Bride Of The Tower

Chapter Four

Birkland Manor, Nottinghamshire

Sir Richard Belleville ignored the usual filth and noisy disorder that engulfed the bailey and made his way to the stable by a roundabout route guaranteed to afford him privacy. His irritation rose; the fact that he must skulk like a thief from one place to another in what was essentially his own keep grated mightily on his already-short temper.

Damn Rannulf FitzClifford anyway! Birkland was but a small part of the territory FitzClifford held for both himself and his wife. ’Twas a wonder he should recall ’twas his to command. But remember it he did, far too often for Richard’s peace of mind. The steadfast nobleman and his well-connected friends made Richard’s life a constant battle, as he sought to balance the commands and desires of Birkland’s owner against his own more profitable aspirations.

How could a man of wealth and power such as Lord Rannulf maintain his allegiance to a boy king, rather than take full advantage of the opportunity provided to put a true leader—one who would reward his friends well—in his place? The fact that Lord William Marshal, the vaunted Earl of Pembroke, stood as regent and advisor to young King Henry made little difference, so far as Richard could see. Pah, the man was ancient, a long way past his prime.

What did it matter that he’d been the most notable warrior in all England once, when that time had been decades ago? He was so old, ’twould be a miracle if he recognized his own vassals now. ’Twas a mystery why anyone would swear fealty to such a man and remain loyal to him and their weak king—and a misery for Richard, since his own loyalty rested wherever he could find the best prospect for personal gain.

And now to have one of FitzClifford’s lackeys nosing about…Generally Lord Rannulf sent orders by way of a messenger, not a trusted knight from his personal troop. Sir William Bowman had been a part of Lord Rannulf’s inner circle since before he’d won his spurs.

Something must have made FitzClifford suspicious about where Richard’s allegiance lay. What other reason could Bowman have had to break his journey at Birkland? To deliver a message from Lord Rannulf that said next to nothing, while affording Bowman the opportunity to pry into Richard’s affairs? It seemed impossible that word of his activities could have reached Fitz-Clifford, who dwelt in one of the most remote parts of the kingdom—and so swiftly, too—but he could think of no other reason for Bowman’s visit.

If the truth of Richard’s involvement in the plans to overthrow the young king came to light, the best he could hope for would be a swift death. No matter that he saw no sin in working to aid those with some power to gain it all; others would see his actions as treason.

He’d simply have to make certain he remained on the side that won.

He strode into the shadowy depths of the stable, shuddering at the sudden chill that skittered down his spine. The darkness brought to mind the torture, maiming and worse that had haunted his dreams in the two nights since Bowman had arrived at Birkland. A traitor’s reward—or the fears of a guilty man, mayhap—but also a powerful spur to goad him toward the successful completion of his plans.

Escorting Bowman on his way—into the maze-like depths of Sherwood, Richard reflected, giving a satisfied chuckle—had been a masterstroke. The man had even thanked him for his consideration! If the man found his way out of the wood, ’twould certainly delay his journey.

If he survived…

Yet Richard couldn’t quite rid himself of the sensation that he had an arrow aimed at his back as he stood on the battlements, poised and ready to help him lose his balance and propel to his doom.

Although he’d sent two of his own trusted men after Bowman later, to do whatever necessary to ensure that the man never left the infamous forest, his uneasiness had yet to diminish.

Perhaps the fact that he had heard nothing from the pair of worthless idiots since they’d gone out after Bowman accounted for his continuing apprehension.

He’d taken care of every detail, he was sure of it. He couldn’t hide the fact that Bowman had entered Birkland—unfortunately too many people had seen and spoken with him for that—but Richard stood ready, if necessary, to swear Bowman hadn’t delivered any messages from Lord Rannulf to him.

In the event Bowman’s effects should survive though he did not, the message from Lord Rannulf, slipped back into the pack while Bowman slept, had been resealed with wax so neatly, anyone examining the contents of Bowman’s pack would never realize it had already been opened.

If anyone should come looking for Bowman, Richard would claim he’d never read Fitz-Clifford’s missive before Bowman left Birkland. It should work; his ability to feign innocence had served him well all his life. He’d no reason to believe the skill would abandon him now.

After all, ’twas possible Bowman had forgotten to deliver the letter, was it not?

’Twas a shame he hadn’t dared to relieve Bowman of the other messages he’d carried. He’d like to have gotten his hands on them, since Bowman had been on his way to Pembroke’s camp at Lincoln. There was no telling what important missive he might have brought; perhaps something useful to Richard’s plans, or his associates’ goals. What a feat ’twould be if he could gain possession of important information to pass along to the leaders of their rebellion!

If his men had not only stopped Bowman, but brought back his pack…Hell, he cared little if they didn’t stop Bowman, if only they’d stolen the letters.

