The Norman's Heart. Margaret Moore
Читать онлайн книгу.
purple scabious, ladies’ bedstraw and rushes. She bent down to drink the clear and delicious water. Sitting back on her haunches, she sighed contentedly, taking in the beauty of her surroundings and her few moments of peace. Long ago she had learned to savor such rare moments, and to store them in her memory to recall again when her life grew more difficult.
How many more such solitary rambles would she enjoy? Very few, probably, unless she could convince Sir Roger that they were safe and enjoyable to the point of being a necessity. That might be possible, although she was quite certain that Sir Roger would never see it that way. Surely he never stopped to admire a lovely, sunny summer’s day, or watch the birds and squirrels preparing for the winter.
Was there anything he enjoyed simply for the pleasure it gave him? She could easily think of one thing, she realized with a frown, her mood spoiled by the remembrance of Hilda in her betrothed’s arms. Yes, that no doubt gave him pleasure. But did it give him peace?
Wrapped in her thoughts, she slowly walked the horse back toward the main road, stooping periodically to pick a bouquet of wildftowers. How sweet they smelled, the various scents blending in the warm air with the odor of the thick carpet of earth and leaves beneath her feet.
A rabbit peeped cautiously out of the undergrowth, making Mina smile. Was it a mother rabbit looking for food? Or a male rabbit looking for a mate?
Suddenly the rabbit dashed across the pathway as if it had been frightened. Then Mina heard the sound of horses on the road.
As she suspected, it was Sir Roger, Reginald and the soldiers. Since she had accomplished her goal, she did not try to conceal herself.
“Mina!” Reginald called out, relief in his voice as Sir Roger gave the signal to halt. “Where have you been?”
“Picking flowers,” she answered calmly, ignoring Sir Roger’s glare. The other soldiers shifted nervously in their saddles. “There was no need for alarm.”
Sir Roger swung down from his horse and marched toward her, his frowning lips matching his glaring black eyes. “It is dangerous for a lady to ride out alone.” His forbidding gaze seemed to bore into her.
“Really, Sir Roger? Your lands are not safe? Outlaws do not tremble to hear your name?”
Roger stared at this foolish young woman with the limpid eyes who dared to imply that he could not maintain the safety of his people. “No forest is safe for a lone woman.”
“Of course. How stupid of me to forget.”
She went to go past him, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her close. Her horse’s reins fell from her hand, and the flowers she carried in the other were crushed against his chest. “You are not stupid, but you are a lady. And if you want to be treated as one, I suggest you act like one.” He pulled her even closer, so that her breasts were pressed against his hard chest. “Or would you rather I did not treat you like a lady?” he whispered huskily. “I could, you know. Do you think that simpleton Reginald would come to your aid if I dragged you off into the trees. Or perhaps that is what you would like?”
“You would not dare—”
“I dare whatever I like, my lady. This is my land, and you are to be my wife. If you do not wish to anger me again, I suggest you do as you are told.”
“Or you will what? Rape me?” she demanded, her voice low so that the others could not hear, but so intense he couldn’t doubt the passion and the conviction behind them.
She twisted away from him as he gaped at her, stunned by her blunt words. He had only been trying to frighten her into obedience.
“My lord, I can believe you are capable of anything , and if I am to act like a lady, might I suggest you act like a gentleman?” She tossed the destroyed flowers aside and crossed her arms. “You are right about Reginald. I know that as well as you do. Better, I daresay. Rest assured, Sir Roger, when we are married and in public I will be a docile, obedient wife. But do not ever try to take me against my will, because if you ever attempt to destroy the one shred of dignity I have left, you will regret it.” She grabbed the trailing reins of her horse and moved to mount.
He yanked her around and her gaze darted from his strong, lean fingers on her arm to his stern face. “You are hurting me, Sir Roger.”
He let go of her. She mounted quickly and spurred her horse into a gallop, heading down the road toward the castle.
Roger stalked to his waiting horse, too angry and distressed to notice the curious, astonished expressions of the others. God’s blood; she had surprised him—and not just with her words.
A woman who was not afraid of him, even at his most domineering. How did she get that way? From what source did that incredible resolve and the fierceness in her glowing gray eyes come? She was undeniably shocking. Even more surprising, perhaps, was his other reaction.
He liked her. He admired her poise and her assurance. More importantly, he could respect her.
He put his hands on his saddle, ready to leap onto his stallion’s back, when another response besieged him. He wanted her. The perception of his desire was nearly as shocking as its magnitude.
But there could be no denying what he felt. What he had first experienced the moment he had brought her body into contact with his. There in the woods, with the scent of flowers about her, her hair loose and unkempt and her cheeks flushed, she seemed wild and untamed. Free. Passionately free. God’s teeth, if he could but turn a portion of that passion to himself...
“I must apologize again for my sister’s outrageous behavior,” Reginald said. Startled, Roger glanced at the gathered men and mounted his horse. “She is an independent creature, despite my father’s attempts to subdue her.”
“How did he attempt it?” Roger asked as they nudged their horses into a walk. “Did he try beating her?”
“Of course,” Reginald replied, obviously believing that Roger intended to use that method of correction himself. “But I am afraid it had little effect.”
“I suppose he starved her, too.”
“He thought fasting was good for the soul. Everybody had to, or so he said. Fortunately, my uncle took me to France and I escaped the old villain’s eccentricities.”
Obviously Mina had not escaped such severe eccentricities. The beatings would explain the scars. What kind of man could beat his own child so viciously?
“You...you aren’t planning on calling off the wedding, are you?” Reginald asked when the castle came into view.
“No,” Roger replied curtly, reflecting that it was a good thing Gaubert Chilcott was already dead, or he would be tempted to teach the fellow something about pain.
That night, Mina sat in the place of honor at Sir Roger’s right hand. She was trying to concentrate on the food, but she was all too aware of the man beside her. She could smell the scent of the crushed wildflowers that lingered about his clothing, an evocative reminder of their confrontation that day.
After what had happened, she had expected to see Reginald hurrying toward her with the news that Sir Roger had decided not to marry her. Instead, her betrothed was sitting beside her as if nothing at all untoward had taken place, and Dudley had already begun preparations for the wedding feast the next day. The ceremony would be at noon outside the chapel, presided over by Father Damien.
Nor was she the only one anxious in the hall, she realized. Everyone assembled seemed to take their cue from Sir Roger, and his silence was most unnerving. She had to remember that her actions might influence his mood and thus the tone of the gathering in the hall. It was not a responsibility to be taken lightly. Nevertheless, at this particular time, she could not bring herself to speak, especially when her gaze kept being drawn to Sir Roger’s right hand and the lean, sinewy fingers that had gripped her arm that morning, the slender fingers that tomorrow night would touch and perhaps caress her.
Unbidden, her gaze