The Baron's Quest. Margaret Moore
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be so difficult? She had not, and had refused Alda’s offer of assistance. Now she felt an increased respect for the castle maidservants. Nevertheless, she had been given this job to do, and she would do it with the same thoroughness that the baron was giving to the running of his estate.
In truth, she welcomed the chance to wash the garment. All night, it had laid at the end of her bed, a constant reminder of her confrontation with the baron, and the frightening moment he had removed it. The sooner she washed it and returned it to the bedchamber, the better.
Getting a good grip on the tunic, she pressed her teeth together tightly as she wrung another portion with all her strength. If only this was the baron’s neck she held and not his clothes...
“My lady!”
She looked over her shoulder as Chalfront approached. He ran his hand over his jowls nervously and looked about him as if he expected some disaster to befall him. However, he often wore that expression, and he had escaped unscathed thus far, so she turned back to her work. “What do you want?” she asked, hearing him stop behind her.
“I... I wanted to say that I’m glad he didn’t hurt you,” the man said.
“You’ve said it, so you may leave me alone.”
“Gabriella!” he protested, squatting down beside her.
How much she wanted to tell him that he had no right to call her by her first name, except that she was now merely a servant and he outranked her. That realization was nearly as galling as anything the baron had said or done. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I must speak with you!” he whined. “I’ve been looking for you since dawn.”
She glanced at the curious women. She wanted nothing at all to do with Robert Chalfront and she writhed inwardly at the thought of being linked to him in any way.
“Why are you avoiding me?”
“I am too busy to take any notice of your whereabouts,” she said, her tone cold and brusque in her desperation for him to be gone.
“I want to make sure the baron hasn’t...doesn’t... mistreat you.”
“What?” she cried, disbelief in her voice and expression as she straightened with the wet tunic in her hands. “And what would you do if he had?” she asked. “Heaven forbid that you should criticize your new master, for anything he might do!”
“I would!”
“As you did last night when he ordered me to his bedchamber?” She raised her voice as much for the benefit of the listening women as to lend force to her words. “He did not harm me in any way. He only gave me this to wash.” She thrust the black garment out like a dagger in the hands of an assassin. “And I have done so. Now go away, Robert, and let me finish my work. Won’t the baron need you to wipe his lips or pull out his chair?”
He grabbed her arm. “You must and shall listen to me!” he cried, a flash of anger in his usually cowlike eyes.
“Take your hand off me,” she said fiercely.
“You are not the mistress of this estate anymore, Gabriella,” he proclaimed desperately, his grip tightening, “and you will listen to what I have to say. I want you to pay attention to me. Me! For once in your life!”
She had never seen Robert like this before, and he almost frightened her. Unsure what to do, she forced herself to remain calm. “You are hurting me.”
He became instantly contrite, again the helpless child. “Why won’t you marry me?” he asked mournfully. “I could pay your debt and you would never have to wash a thing!”
“I don’t love you. I could never love you,” she said firmly. She could not believe that he didn’t understand. His unreasonable persistence was beyond annoying. She had certainly made her feelings, or lack thereof, known the first time he had proposed—and the second and the third and every time after that.
“But why?”
She clasped the wet tunic to her chest. “For the last time, Robert, I will never marry you. I would sooner marry the Baron DeGuerre than you!” she replied, citing the most outrageous example she could think of.
Which seemed to be the appropriate means to pierce Chalfront’s self-delusion. The hopeful light went out of his eyes, and although she didn’t enjoy seeing it, she couldn’t help feeling relieved.
Then he sighed and said, “You needn’t have put me in danger with your false accusations.”
“False accusations?”
“The baron does not trust me, and there is no reason he should not.”
“You led my father into ruin and worried him into an early grave!” she charged.
“Do you still believe that?” he asked incredulously.” I did everything I could to help him—but he wouldn’t listen! Why, I even used my own money to try to pay his final debts!”
He had told her that before, when he had first broached the subject of marriage to her. At the time, she had thought he was saying so only to make her consider his suit. Yet now, when he finally appeared to comprehend that he had nothing to gain, he still maintained what had seemed to her to be impossible, and there was a ring of truth in his words that she found hard to deny. “Why would you do that?” she demanded in a low voice, aware that the women’s eyes were still upon them.
“For you,” he said softly, looking at her with pleading eyes like a lonesome dog. “To know that I was helping you by doing so, so that I might have one kind word from you.”
“You... you should have asked my father to raise the rents!” she said.
“I love you, Gabriella! I would do anything for you, for even one kind word from you. I had hoped you would be grateful—”
“Well, well, well, what touching scene is this?”
Gabriella and Robert moved quickly apart as Philippe de Varenne strolled toward them. With his sleek black hair, dark garments and narrow eyes, he reminded Gabriella of a hawk before the falconer let it fly after its prey. She clutched the damp tunic more tightly to her chest. Chalfront, pale and panting, looked as if he were seriously contemplating running away as fast as his legs would carry him.
“What business have you accosting the maidservants, Chalfront?” de Varenne demanded scornfully.
“Sir, I... I...” Chalfront stammered helplessly.
“None, I think, beyond trying to seduce her, eh?”
Gabriella had never wanted to slap a man’s face so much in her life. No, not even the baron’s, for he had not looked at her with such bold, lustful impertinence, even when he held her fast in his arms.
“My...lord! Sir! You misunderstand!” Chalfront spluttered.
“He was not trying to seduce me,” Gabriella said firmly.
“No? It certainly looked as if he were up to something. I suggest you run along, Chalfront. I believe the baron is looking for you.”
Chalfront’s glance darted from Philippe de Varenne to Gabriella, then back to Philippe before he bobbed his head and hurried away.
“If he troubles you, you should let me know,” Philippe said condescendingly.
In truth, this man troubled her far more than Chalfront ever would or could. “If you will excuse me, sir, I have work to do.”
“So I see,” Philippe replied, grabbing the tunic from her and holding it out. “He has made you a washerwoman?”
She didn’t answer as she shivered from the dampness of her bodice.
He ran his gaze over her and suddenly she realized that her wet clothes clung to her skin and her nipples had puckered with the cold. She hugged herself, as much to shield her body from his lascivious