at his heels.
Axton remained as he was, sprawled back in the heavy oak chair in the middle of the dais, staring gloomily over his restored domain.
Whence came this discontent? He should be elated, drinking and celebrating with his men who’d been so loyal these long years, searching out a toothsome wench eager to win favor with the new lord of Maidenstone. Instead he’d sent everyone off to one task or another, clearing the hall save for the servants who now set up the trestle tables for this evening’s victory feast. Sir Reynold was reorganizing the castle guard, installing their own men in all the key positions and determining who would swear fealty to the new lord and who would only cause trouble.
Sir Maurice was meeting with the seneschal, Sir John, to determine how the household functioned. Axton’s mother would take over that task once she arrived, of course.
Or should he trust that task to the new wife he meant to take?
Axton had not thought of Lady Beatrix since their brief introduction. He’d put her completely and deliberately out of his mind. But now, with no reason preventing it, he allowed himself to picture her in that first moment when their eyes had met.
She was a beauty. No use pretending otherwise. Young and fair, with eyes the color of the sea, wild and tumultuous, and hair as vivid as an autumn sunset. Tall, slender—and haughty—in appearance she’d been more than he could have hoped for. In truth, following Henry’s admonition to marry the eldest daughter—in this case, the only daughter—would not be the hardship he envisioned. But she was still a de Valcourt.
Her father had been horrified when Axton had stated his intention. The man’s hands had clenched and his arms had quivered with his rage. But it had been impotent rage, for the man knew he’d been defeated.
If only the coward would have challenged him. To kill de Valcourt in battle would surely have brought him the satisfaction he still sought.
But that was not going to happen, he realized, as his restless gaze once again swept the hall. Though a blood lust yet burned in his veins, there would be no outlet for it this day. And mayhap never. He would have to take his bitter satisfaction in banishing the man from Maidenstone, and from knowing his son would never fight again—assuming he yet lived.
“God’s bones!” He swore and slammed a fist down upon the table. His empty goblet rattled on the heavy board surface and a serving wench appeared at once to refill it with ale, then disappear.
But it was not ale he sought. No, only revenge would assuage this thirst. To banish de Valcourt and see the son a cripple was far from enough to douse the fires that eighteen years of rage had fueled. He needed more. He needed some enemy to fight, but they gave him none.
The women of the family offered more resistance than did the men. The old crone would murder him in his sleep, should he allow her the opportunity. And the young one …
The young one would be his wife soon enough. He would wed her and bed her on the morrow.
He shifted in the chair. Just the thought of lying with the haughty little wench caused blood to rush to his loins. Perhaps he would have his satisfaction from her pretty hide, he mused. There was something in those stormy green eyes that bespoke a fiery temperament. Perhaps in the struggle to bring her to heel and make of her a meek and tractable wife, he would find the release he needed.
Yes, he was long overdue some pleasure of this place. That de Valcourt’s daughter should be the one to provide it seemed especially fitting.
“We could poison him. ’Twould take very little of belladonna or bittersweet to kill him and all the other spineless bastards who do follow him.” Lady Harriet paced the solar back and forth, her metal-tipped stick beating a furious rhythm across the plank floor. “Perchance in his ale. A cruel tonic that will see him suffer before he dies, that will make him retch and burn, and
Axton remained as he was, sprawled back in the heavy oak chair in the middle of the dais, staring gloomily over his restored domain.
Whence came this discontent? He should be elated, drinking and celebrating with his men who’d been so loyal these long years, searching out a toothsome wench eager to win favor with the new lord of Maidenstone. Instead he’d sent everyone off to one task or another, clearing the hall save for the servants who now set up the trestle tables for this evening’s victory feast. Sir Reynold was reorganizing the castle guard, installing their own men in all the key positions and determining who would swear fealty to the new lord and who would only cause trouble.
Sir Maurice was meeting with the seneschal, Sir John, to determine how the household functioned. Axton’s mother would take over that task once she arrived, of course.
Or should he trust that task to the new wife he meant to take?
Axton had not thought of Lady Beatrix since their brief introduction. He’d put her completely and deliberately out of his mind. But now, with no reason preventing it, he allowed himself to picture her in that first moment when their eyes had met.
She was a beauty. No use pretending otherwise. Young and fair, with eyes the color of the sea, wild and tumultuous, and hair as vivid as an autumn sunset. Tall, slender—and haughty—in appearance she’d been more than he could have hoped for. In truth, following Henry’s admonition to marry the eldest daughter—in this case, the only daughter—would not be the hardship he envisioned. But she was still a de Valcourt.
Her father had been horrified when Axton had stated his intention. The man’s hands had clenched and his arms had quivered with his rage. But it had been impotent rage, for the man knew he’d been defeated.
If only the coward would have challenged him. To kill de Valcourt in battle would surely have brought him the satisfaction he still sought.
But that was not going to happen, he realized, as his restless gaze once again swept the hall. Though a blood lust yet burned in his veins, there would be no outlet for it this day. And mayhap never. He would have to take his bitter satisfaction in banishing the man from Maidenstone, and from knowing his son would never fight again—assuming he yet lived.
“God’s bones!” He swore and slammed a fist down upon the table. His empty goblet rattled on the heavy board surface and a serving wench appeared at once to refill it with ale, then disappear.
But it was not ale he sought. No, only revenge would assuage this thirst. To banish de Valcourt and see the son a cripple was far from enough to douse the fires that eighteen years of rage had fueled. He needed more. He needed some enemy to fight, but they gave him none.
The women of the family offered more resistance than did the men. The old crone would murder him in his sleep, should he allow her the opportunity. And the young one …
The young one would be his wife soon enough. He would wed her and bed her on the morrow.
He shifted in the chair. Just the thought of lying with the haughty little wench caused blood to rush to his loins. Perhaps he would have his satisfaction from her pretty hide, he mused. There was something in those stormy green eyes that bespoke a fiery temperament. Perhaps in the struggle to bring her to heel and make of her a meek and tractable wife, he would find the release he needed.
Yes, he was long overdue some pleasure of this place. That de Valcourt’s daughter should be the one to provide it seemed especially fitting.
“We could poison him. ’Twould take very little of belladonna or bittersweet to kill him and all the other spineless bastards who do follow him.” Lady Harriet paced the solar back and forth, her metal-tipped stick beating a furious rhythm across the plank floor. “Perchance in his ale. A cruel tonic that will see him suffer before he dies, that will make him retch and burn, and
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