Straw rustled deep in the far corner of the large building, distracting Richard from his musings. “There ye are, milord.” Johan spoke from the gloom. “I been waitin’ for ye a long time. Beginnin’ to think ye mightn’t o’got my message.”

His eyes still adjusting to the dim light, Richard crossed to where the leader of his small, private troop of mercenaries leaned against the door of a narrow stall tucked behind the hay crib. As always, insolence lent the man’s pox-scarred face a leering appearance that made Richard wonder how far Johan could be trusted.

Thus far he’d obeyed Richard’s directives. He’d proven he could be relied upon—indeed, that he was highly skilled—in carrying out any task, including murder, abduction and questioning obstinate prisoners. So long as his price was met. Richard had had no cause for complaint.

Thus far.

“Your message said you’d something important to show me, something to do with Bowman,” he said, low-voiced. “I didn’t intend to await you in the bailey to see it, along with everyone else out there.” He peered into the stall, then spun round to Johan and, using both hands, hauled him up by the front of his tunic and shook him. “You lack-wit,” he ground out. “You called me to the stable to see a horse?”

Johan’s feet skimmed the dirt floor; he grabbed hold of Richard’s hands, wrenched them from his tunic and thrust them away from him. He stumbled, caught his balance and lunged back into Richard’s face. “Ye better watch yerself, milord,” he snarled. “Don’t want to push me too far. Could be my price’ll go up, to account for yer ill manners. Or mayhap I’ll find me another master, one who’ll treat me better.” He jerked his tunic and belt into position, his right hand lingering on the long dirk sheathed at his waist. “Then where’d ye be, eh, milord Richard?” Johan’s ugly face twisted into a sneer. “You’d not find another could take the place o’ me so easy.”

His foul breath gusted over Richard’s face, nigh strong enough to overpower the usual stable stench. Muttering a curse at the unfortunate truth of Johan’s threat, Richard turned away and stared into the stall again.

“Tell me about this horse,” Richard demanded. He unlatched the door and entered the stall to take a closer look at the sturdy black gelding. “’Tis a fine enough animal, but I see nothing remarkable about it.”

Johan leaned against the doorframe and nodded. “Aye. It ain’t nothin’ special, ’cept when ye know who it belongs to.” He grinned. “Or belonged to, mayhap. This be Sir William’s mount, milord, what he rode into the wood. We found no sign o’ Bowman, but his horse, still wearin’ his saddle and all his gear, we found wanderin’ out near the border wi’ the Tower.”

“Christ’s bones!” Richard slammed his hand against the wall. The pain provided an adequate substitute for the urge to roar his frustration. “What about the men I sent after Bowman? Why didn’t they have the beast? And Bowman’s body, for that matter.” He took a calming breath. “I don’t imagine you found any signs of a struggle, something to show they found him, at least?”

“No one’s seen ’em since they set out after him yesterday afternoon.” Johan shrugged. “Could Bowman have killed ’em, d’ye think?” he added, his repulsive features slanting into a curious smile. “If he had, we’d ha’ found ’em out there, most like. I’d wonder if they took their pay and run off, ’cept they only got a part o’ it.” He slipped his knife free, used the point to pick at his teeth and spat. “Besides, they know what I’d do to ’em if I caught ’em at that.” He sheathed the dirk. “It’s bad for business.”

Calmer now, Richard reached out and stroked the gelding. The beast shied away, nearly crushing Johan against the doorframe before he could leap aside. “Nasty bastard, he is,” Johan muttered from a safe distance away. “He gave us nothin’ but trouble most o’ the way back here. Miserable bastard! Never did care much for horses.” He turned and dug through the hay piled near the stall and dragged out a saddle and several packs. “Here’s all we found,” he said.

Ignoring the saddle, Richard grabbed the packs and began to paw through them. Naught but clothing and some supplies…Not a sign of what he sought, however. Disgusted, he shoved the packs aside. “Was there a small leather pouch tied to the saddle? About so big—” he gestured with his hands “—with a strap long enough to sling it over your shoulder.”

Johan shook his head. “This is everythin’. Maybe Bowman was wearin’ it, or dropped it someplace.”

“Then we need Bowman. Send someone out into the forest again, and tell them to look more carefully this time! Sherwood’s got hiding places aplenty—far too many for there to have been a thorough search so soon.” He knelt beside the packs and rummaged through the contents once more. Nothing! He stuffed everything back inside them and held them out to Johan. “Take these with you—the horse, too. I don’t want anyone asking questions about Bowman. ’Tis best if it looks as if he disappeared far from here, so no one suspects we had anything to do with it.”

Richard stood. “Keep looking.” Turning, he began to walk away, then paused and looked back, giving the mercenary his most menacing glare. “The next time I see you, you’d better have something valuable for me.”

