The Norman's Heart. Margaret Moore
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his jaw.
Suddenly Sir Roger turned to her. With a flushed face, she quickly looked away as he spoke, his inflection as placid as his countenance. “I have arranged to have an escort at your service whenever you wish to ride out again,” he said, his voice deep and low in her ear.
“That will not be necessary,” she answered, staring straight ahead.
“I am afraid I must insist.”
“I thank you for your kindness, Sir Roger, but I believe I will have too much to do to allow me the pleasure of a ride anytime soon.”
“I see.”
Was he disappointed? A strange and unfamiliar pleasure at the thought that she could make him feel any disappointment whatsoever made her heart miss a fraction of a beat. She hadn’t thought it possible this simple and quite honest refusal would have any effect on him at all. “I fear I am going to be too busy settling into my new duties and responsibilities,” she explained.
“Are there any other requests you would care to make?” he asked after a moment.
“None, Sir Roger,” she answered truthfully. Then she made a little smile. His lips twitched slightly, as if he wanted to return her smile but wasn’t sure how—or perhaps how such a thing would be received.
For the first time since she had arrived, Mina felt that Sir Roger was not looking at her as if she were an article he had paid too high a price for, or a creature that filled him only with fury. She imagined ... hoped...he was looking at her the way he usually looked at a woman he was attracted to.
The notion excited her, a flame kindling in the region of her heart and spreading outward until her whole body felt warmed by its glow. She yearned to tell him how a favorable response from him would please her, yet she could not, with all the people in the hall.
Instead, she reached out and touched his hand lightly. Instantly he pulled it back, then grabbed his goblet. His action had more rebuke in it than anything he might have said. He had reacted as if her touch were leprous.
The burning heat of shame washed over her, and she quickly returned her attention to the food, to Reginald, to Sir Albert, or to anything other than Sir Roger.
After the last of the fruit was cleared away, a minstrel and small group of musicians appeared bearing a lute, tabor, fithele and harp. Sir Roger didn’t seem the type of man to find solace or enjoyment in music and, indeed, when the opening chords were struck, he appeared quite bored. She was in no mood for entertainment, either, but she gave the men her attention as if enthralled.
The minstrel was a very thin young man with a pockmarked face and straggly blond hair. Every other minstrel Mina had ever seen had been as vain as Reginald. She could only assume that this minstrel’s voice would supply the beauty his visage lacked.
She discovered that she had surmised correctly about the minstrel’s voice. It was deep and rich, and he infused the appropriate emotion into every word. Nevertheless, her interest flagged considerably when he began a long lay about a woeful knight trying to win the heart of his lady. The knight sounded like a dolt for persisting where he was so obviously unwelcome, and the lady seemed a vain, dishonorable creature for believing the fellow’s flattery and finally giving in to his constant pleas, thereby committing adultery. If that was love, she could certainly do without it.
“My lord!” Dudley whispered, appearing at Sir Roger’s elbow. “The Baron DeGuerre has arrived.”
Sir Roger stood at once, mercifully cutting short the minstrel’s verses, which seemed composed entirely of the knight’s exclamations of his lady’s perfections. “Is his chamber prepared?” he asked, with the merest hint of anxiety as he hurried to greet his overlord.
Mina looked at the table, hiding her satisfied expression as excited murmurs raced through the hall. So, even the great Sir Roger de Montmorency could be intimidated.
When the baron entered the hall and received the kiss of greeting from his host, Mina could see why he would be. The two men looked quite capable of defending Montmorency, or any castle, singlehandedly.
The baron was a formidable man, with piercing, icy blue eyes, a powerful build and brown hair that, like Roger’s, fell to his shoulders. He wore a long tunic of unrelieved black, with no ornamentation of any kind. Suddenly everyone in the hall looked vastly overdressed, except for Roger. Even the little bits of embroidery around the neck of her own gown seemed ostentatious.
She also noted that whatever anxiety Roger had felt before, it disappeared—or was very well hidden—when he was in the baron’s presence. They seemed much more like two good friends, perhaps even brothers, than overlord and underling. The other wedding guests rose and bowed as they passed by.
Mina stood as the men approached the high table, wondering if this new gown were quite fine enough. It was the nicest one she possessed, apart from the dress she was to wear to her wedding, yet she found herself wishing she had more jewels, blond hair and no freckles, especially when the baron ran his eyes over her as if she were a mare brought to market.
She straightened her shoulders. She was not a horse, and her father’s family was of higher rank and greater antiquity than the baron’s. She knew exactly how the baron had risen in the world, so she would not allow herself to be dismayed by him, either.
Reginald hurried around the table and made a deep, obsequious bow. “Baron DeGuerre, I am honored to meet you at last!” he exclaimed, acting as if the baron were the king instead of an upstart born in obscurity who had fought and married his way to a higher station. “Allow me to present my sister, Lady Mina Chilcott.”
The baron nodded at Reginald and stopped in front of the table. Mina made her obeisance, not once taking her eyes from the baron’s face.
“Lady Mina,” the baron said, his voice low and mild. There was a very shrewd look in his blue eyes, though, and she guessed the mildness was a deception.
“I am honored,” she replied softly, darting a glance at Roger, whose mien was annoyingly inscrutable.
Roger continued to introduce the baron to the wedding guests, starting with Sir Albert, who had evidently met the baron before. As they made their way through the hall, Mina sighed and sat down, still watching them. So, that was the great Baron DeGuerre. He was certainly an impressive man, and one, she guessed, like Roger—used to unquestioning obedience.
Nevertheless, there was something rather sad about his eyes that for a fleeting moment had made her sense he was one of the most unhappy men she had ever seen.
However, the baron’s troubles were of considerably less importance to her than her own, and when the men returned to the high table, she soon felt out of place and very lonely. She didn’t know the people they spoke of, or the places they had been, so she rose and excused herself.
Sir Roger didn’t seem to notice.
Roger was not quite drunk, even though he had consumed several goblets of wine, and he wanted to be. Usually he was quite proud of his ability to drink without getting stupid or sleepy, but tonight he wanted to drink himself to oblivion even if that meant embarrassing himself in front of the baron.
He had to do something to drive Mina Chilcott out of his thoughts. He should be listening to the baron and his news of the doings of the court and other nobles, but her one light touch had nearly driven him mad with desire.
He should not be remembering how lovely she had looked in the woods, or how much he had wanted her. He should not be envisioning Mina naked beneath her coverings, or trying to decide what he should do first on his wedding night. He should not be thinking of her unyielding pride as she had stood before the baron, unwavering. Unafraid. Worthy in every way to be a nobleman’s wife.
At least Reginald, that fawning, embarrassing dolt, had finally stumbled off to his chamber, one arm draped around the ever-helpful Hilda. Where had Hilda been during the evening meal? Not that he had noticed her absence particularly,