The Virgin Proxy(20)

Apparently he had not stayed long abed this morning with his wife. Had the Norman enjoyed Sybilia as much—or more—than he enjoyed her?

The question crept in sneakily.

Would he notice a difference? Deep in some wicked place within her, jealousy reared its ugly head. It was completely and utterly wrong for her to feel that way, yet she did.

She thought of walking up to him, there and then, and asking for his help in freeing her brother. It would be a bold move. Yet in his merciless Norman eyes she was merely a peasant and a Saxon. It seemed unlikely he would listen. Surely she was better off waiting for his fine lady wife’s entreaty on her behalf. But how long would it take Sybilia to pluck up the courage? Perhaps Guy Devaux would think more of her if she appealed to him directly.

And why did she care what he thought of her?

Confused by this tumult of emotion she didn’t want to feel, Deorwynn backed away under the shelter of the blacksmith’s forge and watched her secret lover admonish the children so fiercely they dare not speak or move, until he dismissed them with a flip of his hand. Keeping the small boy back, he crouched beside him, chatting quietly; his manner was gentle when he thought no one watched. He tweaked the boy’s nose, finally forcing a smile from the child.

Rather than stay to watch further, Deorwynn hurried up the stone steps to the walkway. Two guards bearing halberds stood in her way, but a little flirting and cajoling was all it took before they agreed to let her go up and view the countryside. Apparently they were satisfied she was no threat to castle security.

At last she would see what lay outside these stern walls.

Wind whipped the hair back from her face as she looked out between the battlements. Low, iron grey clouds moved rapidly across the sky, closing out what little sun there had been. And as she stared out over the gentle swell of fields and valleys, she almost stopped breathing. There, on a far hill, stood a row of stark, winter-ravaged trees. Black against the sky, they reached their crooked, snarled branches upward, beseeching mercy from an unhearing god.

These were the trees from her nightmare. They were not filled with ravens today, but she knew them at once—recognized the contorted shapes and the immediate sense of dread they caused in her heart. Lifting her face to the wind, she could almost smell death and decay.

It was an omen then. Her nightmares had been a warning, a premonition of danger, perhaps even death. She would meet her end here, in this place, probably on the orders of Guy Devaux, when he uncovered the deception in which she’d participated.

“What are you doing up here?”



She jumped, spinning around, almost spilling the contents of her cup.



Devaux stood a few feet away, leaning against the battlements, arms folded. “No women are allowed up here.”



“The guards did not prevent me.”



“Then they’ll be punished.” He beckoned with one curled finger. Deorwynn remained where she was, chin raised half an inch, her cup held tightly to her chest.

“Don’t punish them. Punish me.”



“Oh I will. For you are a thief Deorwynn.”



She pressed her back to the stone wall. “A thief?”



He smirked, walking toward her with a narrow-hipped swagger that ought to be outlawed. Normans were fond of laws for everyone else. It was time someone set some rules down for this lusty devil with his piercing blue eyes and enormous….she squinted, carefully lowering her gaze…feet.

“You stole from me,” he said.

Her gaze snapped upward again to meet his. He knew. Or did he merely stare at her that way because he imagined getting her into bed with him and his wife, as he’d so boldly suggested? He had admitted he liked the look of Deorwynn. She remembered the quiet way he’d said it to her as she laid in his bed, pretending to be Sybilia.

He moved closer. “You stole my precious seed when you were not entitled.”

Horror streaked through her. Wind tugged on her hair and caught under her cloak. Dear God, he would have her killed now for deceiving him.

“When you bathed so boldly in my presence,” he added. “You took some of me on your tongue.”

Ah, he spoke of the night in the cookhouse, not last night when he spilled inside the woman he thought was his new bride. A sharp stitch twisted in her side but she daren’t move. Daren’t blink.

“That is a very fine brooch for a servant girl,” he said suddenly.

Deorwynn raised one hand to the mother-of-pearl brooch, fearing he might try to snatch it away from her. “My mistress gave it to me.”

“I wonder what services you rendered to warrant the gift.”



“I won it on a wager.”



“A wager?”