Chapter Five

Julianna kept tight hold of the missive she’d found in her patient’s pack, despite his unyielding grip on her fingers and the way his body pinned hers to the rough plaster wall. He might be bigger and stronger than she, but from the way he trembled and rested his weight against her—as much for support, she’d guess, as to hold her in place—she’d only to remain patient and wait a bit before she won this battle.

Before she could read the rest of the letter addressed to her enemy.

His warmth sank through her clothing and into her flesh, tempting her traitorous body anew and reminding her what a fool she’d been. To trust a stranger for even a moment, to lust for a stranger’s touch, when she knew naught of whether he be ally or foe.

Dear God, she must be mad!

The sense of betrayal gave her the determination to slip from beneath his weight. He tightened his grasp, however, his hand fisted around hers, the parchment crumpling within her hold as he spun her around to face him.

“Have a care who you call traitor, milady,” he warned, bending so close to her, his whiskers scraped along her jaw. “Else I’ll be forced to judge you traitor instead.” A swift glance at his face showed no weakness now, only a steady resolve she’d do well to heed. Though his blue eyes burned with fever and pain, she couldn’t mistake the outrage lurking there. Had she insulted him? Could it be that he was no more a traitor than she?

Or mayhap he was simply better at disguising his true nature.

She pushed away from him, making him reel for a moment before he caught his balance against the wall. He retained his grip on her hand, however, maddening her all the more. “With what reason?” she asked. “I am a true and loyal subject of our king—”

“Are you?” he ground out, straightening to his full height and taking a step toward her. “I know nothing of you, lady—not so much as who you are, or the name of this place.”

“Tuck’s Tower,” she told him with hard-won calm. “Do you know of it?”

He shook his head. Then, his lips twisting into a mocking smile at odds with the steel in his gaze, he tugged her nearer. “But who are you? A lady dressed in warrior’s garb…I’ve only known of one other woman who would do so. ’Tis uncommon, you must admit—rare enough to raise questions in a curious man’s mind. Do you command the defense of Tuck’s Tower, milady?” With his free hand he cupped her chin, then slid his fingers down along her neck and over her shoulder before stopping, his open palm pressed lightly just above her breast. “’Tis a puzzle certain to entice a man,” he murmured. “Or could it be you’re simply a siren, meant to lure a man to your bed and render him your slave?”

The low timbre of his voice sent a shiver of awareness down her spine and made her heartbeat thrum faster beneath his hand—he found her alluring?—before the insult of his words and bold caress made its way to her poor besotted brain. He mocked her, more likely.

Though it took all her resolve, she reached up and yanked his hand away. “Hardly a siren,” she scoffed with a mirthless laugh. “Nor a puzzle, either. I am simply a woman, though one with no wiles to tempt a man. I scarce appear a woman at all.” She grabbed the loose-fitting tail of her shirt and held it out. “A man’s garb, stout armor and a strong sword are hardly the weapons of enticement, though they serve me well enough.”

“Aye, they suit you well indeed, milady,” he said, his gaze roaming along her from head to toe, lingering upon her legs in their snug braes before rising to her face and pinning her fast within the heated blue of his eyes. Sudden awareness hardened his features; he shook his head and glanced away for a moment. When he turned back to her, his expression pensive, he added, “Mayhap you’re naught but an outlaw or a robber, then, setting upon any hapless traveler who passes your way. This is Sherwood Forest, after all.”

How dare he accuse her? “The blow to your head has clearly scrambled your brain. I saved your worthless life, you idiot! Is that the act of a robber?” she demanded.

Throughout their discourse he’d retained his hold on her hand and the parchment she’d found in his pack—a fact she had scarce noted till now, to her shame—but her fury made her aware of it, and gave her the impetus to jerk herself free.

It infuriated her all the more that he let her.

“You’ll find no outlaws here—” She clamped her mouth shut, afraid her temper might lead her into dangerous waters. She drew in a calming breath. “Nor traitors, either.”

Julianna wanted nothing more than to pound out her anger and frustration upon his chest, but she greatly feared that to touch him thus would do naught but beguile her to lay her hands on him in other, less aggressive ways.

Sweet Mary save her, had she lost all sense of self-preservation, of right and wrong? The man called her robber and traitor, and what did she do but seek to draw his attention to her in any way she could. She knew better.

She stepped away before her temper led her into worse foolishness, pausing an arm’s length away. ’Twould be better to ease the tension between them than to aggravate it further. Closing her eyes, she combed her hair back from her face with one hand and eased her grip on the parchment with the other. “Thus far we’ve managed to do nothing but provoke each other,” she said, trying to infuse her voice with a note of apology. “Surely we can be more civil than that—and resolve our differences, whatever they might be.”

“I’m willing if you are,” he said, his expression amused.

Did he doubt she was capable of civility? If so, he’d reason, she had to admit. She’d shown scant evidence of courtesy to him.

