The Baron's Quest Page 11

  “A gift?” Etienne exchanged a knowing look with Josephine. “You expect nothing in return?”

  “Well, my lord, no. Not really. Of course, should a visitor wish to know where Lady de Chaney obtained the fabric, I would hope she would recall my name.”

  “Of course,” Etienne replied. This had happened many times, yet it never ceased to please him. Cloth merchants, jewelers, furniture makers—all gave Josephine gifts of their wares with the hope that others, perhaps trying to imitate her and her exquisite taste, would seek to purchase similar goods.

  As much as he enjoyed watching Josephine deal with such fawning, flattering tradesmen, his foot was too painful for him to stay. “I’m going to change my clothes,” he announced. “Jean Luc and the rest should be here soon.” He spoke directly to Chalfront. “We’ll be going over the accounts tomorrow.” Etienne scrutinized the man carefully to gauge his reaction, and was pleased to detect only keen interest, not guilt.

  He must be honest, Etienne thought, or he would have discerned some sign of culpability.

  “Would you like some assistance?” Josephine asked, half-rising, a worried expression creasing her alabaster brow.

  Etienne’s attention was still focused on Chalfront, and that was the reason Etienne saw something flash in the man’s eyes. Envy, perhaps? Or jealousy?

  “No, I can manage quite well,” he answered coolly, surveying the group. “You stay and buy yourself whatever you like. Chalfront will fetch the necessary coins.”

  The merchant’s grinning, greedy reaction would have amused Etienne another time; now, he had more serious things to consider.

  Something had happened to Chalfront during his absence. Apparently he no longer pined for Gabriella Frechette and it seemed he may have transferred his affections to Josephine. Etienne’s first reaction was a temptation to laugh. Chalfront and Josephine de Chaney? It would be like the pairing of a purebred mare with a farmer’s draft horse. On the other hand, he recalled one draft horse that had sired an astounding number of offspring. He had reason to be concerned, though, for an alliance between a man’s bailiff and his mistress could spell disaster.

  But Chalfront and Josephine! It was ludicrous. Besides, Josephine was far too intelligent to try to deceive him. Ever practical, she would know that she would gain more by pleasing him than by betraying him.

  Josephine seemed to enjoy the man’s attendance, for she certainly glanced his way often enough.

  Etienne paused on his progress toward the stairs and glanced over his shoulder. At that moment, Gabriella came through the door from the kitchen bearing a chalice and two goblets, and he forgot about everyone else in the hall. Despite his resolve not to feel anything for her, need and desire rushed through him.

  She looked pale and drawn. Was she ill? If she were unwell, he would absolve her from further duties until she recovered.

  Gabriella’s gaze met his for a short moment, and he thought she blushed. With pleasure that he had returned? She looked quickly away, and her mouth turned down into an unmistakable frown.

  God’s wounds, she would not even look at him, and he had been so concerned for her health. He should have found the strength to stay here, and ignore the passion she stirred in him.

  His absence had been a mistake on many fronts. Worse, it had been an act of weakness, unworthy of him. He must, and would, reassert his command over his emotions, and over everyone under his rule.

  “Bring me some hot water,” he ordered Gabriella, not bothering to gauge her reaction before pushing his way through the remainder of the milliner’s goods.

  Josephine rose with an anxious face. “I will bring the water.”

  “No, the merchants are not finished. Gabriella can do it.” If his order disturbed Josephine, so much the better. It would remind her where her priorities should be.

  With a stony, impassive expression, Etienne mounted the stairs to the bedchamber.

  Chapter Nine

  It was only a matter of moments before Gabriella stood outside the bedchamber with a basin of warm water m her hands. Fortuitously, Guido had some ready to be used for soup that he had reluctantly relinquished when she had hurried to the kitchen.

  She had returned to the castle almost by instinct after hearing Osric and his mother, too preoccupied to notice anything until she reached the kitchen. There she had gone about her tasks mechanically, until she saw the baron’s stallion being led into the stable. At once she had been determined to tell him about Osric, her sense of betrayal overpowering everything else.

