me to ask Lady Milisant?”
“Nay, not her. She wouldst tell you no more’n she would me. But her sister, Jhone, she is a much different lass, sweet, biddable, hardly the suspicious sort. She would know who this man is, and is more like to tell you than me.”
“And if she does not, I suppose I could beat it out of her,” Raimund said, tongue in cheek.
“You jest when this is a matter of serious concern to me?”
“Jesu, I hope the priest was eloquent in the burial of your humor, brother. Nay, what I think is you make too much of this. Even if your lady is fond of another, ’tis you she will marry, you she will keep faith with. Or do you have reason to believe otherwise? Think you she wouldst betray you?”
“Nay, I think she would honor what vows she makes. That is not my concern. Let me ask you this, then. How wouldst you feel if, when making love to your wife, you know, know, mind you, without any doubt, that she is imagining you to be some other man?”
Raimund’s cheeks lit with heated color. “I’ll speak to her sister today.”
Twenty-five
It amazed Milisant, the things women did gossip about. It had been years since she had been forced to sit and listen to such idle chatter. Nor would she have done so today if Lady Anne hadn’t fetched both her and Jhone right after the midday meal, putting them to work on the huge tapestry she wanted finished before the wedding.
It was set up near the Great Hearth on a large rack. Nigh a dozen needles plied it at once, and without crowding, so big was this tapestry. Milisant stayed, but only because Anne stayed to supervise, and she didn’t want to argue with that determined lady.
Yet she only pretended to use the needle she had been given, because it really was a beautiful tapestry, or would be when it was finished. It depicted a lordly knight and his entourage on horseback on a lovely hill in summer bloom, surveying an approaching army. Yet so little concerned by the impending threat was the knight that a hawk perched on his wrist, and he was nigh laughing. Was he supposed to be Sir Guy? Or Wulfric? No matter, it would be petty of her to ruin the tapestry with her unskilled stitching.
As for the gossip flying about her, the subjects ranged from the gory details of c
hildbirth, to the intimacies that caused such conditions, to the exaggerated size of a certain man-at-arm’s sword—it had taken Jhone to whisper to her what sword they referred to before the ladies got the expected blush out of Milisant that they had been trying for.
They soon gave up, though, when they realized that she was not a bride-to-be easy to tease, which had been their harmless intention. Standard fare that all new brides must endure, yet Milisant was not a standard new bride, thus her reactions were not what they did expect—quite a few glares and only one blush.
It was during this time, while she was sitting among so many, that Milisant felt eyes on her that did not belong. Just an odd little feeling that she shook off, since the ladies were making a great deal of noise in their laughter, and so would be drawing eyes their way.
That she felt the eyes on her in particular was a moot point. She just happened to be among the many—at least, she tried to convince herself of this, rather than accept her first thought, which was that she was being guarded so closely that men had even been set to watch her, which she would find intolerable. But in either case, she was quick to take herself from prying eyes just as soon as Lady Anne left the hall.
She was able to do so because Jhone wasn’t there either. She had gone up to the chamber they shared to fetch an unusually bright blue thread she’d been hoarding from the treasures their father had brought back from the Holy Land, which she wanted to apply to the lead knight’s eyes on the tapestry. A kind gift on her part, since the tapestry wouldn’t grace Dunburh. But at least she wasn’t there at the moment to try and prevent Milisant from sneaking off.
But her escape was not as quick as she would have liked. She was halfway down the stairs that led out to the bailey when her way was blocked by Wulfric’s half brother, who was coming up them. Having already been told that morning when she went to check on Stomper that she would not be leaving the keep henceforth without an escort, even to go just to the stable, she had already determined to be Jhone the next time she tried to leave the keep.
So whereas she herself would only have given Raimund a nod lacking in expression, she gave him instead a demure smile. She did, after all, have much practice in copying her sister’s ladylike mannerisms.
She had hoped, with him thinking she was Jhone, that he would not try to detain her. She had not figured ’twould be just the opposite.
“Lady Jhone, might I have a word with you? You are Lady Jhone, correct?”
It was on the tip of Milisant’s tongue to tell him the truth now, in hopes that would send him on his way. Yet his expression aroused her curiosity.
But rather than lying, she said simply, “Can I help you?” which avoided answering his question and left him to his own conclusions. Sop for a guilty conscience, that it wasn’t entirely her fault if he drew the wrong conclusion—just mostly. And he did.
Raimund nodded. “Aye, m’lady, ’tis my hope that you can. It has come to my attention that the lady Milisant bears a certain fondness for a man other than her betrothed. Yet is my brother not one to share his possessions, even if the fondness is of a harmless nature.”
Milisant immediately recalled Wulfric’s fury at the meal they had shared, and what she had thought was the cause of it, that he didn’t like being reminded that he loved another yet was forced to marry her instead. That had been her first thought, yet she had wondered briefly, after his warning her to forget “him,” if there was not a bit of jealousy involved—though she couldn’t imagine why, when his feelings, other than his wanting to kiss her, quite clearly demonstrated his dislike of her.
Yet as Jhone, she wouldn’t know any of that, and so was forced to question, “What do you mean?”
“It would annoy him, did he think another man was pining for his wife.”
