Crusader Captive. Merline Lovelace

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СКАЧАТЬ you want him with the wrist cuffs on or off?” he queried in a voice tinged with unmistakable disapproval.

      She directed her attention to Simon and raked him again from head to foot. As he had on the auction block, he stiffened under her assessing look.

      By the bones of Saint Bartholomew, she was a forward wench. The kind whose bold glance would have raised an answering response from him in other times, other circumstances. He’d bedded his share and more of saucy maids and painted, panting ladies before his father’s dying vow had bound him to a life of poverty, obedience and chastity.

      Yet he’d never encountered a female such as this one. Strong enough to ride for hours without so much as slumping in the saddle. Strong-willed enough to issue orders to the battle-scarred veteran who awaited her command.

      “Off,” she told him. “But you have my leave to subdue him if he offers violence.”

      “He’d best not.”

      Simon knew the gruff response was more for his benefit than hers. She knew it, as well. She turned away with a nod, then swung back.

      “Be sure to bring him to me by way of the tower stairs.”

      “I will.”

      Simon’s gaze followed her as she lifted her skirts and stepped around the offal inevitable in a stable yard teeming with horses, swine and chickens. She had a fine-turned ankle, he couldn’t help but note before he faced her lieutenant once again.

      “I am Hugh of Poitiers,” the man informed him. “Once in service to Eleanor of Aquitaine. For these past two decades and more, I am sworn to the holder of these lands.”

      “Who is he?”

      “She.” Sir Hugh tipped his head to the retreating female. “Lady Jocelyn is my liege.”

      Simon’s glance whipped to the lady, then back again. “She holds this keep? She has no husband? No father or brother?”

      “She has me,” the knight snapped.

      “I meant no offense. But a fortress of this size…”

      When his glance swept the well-ordered yards again, Sir Hugh offered a terse explanation.

      “Lady Jocelyn’s grandfather died this Michaelmas past, before he could negotiate a suitable marriage for her. King Baldwin took her in as his ward and appointed one of his own men as steward. The fool likes to believe he holds sway here. I would suggest you do not make the same mistake.”

      So that was the way of it. The lady was an heiress. A prize to be given to a faithful vassal. From the looks of this keep, she was a rich prize indeed.

      Simon knew well—all Christendom did—that the constant struggle to hold on to the territories wrested from the Saracens in the First Crusade had caused many a lord to fall on the field of battle. Their sons likewise often went down to the sword or lance. As a result, great fiefs devolved on female heirs here in the East far more often than in the West. Tales abounded of rich widows being given to new husbands almost before they’d buried their last.

      Such rumors had lured many a landless knight and adventurous man-at-arms to seek both a bride and a fortune here in Outremer. Simon himself had considered doing so, but he would not now make a fortune nor take a bride in this wild land. Both were forbidden to Knights Templar. All they took in spoils, all revenues they gained through their vast holdings both here and in the West, belonged to the order.

      “How are you known?” Sir Hugh wanted to know.

      “I am Simon de Rhys, fifth son of Gervase de Rhys.”

      “Gervase de Rhys.” The knight’s brow wrinkled. “What have I heard of him?”

      That he was foresworn of his honor, his lands and the respect of all men, Simon thought bitterly. That he whored and guzzled ale and took by guile what he could not take by the strength of his arm. It wasn’t by chance that Simon had ridden away from his sire’s crumbling keep soon as he’d been strong enough to swing a sword and not returned until summoned to the man’s deathbed.

      His shoulders stiffening, he answered only, “I know not.”

      “How old are you?”

      “Six and twenty.”

      Hugh’s eyes narrowed. “Have you won your spurs?”

      “Ten years ago.”

      “So young?” Surprised, the scarred warrior raked him with a sharp look. “By whose hand were you knighted?”

      “Henri, Duke of Angoulême.”

      “Ah, him I have heard of. He was a good man. If he knighted you, you must have won his respect.”

      Hugh stroked his chin for several moments, his piercing gaze seeming to see into Simon’s soul.

      “I heartily disapprove of what Lady Jocelyn has in store for you,” he said at last, “but understand why she does it. Whether you fall in with her plans or no, hear me well, Simon de Rhys. I will rip you and string you up by your guts should you harm one hair on her head.”

      “I—”

      He flung up a mailed fist. “I care not what you say or think! Only that you know your life is forfeit if you harm her. Do you understand me?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then let us get you fed and bathed, as my lady commanded. Then I will take you to her solar.”

      Jocelyn paced the spacious tower room, her nerves strung so tight she feared they would snap.

      Until her grandfather’s death she’d shared a bedchamber with the other unmarried ladies of the keep. Four, sometimes six, of them had slept in the curtained bed, the rest on the cushioned benches they sat on during the day to sew or read or strum their lutes. Now that she’d moved into the lord’s chamber, Jocelyn enjoyed the almost unheard-of luxury of privacy. That privacy allowed her to do what she was determined to do this night!

      She’d planned her campaign with the same care Sir Hugh did an attack on enemy strongholds. With the sun about to set, she’d ordered candles and a fire laid. Stout wood shutters now shut out the night and the chill breeze coming off the sea. Rich tapestries kept drafts from seeping through the stone walls, while thick carpets covered the wooden floorboards. The chamber was warm and comfortable, yet her nerves danced and her skin shivered as though she was clothed in nothing but a thin shift.

      Yet just the opposite was true! She’d thrown off her hooded cloak and sweat-stained riding gown, washed, and dressed again with great care. A simple linen band drawn across the top of her head and under her chin held back the unbound hair that now fell loose to her waist. Over a finely pleated linen undertunic she wore a bliaut of deepest rose that laced at the sides and boasted sleeves so long their tips trailed the carpets. A broad belt embroidered with gold thread girdled her hips. From it dangled her needle case, her sewing scissors in their leather holder, a pierced gold scent-ball filled with costly musk and the heavy ring of keys that marked her as chatelaine.

      Once properly garbed, she’d dismissed her СКАЧАТЬ