  She had realized the moment she saw the baron that something was different about him. He looked ill, or in pain. Perhaps it was only that she had forgotten how grim his usual expression was. She had tried to ignore her curiosity and told herself that if something was wrong, it was none of her concern.

  Then the baron had stared at her with those cold, impartial eyes, and ordered her to do his bidding as if she were the meanest of servants, and she had decided she would say nothing about Osric. The baron didn’t deserve her help, and Osric would probably convince his mother to flee, after his close call in the forest today.

  Now, since the door was ajar, she, anxious to be gone, her hands encumbered, the water cooling and the baron expecting her, didn’t bother to announce her presence, but shoved the door open with her shoulder. The first thing she saw was the bed, with its sinfully rich coverings.

  Then she realized that Baron DeGuerre stood beside the old chest that she had noticed in the corner before, leaning his weight on his splayed hands. When he heard her enter, he spun around, winced and uttered a vehement curse that Gabriella had never heard before. His face was extremely pale and he favored his left leg.

  “Do you need any help?” she asked, everything else momentarily forgotten by her surprise that he could be hurt, like any other mortal.

  “I can manage,” he growled.

  “I … I brought the water you wanted,” she murmured, moving hastily toward the table, which was unfortunately covered in jewelry, brushes, small fragrant jars, a needle and spool of thick thread. She set the basin down on the stool beside it, then she turned to face him. She was sure he was in some kind of physical pain, or was ill.

  He limped toward the bed and sat on the end of it. “Bring the basin here.”

  “You are hurt,” she charged as she obeyed, concerned to see him in pain, as she would be for anyone. As she had been for Osric, she recalled bitterly. “Is it your foot? When did it happen, on the journey or at your other castle?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’ve brought the water. Now you can go.”

  “Perhaps you need some assistance—?”

  “Have you come to enjoy your servitude so much you want to help me disrobe?” His sarcastic tone surprised her, for she had rarely detected any emotion in his voice. He was always so controlled.

  The notion that he possessed human frailties gave her a strange sense of excitement, and diluted the aura of unnatural self-possession that set him so apart from other men. “You are injured,” she said firmly, ignoring his scowl, “and from the way you moved just now, I think you might have broken your foot. I know a little about broken bones, enough to tell if a bone is broken, anyway. Let me examine your foot, my lord.”

  He raised one dark brow. “Are you willing to remove my boots at last?” he asked with an attempt at frivolity.

  She looked at him sternly, like a mother facing a recalcitrant child. “I have to feel the wound.”

  “As much as I would enjoy having you at my feet, it is nothing serious.”

  “It pains you, does it not? It could grow worse, especially if the bone has broken the skin.” She crossed her arms and frowned. “Of course, I could do as you wish and do nothing, but if the wound festers…”

  “I understand your point, but I assure you, it is not serious,” he said as he waved his hand dismissively. “My ankle barely hurts.”

  She gave him a skeptical look, then crouched in front of him to remove his boot. She
pushed up the mud-spattered hem of his robe, then stared. “There is blood here.”

  “From a dead deer,” he explained matter-of-factly.

  Of course. He would have been hunting while he was gone. She took hold of his foot and he winced. His face quickly resumed its usual inscrutability. “Liar,” she muttered.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, my lord.” Then she grasped his boot and tugged it off, trying to be gentle now that she was sure he was in pain.

  Despite her care, he shot back on the bed and let out a subdued yelp when the boot came free.

  “I thought you said it didn’t hurt,” she remarked before taking his foot in her hand and tenderly feeling the swollen area through his woollen stockings. “I don’t think anything is broken,” she said.

  “I told you it was not serious.”

  With somewhat less gentle care, she let go of his foot, which struck the ground, making the baron wince again. “What the devil did you do that for?” he demanded.

