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Now that her eyes had adjusted somewhat, and her hands and feet had thawed out, Rhona looked
about her. The room was clean, with firewood stacked neatly in one corner and straw heaped in another. Enough to make a bed for two. She shivered and hastily looked away, and again she wished she had not chosen this place to meet.
Suddenly she did not want to be here. She did not want to give her body to Reynard, coldly, in payment for his informing on his master. It felt wrong. Her stomach roiled at the idea of it, as if she had eaten something rotten. Instinctively, Rhona gathered her skirts in her hands, preparing to rise to her feet and leave.
But it was already too late.
Reynard had stepped back into the room, accompanied by a swath of mist, and he closed the door firmly against the cold. The fire flickered and settled back into a steady glow. For a moment he stood looking at her, noting her tension, the grip of her hands on the red wool cloth, her wide eyes staring into his.
“There is no need to go,” he said quietly, and brushed the snow from his hands. “I won’t hurt you, my lady.”
“I am not afraid of you,” she retorted. It was the truth—she wasn’t afraid of Reynard. Only of herself.
Something was happening to her. She was allowing her feelings to interfere with her plan. And such strange feelings…feelings she had never allowed herself to experience before.
There was a wooden bench against the wall, and he dragged it across to the fire, so that it was to one side of her. Then he sat down, drawing his cloak about him in a graceful movement and stretching his hands toward the flames. His gloves were thick and mended and his boots were also worn, but of good-quality leather, the toes damp from the snow. His tunic was the Lincoln green one, and his breeches clung to strong muscled thighs and trim hips. He was broad across the shoulders and chest, and he sat a little hunched over, relaxed.
He was unlike any man she had ever met or known or seen before. She could not stop looking at him; she did not want to. Suddenly he turned his head sideways and looked up at her with a rueful grin.
“So here we are, my lady. Just you and me in Uther’s Tower.”
For a moment, Rhona was tempted to grin back. She felt like a child, a little girl, confronted by something new and wondrous, and she wanted to partake of it.
“Just you and me, with a bargain to seal,” she said now, drawing herself up proudly, reminding herself why she was here. “Let us get it over and done.”
She went to rise to her feet, wondering as she did so whether her legs would hold her. But he reached out and caught her hand, preventing her trying. Rhona went still, staring into his eyes, wondering what he meant to do. She saw compassion in the dark depths. Did he actually dare to pity her? A churl, a servant, pity a Norman lady! Her face hardened as the anger swept through her, and she was grateful for it.
“I have done this before, Reynard. Do not think I am a poor maiden sacrificing herself for you. I am a Norman lady and I can well look after myself!”
“Now do not tear into me, my lady,” Reynard said wryly, but still he did not let her hand go. His fingers were warm and strong and rough from work. In the midst of her fury, Rhona wanted to cling to them for dear life and never let go. “I want you,” he went on, “believe me I do. If I were truly a churl, I would show you that part of me that wants you the most. But I do not want to lie with you here. Not hastily and without feeling, as if we were beasts. I want to enjoy you, my lady, but for me to do that, you must enjoy me.”
She felt frozen, her hand still clinging to his.
No. No, no, no! We made a bargain. I agreed to his terms and now he has changed the rules. Enjoy him? I cannot allow myself to enjoy him, or to enjoy being with him. I cannot allow my feelings to become engaged. That is not how it works. If I were to ever feel while I were paying my debts, I would curl up and die. If I were ever to take a long, hard look at what I have become, then I would want to die.
And yet Rhona realized, with a surge of dismay, that that was exactly what she did want. She wanted to have Reynard take her with feeling, with joy, with meaning. That was why she had felt ill at the idea of consummating their bargain in cold blood. When she looked at Reynard she did not feel cold; she felt hot. And it was only in heat that he and she should come together.
“My lady,” he murmured, “Rhona.” His tug on her hand brought her back to herself, just as he pulled her up from the stool. Her knees gave way. She tumbled into his arms. He caught her easily, settling her on his lap, enfolding her against his chest, pressing her head to his shoulder. And she sat there where he had placed her, stiff as a board, as unresponsive as it was possible for her to be, and yet inside her all was turmoil.
She should not feel like this. For her own sake, she must not. Rhona had learned long ago that to care for someone was to invite pain into one’s heart. To survive in this harsh world one needed to have a heart of stone.
“I told you my father was a shipwright,” Reynard murmured in her ear.
“You did,” she said, her voice husky and small, as it had been in the garden at Gunlinghorn Keep. “What of it?” she added, more forcefully.
“I did not tell you he was also a navigator. He could read the stars. When he was younger and more carefree, he traveled to distant lands and saw many strange sights. Lands that were covered in ice the whole year round, and others that were hot and baked and made of sand.”
Rhona wanted to make fun of him, to scoff at his words, but they evoked a longing in her that had never been there before. To escape, to travel far away, to be free of her old life. Was such a thing really possible?
“I would like to see those places,” Reynard went on.
“Why haven’t you, then?” she asked. Her body was growing warmer, and softer, relaxing in his arms. She felt herself molding to his shape, her breasts brushing his tunic, her hands, still resting in her lap, twitching to stretch up and touch his face, twine about his neck, pull his mouth down to hers.
“It seems…melancholy to go alone. I would like a companion. Someone to turn to and say, ‘Look there!’ or to laugh with me when I was happy, or weep with me when I was sad. But to go alone, my lady,” he shook his head, “I would rather not go at all.”
Rhona took a deep breath. He was spinning her wits like a spider’s web. She could not think straight. They had come here to speak of Lord Henry and Lady Jenova. She had much to do, and he was delaying her with foolish tales of icy lands!
“Tell me about your master,” she said harshly and pulled away, seating herself once more upon her stool. She straightened her cloak, tossed her golden braid back over her shoulder, and glared at him. “That is what you have come to tell.”
