Draven wished he could believe that. But he knew better. He was possessed of the same rage as his father and was as powerless to stop it.
How many times in battle had he killed without even feeling it? Once his rage took root in him, he became its pawn. He felt nothing, saw nothing or knew nothing until it passed. And then more times than not, ‘twas too late for the poor soul who had crossed his path.
Having seen his own mother fall to that kind of violence, he would never knowingly jeopardize a woman’s life for the sake of himself nor of a need for heirs.
Nay, the curse of his blood would stop with him. He would make sure of it.
With a disgusted look on his face, Simon pushed himself away from the wooden post, then made his way from the stable.
Draven finished removing his armor, and dressed in a tunic and breeches.
As he left the stable, he caught sight of Emily heading back toward the donjon. Druce was by her side and the two of them were laughing over something. The sound of her musical laughter rang in his ears.
What he would give to be free to make jests with her as well, and to see her eyes light up with humor.
With her head held high, and her pale blonde hair and veil flowing behind her, she was a graceful, beguiling creature.
And for the first time in his life, he wanted Simon to be right.
What would it be like to have the life of a normal man? To sit before the fire while his lady went about her duties and tended his children?
To have her turn to him with a smile meant only for him?
He would sell what little soul he had left for it.
But it was a dream he’d left behind long ago out of necessity. Now with Emily’s presence here it had resurfaced with such vengeance that he cursed Henry for his decree.
On my honor I, Draven de Montague, Earl of Ravenswood, will never lay hand to the Lady Emily in violence or in lust. She will leave my company in the same manner with which she was brought, or I shall surrender myself to the king’s justice whatever it might be.
If it was the last thing he did, he would uphold that oath, his body and wants be damned.
Four
Emily had just sat down to break her fast with Alys when the door to the donjon swung wide. She frowned at Alys as people began rushing into the room in a flurry of activity.
A wiry man of about a score-and-ten years led the way, clutching a small black book to his right side. His black hair was thin and short, and a shock of his bangs continually fell into his eyes no matter how much he brushed it aside. He wore a bright orange tunic and whipped orders off his tongue with amazing speed.
“You, there,” he said to one of the fifteen women. “You pick three others and immediately start cleaning the upper floor. I want four women in the kitchens scrubbing, and the rest of you can start in here. Master carpenter,” he turned to the bearded older man at his right. “See that this hall is completely redone.” He threw his left arm wide as he gestured toward the walls. “They need to be reinforced, painted and, well, whatever you think. I want it light and airy. Homey. Aye,” he said with a satisfied smile, “let us strive for a homey feel.”
“Milady?” Alys asked. “Who are these people?”
Emily shook her head. “I don’t know. But I suspect the man in orange must be Lord Draven’s steward.” Or he was a lunatic to come unbidden into Lord Draven’s hall and start making such changes.
Nay, he would have to be the steward.
As if sensing her thoughts, the man moved to her side. “Good day, milady.” His expression bright and cheerful, he offered her a large smile. “I’m Denys, Lord Draven’s steward.”
As suspected.
He drew forth the book, opened it to the page that was marked by a small quill pen and set it on the table next to her. He took a vial of ink from the satchel on his girdle and opened the top. Dipping the quill, he paused and looked up at her. “I was told to ask after your particular needs.”
Before she could answer, there was another commotion at the door.
“Out of the way,” someone shouted.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea as a group of four men hefted a large headboard through the door. The men paused just inside the hall and rested the intricately carved mahogany piece against the far wall. “Would someone tell us where to put this?” a young man asked as he panted.
“Well, it certainly doesn’t go in the hall,” Denys muttered under his breath. He crossed the room and gestured to the stairs with his quill. “Up the stairs to the lady’s room on the right.”