  She sat back on her haunches. “I thought you could endure the pain, my lord,” she said innocently.

  “God’s teeth, yes, but I did not expect to be tortured!” His eyes narrowed. “You seem rather confident, for a servant, ” he noted dryly, setting his foot down cautiously.

  She recalled the coins Mary had given her, and reminded herself that they indicated a loyalty far more important than Osric’s betrayal. “I will not be a servant for very much longer,” she replied.

  “That is quite a sum you owe me. It will take many days’ labor to repay it.”

  “If I were dependent on my work alone, perhaps. But you see, Baron DeGuerre, the world is not quite the terrible place you believe it to be, not when one has friends, and I have friends in the village.”

  “Who?” he demanded.

  His angry reaction surprised her. Why should he be so upset to discover that she was not completely alone and friendless? He would get his money. Or was it that she would not be at his mercy if she had friends?

  If he were Philippe de Varenne, perhaps. But not Baron DeGuerre, for he had possessed the opportunity before and had not taken advantage of it, or her. He was an honorable man.

  Yes, honorable. In the days since her arrival, she had discovered that he was not the cold, cruel monster he was reputed to be. He was ambitious and expected his tenants to work, but that was not unreasonable. He wanted the law upheld and was ready to see it enforced. She could understand now that her father’s methods were not perfect; indeed, she was slowly beginning to appreciate the trouble misplaced charity could cause.

  “The men of the village may not be overly generous,” she replied, “but I am pleased to tell you that such a thing cannot also be said of the women. One has offered me a home, when I am free.”

  He rose slowly. “You are willing to take their money? I should think the peasant women can ill afford to lose any.”

  “Especially since you have raised the rents so high,” she said, keeping her tone matter-of-fact despite the sudden pounding of her heart as he came close to her. “It was offered to me out of kindness, and with thankfulness, I took it. It will be repaid.”

  “You must enjoy being in debt,” he noted wryly as he passed her and went to pour himself some wine.

  “It will not be so terrible to be in debt to them,” she said with a hint of defiance “Provided their generosity does not make their lives any more difficult.”

  “And I suppose you think yourself able to decide the point when they are giving you more than they can afford?”

  She didn’t answer, because her doubts were returning at his question. Was Mary going to suffer for helping her? Perhaps she should have refused, after all.

  “How will you judge?” he went on coldly. “You have never been poor.”

  “Neither have you,” she retorted defensively.

  “Haven’t I?” he queried, looking at her with his inscrutable blue eyes over the rim of his goblet.

  Suddenly she knew he had been, and this unexpected knowledge forced her to admit how little she knew of the man before her. She had seen the outer man, the unemotional commander. But the inner man, the one who had mentioned his mother with such bitterness, the one who would not allow himself to appear anything but strong—what did she know of him?

  What did she wish to know of him?

  Before her heart could answer, her pride arose to remind her that she had not made a completely selfish decision by taking Mary’s money. She would not feel badly for accepting it, and she would not give way to her curiosity concerning his past. Besides, who was the baron to stand here and try to make her feel guilty? It was his fault she needed Mary’s help. “You should stay off your foot, my lord,” she said dispassionately, turning toward the door.

  In immediate defiance of her words, he strode in front of her. “I can’t do that, and you must tell no one I am hurt.”

  “It is no sin to be injured,” she proclaimed, straightening her shoulders, raising her chin and wondering why she was not angrier. “Nor is it a sin to accept help when it is offered.”

  “It is no great honor, either,” he said as he walked toward the chest again, and she marveled that he could move with such agility, despite his injury.

  “You are determined to appear invincible, aren’t you?” she demanded.

  “A man in power must always appear invincible,” he said quietly, glancing at her over his shoulder, “for power can be as fleeting as a summer’s breeze, a man’s span of rule as short as a winter’s day. For every man who admires Baron DeGuerre, there are as many who would gladly see him weakened.”

  “Men like Philippe de Varenne?”

