—”
“Woman, do you not hear me?” Merle was irritated. “She will marry Victor d’Arcy and that is the end of it.”
“Aye, my lord.” Her voice was choked and her attention was turned away, fixed on the inside of the curtains by her.
Merle thought of one other thing, “Allegra. Do you not let Maris bathe Raymond Vermille any longer. He looks at her too admiringly, and it would not be good to inflate his infatuation. Send Maella or Verna to take care of him.”
“Aye.”
Weary of waiting, and in no mood to coax, he closed his hand softly over her breast and drew her close. “Come, woman, it has been nigh too long.”
Chapter Three
Bon de Savrille opened his swollen eyes slowly. Too much wine and wenching to celebrate Christ’s Mass— and the eve of. And the day following.
His head pounded and the daylight streaming into the inn’s room was too bright. Verna the Bountiful, as he’d come to think of her, stirred next to him. He swatted her hard enough to force a squeal as she started awake. She rolled over leisurely and gave him a long, deep kiss.
His hand grasped her large breast and squeezed until she sighed a moan of pleasured pain, then he nipped at the tight peak of flesh. Verna purred as Bon’s large hand swept over her belly and down between her legs. She closed work roughened fingers over his erection and proceeded to torment him until he threw her flat so he could drive fiercely into her body.
Rough nails scored his back and the pain and smell of blood only served to heighten his pleasure. The pounding in his head receded and passion ruled him now. Verna was quite the best lay he’d had for years. It was good fortune that had led him to her on the threshold of Merle Lareux’s keep.
In the afterglow of their angry, violent mating, he lay staring at the low, dark ceiling. He’d watched from a distance as Merle Lareux returned to his home, seen how the people greeted him—and, especially, how his daughter, Maris, attached herself to his side. ’Twas obvious that the man adored her—and that made Bon’s scheme all the more brilliant. Allegra, his stupid sister, would not dare chance driving a wedge between her husband and daughter. Not if she wanted to continue as Lady of Langumont Keep.
Satisfaction settled over him as his thoughts wandered on to the pleasure of having the young and beautiful Maris in his bed. He’d watched her follow the old lady into the village two days earlier. She’d spent the better part of the afternoon in a tiny, filthy hut ministering to some peasants. They would be good partners—she the figurehead, the beloved chatelaine, the healer, and he, the great lord, the meter of justice.
And in bed….His cock shifted with enthusiasm as he imagined her face slack with passion, her hazel eyes smoky with pleasure.
Verna felt him stir against her, and she lazily turned to look over her shoulder at him. “My lord, you are randy this morn,” she murmured, pressing her buttocks into his erection.
He said nothing, but when his hand felt between her legs, he found her ready for him as well. Bon thrust into her from behind, catching her off guard. She writhed with pleasure, and he pounded himself inside Maris of Langumont over and over until he filled her with his seed.
“Soon, my lady,” he promised softly, knowing he must ride from the gates of Langumont Keep this day. But he would return. “Soon.”
Merle Lareux sat opposite a stranger knight, listening to his story. The man, called Dirick de Arlande, had arrived at the keep early that morning. He’d requested a private audience with him in the name of the king, and Merle had no choice but to take the time to meet with him.
He was glad he’d done so.
Merle examined the figure standing confidently before him. The knight’s black and blue standard, which he did not recognize, was a sword and shield on the backdrop of a roaring yellow flame, and the young man’s figure was imposing yet unthreatening.
Merle felt himself being studied in return by a pair of cool grey eyes, and he sensed impatience and restlessness from the man. And, he thought, something else. Sorrow or grief.
“To account for my words,” Dirick concluded his explanation, gesturing to the thick parchment packet he’d just handed to his host, “I bring a missive from his majesty.”
Merle turned the parchment over in his hands, noting the red wax seal of his sovereign. The man before him was no mere royal messenger. Breaking the seal and unfolding the creased missive, he perused the king’s words carefully.
“The king speaks highly of you, Sir Dirick,” he said, refolding the parchment. Something niggled at the back of his mind, and it took a moment before he realized what it was. And then…
“Aye.”
“You must be aware that I came upon your father’s death scene.” Merle tightened his fingers on the parchment, remembering the depravity pervading the glen where he’d found Harold’s mutilated body. It was like nothing he’d ever seen, even on the worst battlefield. A maniac had been there…and even as Merle attempted to see if there were any survivors, he felt the weight of evil suffocating the small, still glen. His eyes burned with tears a hardened man such as he would be loathe to shed. “I’m sorry that your father is dead, and in such a manner. It was unconscionable. Whoever did such a deed is surely already in hell.”
“Thank you,” Dirick replied, his gray eyes still somber with grief.
“The king writes that you are in search your father’s murderer,” Merle continued, gesturing with the parchment. “I would be happy to be of assistance in any way I can.” His offer was sincere, although he did not have any urge to relive the experience of coming upon that bloody scene.
Dirick nodded briefly, and now there was an element of rage flickering behind the grief. “Although it must be difficult for you, my lord, I should like to know every detail of what you found.”
“Of course,” Merle replied. “And it can be no more difficult for me to recount it than for you to hear of it. Again, I am sorry…and even more so for having to tell you what I will.”
He closed his eyes briefly to pull the scene back into his memory, and then began to describe how he’d come upon Derkland. “We traveled along the border of Maitland and the king’s forest— my man-at-arms, Raymond, my squires, and several other arms bearing men rode with me. ’Twas late in the day, near twilight, and we were weary, seeking Maitland Keep for the night. As we rode, a shrill, horrible cry met my ears. It was the cry of a horse in pain. My mount reacted as if he himself was in danger; but once given his head, he thrashed through the brush to the glen.” Merle swallowed as he remembered the heavy stench of blood that filled his nostrils before he even saw the horror there.
As if sensing his host needed a moment to collect himself, Dirick took a drink from his wine. “There were no survivors?” he asked after he swallowed.
“Nay. We put the horse out of her misery—she had three broken legs and was tied to a tree. I’ve never seen such carnage. And such torture.” Merle’s jaw tightened. “’Twas a waste and a travesty.”
“My father?”
Merle took a deep breath, recalling the last time he’d seen Lord Harold hale and hearty. “I would it had not been anyone, but particularly your father. I had met him on two occasions, and he was a very fine man. We talked of betrothing your elder brother to my Maris, but alas, it was not to be. Maris and Bernard did not suit. However, your father did favor the match.”
He sipped to moisten his parched throat and continued his description of the scene. “Your father was dead from stab wounds, yet the bastard had slit his throat as well. Very little blood drenched the ground, so it appeared clear he was dead when his throat was cut. And then…” He rubbed his temples with a forefinger and thumb. “I saw the imprint of a horse’s hoof in the back of your father’s neck. The force appeared to have snapped his spine,