Or that his wife was pining for another? And what about the wife who knew that her husband would rather have married another?
She wasn’t in love with Roland. She knew she could be, given time, but at the moment he was merely a dear friend. Yet Wulfric could not say the same, did in fact admit to loving another.
She sighed inwardly, frustrated that she could not mention any of those thoughts to Raimund.
Each would lead to an argument from him in an effort to defend his brother. Yet Jhone did not argue.
So she said, “I wouldst think a man would gloat instead, for being the possessor of said wife.”
He grinned, allowing, “Some might.”
She raised a brow at him. “But not your brother? Then are you saying he has a jealous nature?”
“Nay, just that it would annoy him.”
Milisant really wanted to say, “So?” but Jhone would be much kinder in her response.
“Feelings are a strange malady that one has very little control of,” she said with a slight smile. “A man can hardly be blamed for falling in love with a woman he has no hope of winning for his own. Such things are random. Neither can a woman be blamed for the feelings of another, as long as she does not intentionally solicit those feelings.”
Her smile got brighter. Jesu, but that was likely exactly what Jhone would have said. It had been quite a while since she had pretended to be her sister, but she hadn’t lost the knack for it.
“Wulf is not placing blame, m’lady,” Raimund assured her. “It would have been much better if he did not know of this other man, but your sister saw fit to mention him, and her own feelings for him.”
“So that annoys him as well?”
“Nay, I doubt me that annoys him at all. He wouldst be confident that given time, his wife’s affection would be his and his alone.”
Milisant had to bite back a snort. Confident indeed, the conceited oaf. And she was fast losing patience with the pretense she was fostering. Her curiosity had been satisfied—except for one thing.
“Is there a reason for this discussion, Sir Raimund?” she asked pointedly.
She realized her mistake when she saw his blush. The question had been too direct for Jhone. Jhone strived never to cause anyone any discomfort, including embarrassment, whereas Milisant was known for her bluntness, which could, and often did, cause many red cheeks.
“I had hoped to be able to assure my brother that he has allowed himself to become annoyed over naught. Actually, I was hoping you would give me the name of this other man, so that I could speak with him and learn whether he returns Lady Milisant’s affections. It wouldst be a fine gift for my brother’s wedding, to be able to tell him that he need have no further concern in the matter.”
“It would indeed,” Milisant said tightly, “yet can I not aid in delivering this gift. You will have to speak to my sister, Sir Raimund. The name you seek has never been divulged to me.”
So much for not lying directly. But she was not about to have Roland badgered about this matter when she had yet to even let him know she wanted to marry him.
Not surprisingly, Raimund appeared doubtful. “Never? You and your sister are twins, which implies a closeness more solid than most siblings. I had not realized you refrained from sharing confidences.”
Milisant chuckled; she couldn’t help it. “Nor do we. Yet some things my sister holds too personal to discuss, even with me. I do know of her … fondness for this man, but she has never actually called him by name, or rather, by his real name. She calls him her gentle giant.”
Raimund sighed. “I will have to speak with your sister then.”
Milisant smiled. “Good luck, sirrah. If she would not mention the name to me, she is hardly like to give it to you. But by all means, do try.”
Twenty-six
Milisant didn’t go outside after all. Because she was a twin, and because it was extremely difficult for most people to tell her and her sister apart by sight alone, the guards posted at the door had been ordered to keep both sisters inside the keep.
Blasted precautions. Wulfric thought of everything, much to her own frustration. And yet what was she doing here in Shefford Castle if she was still in such danger? If she
had to have an armed escort wherever she went, she could have stayed home in Dunburh. His point in bringing her here was that he could trust his own people, that there wasn’t a mercenary among them.
She was so annoyed, she almost sought him out—until she recalled how they’d parted earlier, with him so angry. It would be soon enough to make her scathing remarks when she saw him for the evening meal. So she spent the rest of the afternoon taking out her frustration on the poor tapestry, plying a needle for real this time.
Fortunately for the tapestry, her sister worked right beside her and calmly undid the horridly uneven stitches without comment. Milisant barely noticed, so preoccupied was she with her aggrieved thoughts.
She would like to know, along with everyone else, who it was who was trying to harm her. But she knew that she would never find out with the type of protection she was presently being afforded, because whoever it was wouldn’t be stupid enough to make another attempt against her when he would have so little hope of succeeding. Far better to leave her to her own devices, let the attempt be made, and let her thwart it.
Not that she thought she was invulnerable, or capable of dealing with every situation—just most of them. But her pets could protect her, and be much less intimidating than four burly guards, which was how many had lined up ready to follow her out of the keep.
She determined to start keeping her pets with her at all times from now on—at least Growls and Rhiska. Growls in particular seemed utterly tame at first glance, despite his being a wolf. Yet could he rip through three adults in a matter of seconds, while Rhiska could panic several more. They could easily keep her safe outside the keep, yet still within Shefford’s high walls.
However, out in the countryside, which she wasn’t familiar with here, she would agree with the need for an armed escort. She wasn’t stupid, after all. But no one was going to shoot arrows at her within the walls of Shefford, when they would have no escape. Nor would anyone be able to get her out of Shefford with its closely guarded gates.