The Baron's Quest. Margaret Moore
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he detected Josephine’s touch in the flowers upon the table. He turned to her, pleased as always to think this beautiful creature was his and that men envied him all the more because of her. “Wherever did you find the flowers?”
His mistress gave him a surprised look. “That was none of my doing, Etienne,” she replied in her soft, dulcet tones. “I was too busy seeing to our baggage. Some of the servants must have done it.”
“Ah. No matter.” Etienne reached forward to take another piece of bread and allowed himself to enjoy the extravagant feast. It would be quite some time before he would authorize such a meal, so he might as well indulge at the late earl’s expense.
The bread was excellent, the meat spiced to perfection, the fruit fresh and the pastries light, proving that the late earl had an excellent cook, and that the victualing of this castle had not been done with an eye to expense. The servants did their jobs quickly and competently; obviously, they had been well trained.
What a place this must have been when the earl and his wife were still alive and wealthy! It was easy to imagine the luxury, the bustle, the many guests, the music and laughter. Easy, too, to envision a spoiled daughter unaware of the change about to befall her. But that was not his concern.
How different from the wattle and daub building that had been his lonely childhood home, presided over by his bitter, domineering mother, the only guest being the memories of his father.
That didn’t matter now. He had risen above his past and the earl had died impoverished.
Etienne turned his mind to the other things the king had told him: the depletion of the stores caused by the late Earl of Westborough’s generosity to anyone who arrived at his gates, whether noble or the poorest of beggars; the earl’s careless treatment of illegal activity, especially poaching; the astonishing amounts of money—indeed, all that he had left in his coffers—that the earl had given to the church for masses and prayers. Not that there was much to give, after the disastrous harvest last autumn.
If Castle Frechette was a masterpiece, it was because the earl had promised his masons and carpenters lavish wages, and they had worked with a will. Unfortunately, when the true state of the earl’s debts became clear at his death, all the furnishings had been sold to pay these wages, for the work could not be taken away.
Etienne had also noted the fine state of most of the peasants’ dwellings as he had ridden toward the castle. The injustice of it had struck him immediately, that the earl should have lost his land while his tenants prospered.
He had heard, too, of the earl’s wastrel son who had left the country in a fit of pique. Perhaps the young man had not known of the sorry state of his father’s affairs, or the man’s ill health, but he should have ensured that they knew how to reach him.
Because of Bryce Frechette’s selfishness, his sister was in serious difficulty and completely alone. Yet, apparently, she did not condemn her brother for such childish behavior. Outside in the courtyard, she had been upset to hear the truth discussed in the open, in front of the tenants.
He leaned back thoughtfully, watching his men enjoy their meal. He supposed Gabriella Frechette would say, in her defiant, husky and compelling voice, that she loved her brother. It was distressing to think an otherwise formidable woman could be so blinded by an emotion.
Gabriella Frechette’s predicament was already a thing of the past. She was surely already gone, and he would be left in possession of this, his tenth estate, the number he had set himself so many years ago when he was poor, and starving and freezing in the winter’s snow. At last he had reached the end of the quest.
Etienne DeGuerre permitted himself another small, satisfied smile as he reached out to grasp his goblet. When it was halfway to his lips, he halted for a barely perceptible moment. Gabriella Frechette had just entered from the kitchen carrying a platter of meat, which she proceeded to serve to a delighted George de Gramercie.
God’s teeth! He had thought she would gather her things and be gone before an hour had passed after her public humiliation. What would possess a woman to remain after that?
A new sensation tore through Etienne, one he had not felt in years upon years. He was suddenly ashamed that he had tried to humiliate this bold and fiercely proud woman.
He quickly subdued his reaction. Obviously she was not easily humbled, nor did she fully appreciate how precarious her new position was.
His gaze flashed around the hall. The other servants were guarded and watchful, but clearly just as proud of their former lord’s daughter’s defiance as she surely was of herself.
Philippe de Varenne was watching her, too, with a greedy look in his snake’s eyes and a hungry smile on his thin lips. Even the usually jovial George was eyeing the wench with serious speculation.
Fortunately, Donald Bouchard could be counted on not to — but the young man was staring at Gabriella Frechette as if an angel were serving his dinner! The only man who seemed oblivious to Gabriella’s presence was Seldon, who gave all his attention to his food.
Etienne’s scrutiny returned to the provocative movement of Gabriella Frechette’s shapely hips. Was it deliberately done or was it simply a gift of nature? Either way, if she stayed, she was going to cause trouble.
This situation could not continue. She must be made to leave before his men started quarreling over her and the other servants began to believe they could defy him with impunity.
“Gabriella!” he called, his voice slightly louder than usual.
She turned and walked toward him, a questioning look in her eyes, her dark, shapely brows lifted just a little, her pale, smooth cheeks tinged with a hint of a blush.
He could not go back on his ultimatum. That would be a sign of weakness that he simply would not permit. When he considered the state of his men, it occurred to him that she might be engaging in a different sort of battle, one that started with covert rebellion.
The little fool! He had seen campaigns of many kinds, including those waged by women, and he knew different attacks and defenses. He always got what he wanted. She should have heard enough about him to know that.
What did he want from her? To caress that shapely body? To crush those ruby lips against his own? To have her yield, willingly, fervently, with all the passion of her hate turned to burning desire...
His glance darted to Josephine, who was wiping her rosebud lips daintily with a napkin. God’s wounds, he must be going to mad to even think of kissing this wench when he had Josephine de Chaney to share his bed. What kind of spell was this dispossessed noblewoman beginning to exert over him?
Gabriella halted, her full lips pulled into a thin line of strength and she bowed her head in acknowledgment.
He must and would control this estate, this castle, this hall and most of all, this woman. “Fill my goblet,” he ordered.
Gabriella did as she was told, trying not to look at Baron DeGuerre’s lean, handsome face illuminated by the many flambeaux set in sconces in the walls Despite her self-confidence in the kitchen, she had dreaded meeting him again, and with good reason. His pale blue eyes were so intimidating in their inscrutability! The man was like a statue, betraying nothing of his feelings. Indeed, it was as if he were not quite human, but some kind of supernatural warrior put on earth to remind others that they were weak, frail vessels of humanity.
While she bent to fill his goblet with hands that must tremble, he moved not at all.
No, not a statue, she thought as she poured his wine slowly to avoid a spill. He was more like a cat sitting before a mouse’s hole. She was aware of the others in the hall, but all her attention was focused on the man in front of her although she did not look directly at his face.
She had already seen enough of it. The baron’s features, lean and battle-hardened, presided over by his cold, unrevealing eyes, might have belonged to a martyr. She doubted even being burned at the stake would make the man flinch. But he was no holy man. It was not hard to envision the baron’s slender,