“I beg your pardon?”
Draven shrugged. “I have only a handful of servants. You’ll find I’m not a man to waste time on frivolities.”
If not for the fact she knew he employed twelve knights, had won numerous tourneys on the mainland, and been rewarded most handsomely by King Henry, she’d have questioned his solvency. But Lord Draven was a wealthy man with assets purportedly greater than even those of the crown.
Deciding criticism would not endear the man she hoped to seduce to her charms, she sighed. “Very well, milord. I shall make do,” she repeated.
Draven ordered Simon to find someone to unload her wagons. “I shall show you to your chambers.” He turned and walked up the steps.
Stunned, it took Emily a full minute before she followed. She couldn’t believe the man hadn’t even offered her his arm. No one had ever given her such a slight before.
At least he had the good grace to hold the door open for her.
Gathering her skirts, she entered his hall, then stopped dead in her tracks.
There was an indescribable odor to his home, something between rotted wood, smoke and other things too foul to contemplate. The fading sunlight sliced through the slits of closed wooden shutters, showing her a wealth of rotted rushes, an unlit hearth and only three dilapidated trestle tables set in the middle of the hall. Five dogs ran about, scavenging in the rushes while the tops of the tables looked as if they had never known even a semblance of cleaning.
No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t keep her nose from wrinkling in distaste. She covered her nose with her hand in an effort not to choke on the stench.
It was on the tip of her tongue to question again where his servants were, but then she recalled his words.
Instead, she asked about his lack of dais. “Where’s your table, milord?”
“I don’t have one,” he said flatly as he walked past her and headed toward the stairs.
Had that been a catch in his voice? She wasn’t sure and he didn’t pause in his journey. Hurrying to catch up, she ascended the drafty stairs.
He stopped at the top of the stairway and pushed open a door. She stared at a plain room that would rival a monastery for its spartan quality and a sty for its cleanliness.
Horrified at the very idea of spending a night in this smelly hole, she shook her head. “This will not do at all.”
“You said you could make do.”
She looked at him in disbelief. “I assumed you had a home, sirrah, not a dungeon.” Emily regretted the words as soon as they were out, but he showed no sign of anger, or anything else for that matter.
He just stood there, reserved. The fading sunlight caught in the reddish highlights of his hair, and reflected in the icy blue of his eyes.
Lord Draven kept his spine ramrod stiff, his left hand on his sword hilt, and looked at her as if assessing her mettle. “I’m afraid Henry didn’t give me time to make more suitable preparations for your stay. I shall send Edmond up to change the mattress and fetch new linens.”
“Milord,” she said, knowing she should remain silent on this issue, but too repulsed not to speak out. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but your home is dreadful and hardly fit for human habitation.”
He arched a brow. “Tell me, milady, is there a right way to take that statement?”
“Perhaps not, but I will not stay here unless changes are made.”
His gaze hardened. “You will stay here, regardless.”
“I most certainly will not.”
Anger flared in his eyes so intense that she took an involuntary step back from it. Still, she refused to cower completely.
“You will do as you are told, lady.”
Now that got her dander up. She knew her place as a lady, but with that station came certain rights and this man was quickly violating every one of them. “I am not one of your men to be dictated to, nor am I your wife.”
“True, you are my hostage.”
“Nay, I am the king’s ward. Is that not what he said?”
