“If you don’t mind, Riona,” Eleanor said anxiously, “I think I’d rather not be there when you tell Sir Nicholas about his cook.”
Riona nodded her acquiescence. She was sorry Eleanor’s resolution had been so short-lived, but she couldn’t fault the girl for wanting to avoid any conflict within the household of the man she might marry.
As Eleanor headed for the apartments, Polly started to back away. “I should get to, um, the laundry. They always need help there,” she said before she scampered off.
Riona drew in a deep breath. So, she’d have to face Nicholas alone. So be it.
She hurried up to the Saxons on guard at the gate. “Have you seen Sir Nicholas lately?”
“Yes, my lady,” one respectfully replied. “He’s in the inner ward with the rest of the garrison.”
“Thank you.”
Once on the other side of the gates, she listened for the sounds of men training. They were on the far side of the ward, away from the encampment of the soldiers who’d come with the visiting nobles.
Quickening her pace, she hurried on until she rounded a corner and discovered a troop of half-naked soldiers holding wooden swords, fighting in pairs. It was like watching a bizarre sort of dance as the men moved forward and back, swinging their weapons, attacking each other or defending themselves. The sound of wood on wood was like drumbeats, broken by the occasional cry of pain when wood connected with an arm or a leg. They must have been at it for quite some time, for most of the men looked very tired as well as sweaty. Perspiration dripped down their backs and chests and soaked the waist of their breeches.
Walking among them, armed with his plain sword, and stripped to the waist, was Nicholas. He barked out orders, his deep voice carrying easily over the noise of the clashing weapons, his skin glistening in the sunlight as if it was oiled.
Lust—hot, primitive, as powerful as the priests warned—crept into her body and enflamed her from within. It was wrong to stand and watch when the mere sight of him affected her so, but she simply couldn’t take her eyes off the lord of Dunkeathe as he moved. Or when he stopped to issue a command or correction, demonstrating how the blade should move, his muscles rippling with his actions.
She’d never been so stirred by the sight of a half-naked man—but then, he was like no man she’d ever seen. He had notan ounce of fat on his lean torso. His sinewy muscles bespoke hours of hard work, years of training, weeks of fighting. He was no pampered, spoiled, lazy nobleman who’d never worked for his wealth. He was a warrior—built like a warrior, fierce as a warrior, passionate as a warrior home from battle seeking the pleasures of peace.
And then he saw her.
She quickly looked away as she flushed with embarrassment and fought the urge to run away. It was like catching him bathing—or as if he had caught her naked. Only the thought of the poor spit boy kept her there as Nicholas ordered his men to continue, and walked toward her.
Couldn’t he at least put on some more clothes? she thought, feeling determined, but trapped, as he closed the distance between them. “Were you looking for me, my lady?” he asked evenly. “Or did you just want to watch my men at practice?”
“I was looking for you, my lord,” she said, pleased that her voice was calm and steady as she replied. “I’ve come to talk to you about your cook, Alfred.”
Nicholas frowned and crossed his arms, leaning his weight on one leg. “What about Alfred?”
She kept her gaze on his face, away from his body. “You should find another cook.”
His dark brows rose. “You don’t like the food?”
“It’s not that, my lord. It’s the way he treats the kitchen servants. He’s a bully and a tyrant, and he’s been beating the spit boy until he’s covered in bruises. I’ve seen them myself.”
“I see,” Nicholas replied, his tone noncommittal as he turned back to his men and dismissed them. They gratefully hurried over to some buckets of water along the wall and scrambled to drink.
Not sure what he was thinking, she took a different tack. “If something isn’t done to amend the situation, your servants could be driven to an act of desperation in attempt to either make Alfred leave of his own volition, or force you to send him away. They might use rancid meat, for instance, to sicken you and your guests, so that he’s blamed. Or engage in other kinds of sabotage. There are a whole host of ways to get revenge on a cook, my lord.”
“There will be no need for that. I won’t permit the beating of my servants, by anyone,” Nicholas said. “Such treatment inspires anger and hatred and bitter resentment, as I well know. I was beaten every day by the man to whom I was first fostered for training.”
It seemed impossible Sir Nicholas of Dunkeathe had ever been anything but a mature man and the powerful overlord of a castle. Yet once, he had been a mistreated boy, and apparently with no one to help and come to his aid.
His expression hardened, and his voice was cold when he spoke. “Spare yourself any pity you might be feeling for me, my lady. If I’d been taught music and poetry instead, I wouldn’t be in possession of this estate. And I paid Yves Sansouci back for every bruise, every lash, every gash and cut.” He pointed to asmall scar on his temple. “The day he gave me this, I broke his arm and nearly crippled him. After that, my brother and I went elsewhere, to train with a better man.”
He picked up a leather jerkin that was lying on the ground nearby.
As he tugged it over his head, she tried not to notice that was the same jerkin he’d been wearing that first day.
The men, having had their fill, started to gather up their garments. They talked among themselves and cast glances at their commander and Riona, as they moved off toward the gates. Even as they left, however, she was well aware there were other soldiers up on the wall walk, watching them.
“The servants should have come to me,” he said, apparently oblivious to the curious looks from the men.
“They didn’t come to you because Alfred threatened to accuse anyone who told you with theft.”
