Guy raised his eyebrows. “You say that as if there’s something wrong with it.”
His right-hand man shrugged. “Not at all. You’re entitled to do as you please. My lord.”
“Why thank you.”
Thierry laughed and Guy managed another slight smile, watching the ears of his horse twitch. Suddenly he said, “I saw the Saxon wench naked in the bath. The night they arrived.”
“I knew there was something! I knew when I looked at your face and hers, as we met them on the chapel steps.”
“She put on quite an entertainment.”
“Really?”
“Apparently convent-raised ladies get bored and find ways to amuse themselves with their own hands.”
“And you never told me.” His friend sulked because they’d always shared their conquests, never kept secrets.
Guy knew he was dangerously distracted by the Saxon wench. She should have been whipped, not only for seeking to deceive him, but also for her impertinence by the battlements that morning. Yet he did nothing. All he thought about was the next time he might be with her. No woman should have such an effect on him. Something had to be done. The soothsayer had warned him.
He looked over at Thierry, who was watching a flock of geese pass overhead. “Shall I arrange a similar performance for us both to enjoy tonight?” He should be able to share her, as he had done many others. Why not?
The grin returned to his friend’s face. “I thought perhaps you meant to keep her to yourself.”
“Have I ever kept a woman to myself?” He rubbed his chest where it pinched again, making him short of breath. Eager to change the subject, he sniffed at the air. “I smell roasting beef.”
Thierry gathered up his reins and the horses jostled one another. “Last one back is a limp wick,” he shouted, as he always had since they were boys riding together. In many ways, thought Guy suddenly, they still were little boys riding together. On the outside they looked like men; on the inside they hadn’t grown up so much. It struck him today, for the first time, that he and his friend had avoided maturity for as long as they could.
He quickened his horse to a canter and then a gallop, racing Thierry back to the castle gate.
* * * *
At supper Deorwynn gave all her attention to Thierry Bonnenfant. Hopefully, she thought, the Bear of Brittany would not venture near her again. Perhaps, after their encounter on the battlements, he feared she might really lay a curse on his vital parts.
Later, she helped prepare a giddy Sybilia for bed and then retired to her pallet in the women’s chamber, where she lay listening to the others gossip and giggle. They did not include her in their chatter as she was still an outsider, but they took no pains to whisper. She heard them speculate on how long it would be before Devaux sought other comfort in his bed. Apparently he never wanted the same woman for long and had no particular preference in type—young or old, dark or fair. He was infamous for his staying power and had once enjoyed nine women, one after the other, in his bed, servicing each one like a stud horse.
Well, nine was less than a hundred, she thought, amused, but these tales were laughably fantastic. The big-headed Norman would love to hear how legendry his prowess had become among these ignorant, starry-eyed women. He’d probably planted many of those stories himself.
That night she suffered her recurring bad dream again, waking in a sweat, still seeing the cruel black eyes of the ravens staring down at her from those trees, their wings flapping, beaks screaming at her.
She rolled over, staring into the dark, too afraid to go back to sleep. How could it be that her mind had known this place before? Not the castle, but those trees on the hill. Even the shape of the grim clouds overhead that morning had seemed familiar. There was no explanation other than a premonition of evil. The sooner she got away from here the better.
Then she began to think about Guy Devaux in bed with his wife tonight. Good. Perhaps he’d finally stop molesting her. But a grinding ache of yearning, deep inside, threatened to keep her awake all night.
* * * *
How, he wondered, would the Senclere wench explain the presence of a virgin in his bed two nights in a row? Unless, of course…
Guy realized he’d been a little slow to understand. He blamed it on the other wench—the one who distracted him until he could barely think with his brain.
Sybilia climbed into the bed, lay on her back and waited, not looking at him.
“No veil tonight?” he inquired.
She turned her head on the pillow. “T’was a wedding night tradition. It is not necessary tonight, my lord.” Desire deepened her cadence. She wanted him; that much was plain. He’d known all along that she did not avoid his bed out of distaste for him. He was, after all, the legendary Guy Devaux, he thought proudly. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t want him?