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She tried to subdue the flicker of fear inside her, the doubts. Oh, she did not doubt that she would be able to carry off this exchange with Reynard. She had done it before. Her doubts were more to do with whether she would be able to save Alfric and herself, fulfill her bargain with her father, and buy their freedom from him forever. For once they reached Normandy, Rhona knew she would never return to Hilldown, nor would she ever allow him to reenter their lives.
Uther’s Tower was behind her, amongst the trees, a mishmash of stone and timber, some falling down, some in remarkably good condition.
So here she was, in the freezing damp wood, alone in the mist. Lady Rhona, whose grace and manner portrayed her as a lady of highborn Norman blood, whose garments and jewelry were exquisite. But it was a sham. Beneath it all, Rhona knew she was nothing but a prisoner of her gender and her father’s cruelty.
This morning, Rhona had sat and watched Baldessare gorge himself on cold meats and bread, washing it down with gulps of ale. He had seemed in a good humor, though Rhona had not known why. Unless it had been because he had dreamed last night of being wed to Lady Jenova. The thought had made her shudder, but she’d pushed it aside, and with it the knowledge that she was responsible for this change in direction. She could not afford to think of what would happen to Jenova—she had herself and Alfric to save.
Baldessare had slammed his ale mug down on the trestle table, making her jump. “I wish I could tell Lord Henry that his privileged life is coming to an end. That he will no longer be the king’s favorite, his pet. Aye, I will make him sorry for all the humiliations and defeats he has made me suffer.”
“If anyone can make him sorry, then it is you, Father.”
Baldessare had fixed his cold eyes upon her. Rhona had returned his stare calmly enough, though inside her rib cage, her heart had been pounding like a warning drum.
“Do not fail me in this, Daughter.” He had said it so quietly, but it had been no less of a threat.
Rhona had smiled. It had been the bravest thing she had ever done. “I never fail, my lord.”
She hadn’t told him about Reynard and this meeting; she had paid that thief Formac twice as much as usual to deliver the message and keep the details quiet. It had seemed safer somehow to keep as much as possible to herself.
A bird flapped up from the undergrowth, wings whirring. Rhona shifted her seat on her mount, feeling her feet going numb despite the fur-lined boots.
“My lady.”
His voice was deeper than she remembered, with a rich timbre that set her senses quivering and humming. Rhona jerked her horse around, wondering how he had snuck up on her like that, without a sound. He was walking toward her through the trees. A heavy cloak covered him from shoulders to heels, but his head was bare, his dark hair damp from the mist.
“Reynard.”
He came closer, looking up at her, his dark eyes flattering her squirrel-lined cloak and the red wool gown beneath it. She had left off her veil, braiding her hair and laying the long plait over one shoulder. She knew her skin was white from the cold, her nose pink, her lips rosy red, but Reynard did not seem to find fault in any of that—in fact he looked as if he could devour her on the spot.
Her breath came faster. This was a contract, she reminded herself. A way to get information, to get what her father wanted. It meant nothing personally. She must remain cold and in control, whatever Reynard might do to her.
He was watching her from heavy-lidded eyes. “You asked to meet me here, my lady, and here I am.”
“So you are.”
Suddenly he smiled, his rather harsh face warming, and held out his gloved hand to her. “Let us go inside before we freeze to death. I have built a fire.”
With a sense of abandoning herself to the fates, Rhona held out her arms and slid down to the soft, snowy ground, and into the warmth of Reynard’s embrace.
Again she was struck by how very big he was, and yet, strangely, she knew she did not fear him because of it. Being a small woman, she had never felt entirely comfortable in the company of big men, and she had expected it to be no different with Reynard. But it was. Here, now, standing within his muscular arms, she felt safe, protected, as if she did not want to leave them.
Rhona made herself step away, until she was once more solitary. Alone. For good measure she threw him a cold and haughty look. He raised an eyebrow back at her, as if her manner amused him. As if he knew very well what she was really feeling.
He cannot know, Rhona reminded herself firmly, pressing back a sense of panic. He is a man, a servant, not a seer. I must not give him a power over me that he does not have.
“A fire?” she said evenly, as if her feelings were not in rebellion. “In Uther’s Tower? I did not think there was enough of it left to keep out the rain, let alone sit in in comfort.”
“You will see. Come, and we will talk.”
Talk? Only talk?
She hesitated a moment more, but her feet were beginning to turn into lumps of ice and she had lost the feeling in her hands. Even her teeth ached. She wanted to be warm. Besides, she was tired of mistrusting everyone, of being afraid. With a proud lift of her head, Rhona allowed him to lead her back into the mist-swathed trees toward Uther’s Tower, trailing her horse behind them.
When they reached it, Reynard pushed open the stout door and entered, stooping his head beneath the lintel. Gratefully Rhona followed. It was a single room, dim and small but weatherproof. The fire Reynard had built in the center of the floor did little to help the murky atmosphere, but Rhona was willing to put up with a little smoke if she could be warm. She hurried across and held out her hands, trying not to groan with the pleasure of it. It might be close and smoky in here, but actually it wasn’t as filthy as some of the huts of the serfs and villeins she’d seen on the Hilldown estate. Lord Baldessare was not a man who wasted his gold or his compassion upon those who could not help him further his ambitions.
“I will put your horse with mine, under shelter,” Reynard said. “Sit down and warm yourself, my lady, while I am gone.” The door closed behind him, and she was alone.
He had set a stool by the fire, and she sat upon it, arranging her skirts and pretending she did not feel awkward and ill at ease. He was being so kind. Rhona was not used to kindness. In fact, she was far more used to unkindness than to this tender care that Reynard was displaying.