Though she did know the trappings of well-mannered behavior, she’d look a complete fool to curtsey in shirt and braes. He’d have to be satisfied with polite words, not actions.

She eased her crushing grip on the letter and lowered her hands to her sides. “I am Julianna d’Arcy,” she said, nodding. “I bid you welcome to Tuck’s Tower.”

“You are lady of this keep?”

A strange question, but asked in a most reasonable tone—mildly curious, not accusing or judgmental in any way. “Aye, and defender of it, as well.”

He nodded, then, taking her free hand in his, he swept a low bow. “Lady Julianna, I am William Bowman, a simple knight in the service of Lord Rannulf FitzClifford.” His gaze fixed upon hers, he raised her hand to his lips. “’Tis a pleasure to meet you,” he said, the words causing nigh as much effect as the feel of his fingers stroking her palm and his mouth upon her flesh.

Julianna nearly snatched her hand away before he straightened and released her, so intense was her reaction to the change in his voice. ’Twas all she could do to suppress the quiver skimming over her skin at the sound of it, to resist the urge to lean closer to him, to bask in the feel of that audible touch.

Oh, but he was a clever man! No doubt he used that low, caressing murmur as a weapon to manipulate women; he’d be a fool not to.

But he’d soon discover it had no effect upon her.

She’d see to that, she vowed, no matter how difficult it was to accomplish.

No matter how much it went counter to the inclination of her suddenly traitorous body.

She drew herself up to her full height, tried for an imperious bearing, met his gaze and gave a cool nod. “Now then, Sir William—”

“Will,” he said with an easy smile.

Did he think to cozen her with but a smile? She’d dealt with charming men before—aye, she knew any number of persuasive scoundrels. She also knew ’twas best to give them no chance to attempt to work their wiles upon her. It did naught but annoy her, though with Sir William, she feared her reaction would be anything but annoyance.

He’d not find her an easy target.

“Sir William, what were you doing wandering through Sherwood alone?” she asked.

Will held Lady Julianna’s gaze, silently pondering the sudden change in her bearing. Thus far in their brief acquaintance he’d seen her soft and yielding beneath him, and fierce as any warrior. But this serene woman, wearing the mantle of command so effortlessly on her shoulders, showed him another facet of her altogether—for despite the well-worn men’s garb she wore, he could never mistake her for anything but a noble lady.

He weighed the determination in her amber eyes, his mind—still awhirl from the battering he’d taken—pondering the best way to proceed. She still held one of Lord Rannulf’s letters clutched in her hand, and the leather pouch he’d carried them in lay on the floor behind her. Though ’twould be a pleasure indeed to take his time with her, he’d no business toying with a lady.

Nor did he have time to dally here; Lord Rannulf had set him a task, one he’d yet to complete. It was too important for him to let anything go awry.

Could he bargain with her for the letter? Or would she simply hand it over to him if he asked?

Her lips firmed; her expression, though weary, showed not a whit of compliance. Though she’d been civil, indeed, ’twas clear she’d not simply give in. His pulse quickened in anticipation.

He smiled, and Lady Julianna’s chin rose, her look of stubbornness growing more pronounced. Though he knew he’d have to work to regain his possessions, there was no reason he couldn’t enjoy the process. He’d always enjoyed a good fight, especially a verbal one.

And it appeared his warrior lady had every intention of enjoining him in battle.

Chapter Six

Will folded his arms and leaned his shoulders back against the wall, more to provoke Lady Julianna, truth be told, than because he needed the wall for support. “If I asked you most politely for my pack and the letters, would you give them to me and allow me to continue on my way?”

“You’re in no condition to go anywhere at the moment, save back to your pallet,” she said, her tart tone a perfect accompaniment to the fire in her eyes and the faint tinge of color mounting her cheeks. “So I see no reason to return any of your belongings to you just yet.” She stooped to pick up the leather pouch from the floor, her dark hair swinging like a cloak about her and shielding him from her view.

Will took advantage of the moment to reach for the dagger he kept tucked in the top of his boot, only to realize that his feet were bare—though even if they’d left his boots on, they weren’t likely to have left a weapon so easily at hand.

Not that he’d have used it against her, in any case. But as a threat, if necessary…

Lady Julianna rose, shook her hair out of the way and faced him before he could disguise the movement as anything but what it had been. She tucked the parchment into the bag, closed the flap and swung the strap over her shoulder, giving the pouch a final pat that made the bundle of messages crackle.

Reaching down to her own boot, she slipped a dagger free. “Were you looking for this?” she asked. She straightened, tossing the dagger and catching it by the hilt with the ease of long practice. “It seems a fine piece,” she mused as she inspected the design etched into the blade. “Well-balanced, and well-used, too, from the look of it.”

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