  He sat on the battered chest and regarded her steadily. “Yes, men like Philippe.”

  “Why do you keep him near you, then?”

  He gave her a ghost of a smile. “So I know what he’s up to, of course.” Etienne turned away and fumbled at the side of the chest, shielding the secret drawer from her sight. The pain was getting worse and it was getting more difficult to hide it from her shrewd gaze. “You may go,” he ordered brusquely, his fingers seeking the hidden latch.

  He found it and the drawer sprang open. Then he realized she was still standing there. “You seem rather reluctant to leave me, Gabriella. Is there anything else you would care to ask, or is it that you cannot bear to leave my company?”

  She remained motionless, watching him.

  By all the saints in Christendom, could it be that she did desire his company? He had asked the question flippantly, without really expecting her to answer. He had thought she would flee the room. If she did want to be with him, that would explain her reluctance to leave his bedchamber, her persistent questions, her tenderness…

  No, it couldn’t be, he told himself as his hand tightly gripped the vial inside the drawer. Her apparent concern for his injury was perhaps a ruse to discover how seriously he was hurt. The strangely sorrowful look in her eyes when she had entered the hall was probably regret that he had returned. The sensation of her gentle fingers probing his ankle didn’t matter except to remind him to ignore her.

  Finally she curtsied and left the room.

  Well, what else did he expect? That she would admit to a passionate love for him?

  God’s wounds, the ache in his foot was making him foolish! Soon he would be imagining that his mother had doted on him.

  With careful movements Etienne removed his stocking and set his foot in the basin of warm water. Then he pulled the stopper from the vial and put a few drops of the liquid into the water. A pungent aroma greeted his nostrils as he set his foot in the basin and leaned back on his elbows.

  The preparation he had added to the water, a secret elixir of his mother’s concoction that he had hoarded since her death, would numb the pain enough to enable him to walk normally at the meal tonight. His foot would ache and be tender for days, but no one need know how painful it might be.

  No one except Gabriella. He was thankful she hadn�
�t tried to mother him. Not that he knew what it was truly like to be mothered. His mother had rarely nursed him, telling him it was better to suffer in silence. To be a man.

  Nevertheless, he should have ordered Gabriella from the room at once, instead of letting her stay and revealing his injury. What if she told others of his state? What if that ambitious puppy Philippe. de Varenne found out?

  Philippe would never challenge the baron’s authority directly. He wouldn’t have the stomach for it.

  Nevertheless, any sign of weakness might pave the way for a lessening of respect, and a sense that the once powerful Baron DeGuerre had grown vulnerable. Philippe had many equally ambitious friends, and Etienne DeGuerre had made some enemies on his climb from the gutter. There would be several who would be only too happy to see him brought low.

  He would have to trust to Gabriella’s discretion, and he hoped that he could.

  As for those vultures who would one day come circling around him, let them come. They would find that Etienne DeGuerre was still more than a match for any of them.

  “Did anything interesting happen while I was away?” Philippe asked nonchalantly as he joined Sir George and the others in the hall that night before the evening meal.

  “No,” George replied with a shrug of his slim shoulders.

  “Gabriella Frechette gave George a bath, though,” Seldon said, a grin on his face.

  Philippe turned to stare at the usually self-possessed George, whose blushing face was nearly as red as his tunic.

  Donald frowned and Seldon gave him a befuddled look. “Well, she soaked him, didn’t she?”

  “A bucket of water escaped her slender fingers and happened to land on the ground near me,” George explained.

  “She was very upset about it,” Donald remarked gravely.

  “And she apologized very nicely,” George said as if to end all talk of her.

  Philippe was not in a mood to be dissuaded, especially when he remembered what he had learned about Gabriella’s brother while the baron chose to ignore him on their recent journey. He had not wasted all his abundant leisure time at the Montmorencys. “How is the pretty Gabriella?” he inquired. “Does Chalfront continue to harbor hopes?”