for the king’s tournament before you retire?” Sir Nigel inquired. “At last count, it appears we shall have to provide for several dozen barons and their retinues.”
“I will be gone but a short time.”
Golde took the second step and felt the baron descend behind her. To see the mean-tempered bastard scratch welts for a week would make fleas worth the effort. Her right foot landed on the third step.
“But de Warrenne will be arriving this afternoon,” Sir Nigel persisted.
Her left foot was yet in midair when the baron jerked to a halt. “I have said . . .”
Golde teetered, struggling to maintain her balance, but her forward momentum was too great. She stumbled to the fourth step. The lord’s grip tightened on her tunic for the barest moment. Then he slammed against her. Unable to bear his weight, her legs buckled.
Cursing, she tumbled headlong over the remaining step to sprawl belly-down on the rush-strewn floor. Gavarnie landed hard atop her, crushing the breath from her.
A chorus of gasps spiraled around her. The hiss of air echoed off the high-timbered walls with increasing volume until her ears rang. She labored for breath as a heated emptiness expanded in her stomach, then spread to engulf her arms and legs.
’Twill pass, she assured herself as anxiety stole over her. She’d had the wind knocked from her before. Any moment now, she’d draw a chestful of air, and all would be well.
She raised her head as several pairs of wooden-soled shoes appeared in her line of vision, only to become hazy and indistinct. She widened her eyes, straining to see, but a white fog rapidly enveloped the room until all was thick and motionless.
Had she fainted?
Nay. Her eyes were open.
She struggled to move, but ’twas if she no longer had a body to command. Dread, suchlike she’d never experienced, consumed her senses.
Had she died?
Abruptly she became aware of the baron’s solid body atop hers. His chest expanded so gradually against her back, she could feel each slight displacement of his ribs as they moved to accommodate air. His indrawn breath rustled in her ears like a slow, gentle breeze, bearing her up, arousing her senses to levels of alertness she had never dreamed possible.
Comfort, fuzzy and warm. Her terror vanished and she reveled in a cool mist that drifted over her.
The baron’s heart thumped once, reverberating, the pulse-beat rippling over the fine hairs that covered her flesh like so many divining rods. How safe she felt. As if Delamaure were protecting her. As if he would never allow harm to befall her.
Then his breath seeped outward, draining away her sense of ease, bleeding over the fog.
Stained crimson
.
Rage?
Not hers
.
Delamaure’s?
Or was it directed at the lord?
The crimson color separated into browns, reds, golds— sifting through the mist—spinning faster, drawing her into the vortex—until the shades merged to form a solid image
.
’Twas the baron’s bedchamber
.
Tapestries, wild and fantastic, hung on the walls
.
How had she not seen them last night?
Strangely dressed horsemen, oddly shaped castles, their pastel hues, time-faded. She felt their texture, fine and worn soft. The riders’ ululations called, echoing dimly in her ears. She tasted bland grittiness on her tongue. An elemental odor transcended the scent of arid heat
.
Was it brine?
Nay, ’twas sharper, more bitter
.
The great four-posted bed drew her attention. There was something there. She should not look. Away, her thoughts whispered urgently
.
But ’twas as if some giant serpent had captured her will. The bed dragged her onward until she hovered directly over it
.
Good lack!
A beautiful blond-haired woman stared heavenward, her blue eyes death-shrouded
.
Now she recognized the cloying smell
.
’Twas blood. Everywhere
.
Splattering the woman’s waxen face. Covering her bare torso. Raging over the white bed sheets like a flash flood
.
Hatred. Fear
.
The woman’s?
’Twas as if her
“I will be gone but a short time.”
Golde took the second step and felt the baron descend behind her. To see the mean-tempered bastard scratch welts for a week would make fleas worth the effort. Her right foot landed on the third step.
“But de Warrenne will be arriving this afternoon,” Sir Nigel persisted.
Her left foot was yet in midair when the baron jerked to a halt. “I have said . . .”
Golde teetered, struggling to maintain her balance, but her forward momentum was too great. She stumbled to the fourth step. The lord’s grip tightened on her tunic for the barest moment. Then he slammed against her. Unable to bear his weight, her legs buckled.
Cursing, she tumbled headlong over the remaining step to sprawl belly-down on the rush-strewn floor. Gavarnie landed hard atop her, crushing the breath from her.
A chorus of gasps spiraled around her. The hiss of air echoed off the high-timbered walls with increasing volume until her ears rang. She labored for breath as a heated emptiness expanded in her stomach, then spread to engulf her arms and legs.
’Twill pass, she assured herself as anxiety stole over her. She’d had the wind knocked from her before. Any moment now, she’d draw a chestful of air, and all would be well.
She raised her head as several pairs of wooden-soled shoes appeared in her line of vision, only to become hazy and indistinct. She widened her eyes, straining to see, but a white fog rapidly enveloped the room until all was thick and motionless.
Had she fainted?
Nay. Her eyes were open.
She struggled to move, but ’twas if she no longer had a body to command. Dread, suchlike she’d never experienced, consumed her senses.
Had she died?
Abruptly she became aware of the baron’s solid body atop hers. His chest expanded so gradually against her back, she could feel each slight displacement of his ribs as they moved to accommodate air. His indrawn breath rustled in her ears like a slow, gentle breeze, bearing her up, arousing her senses to levels of alertness she had never dreamed possible.
Comfort, fuzzy and warm. Her terror vanished and she reveled in a cool mist that drifted over her.
The baron’s heart thumped once, reverberating, the pulse-beat rippling over the fine hairs that covered her flesh like so many divining rods. How safe she felt. As if Delamaure were protecting her. As if he would never allow harm to befall her.
Then his breath seeped outward, draining away her sense of ease, bleeding over the fog.
Stained crimson
.
Rage?
Not hers
.
Delamaure’s?
Or was it directed at the lord?
The crimson color separated into browns, reds, golds— sifting through the mist—spinning faster, drawing her into the vortex—until the shades merged to form a solid image
.
’Twas the baron’s bedchamber
.
Tapestries, wild and fantastic, hung on the walls
.
How had she not seen them last night?
Strangely dressed horsemen, oddly shaped castles, their pastel hues, time-faded. She felt their texture, fine and worn soft. The riders’ ululations called, echoing dimly in her ears. She tasted bland grittiness on her tongue. An elemental odor transcended the scent of arid heat
.
Was it brine?
Nay, ’twas sharper, more bitter
.
The great four-posted bed drew her attention. There was something there. She should not look. Away, her thoughts whispered urgently
.
But ’twas as if some giant serpent had captured her will. The bed dragged her onward until she hovered directly over it
.
Good lack!
A beautiful blond-haired woman stared heavenward, her blue eyes death-shrouded
.
Now she recognized the cloying smell
.
’Twas blood. Everywhere
.
Splattering the woman’s waxen face. Covering her bare torso. Raging over the white bed sheets like a flash flood
.
Hatred. Fear
.
The woman’s?
’Twas as if her
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