gray, steeped in quiet secrets, these were a stunning cerulean blue, hard as gemstones and equally rich in self-esteem.
“Good God,” Nicolaa murmured, drifting closer to where Servanne stood. The contrast of the young widow’s plain woolen gown with her own richly woven and embroidered silks seemed to please the beauteous Lady de la Haye, as did the comparative lack of shapeliness beneath the dull homespun. “Ten thousand marks does not buy much these days, does it? Just as well you were saved the expense, my lord.”
“Leave the girl alone, Nicolaa,” he commanded softly. “She has been through enough already without having to contend with your cat’s claws.”
Nicolaa smirked faintly as she looked down and busied one red-stained talon with scraping some hint of dirt out from beneath the crescent of another.
Wardieu moved away from the fire, his eyes narrowing against the gloom as Servanne’s features grew more distinct. What little he had previously recalled about his betrothed had not inspired him to regard her too closely upon her release to him. Nor had it prepared him for the smooth, translucent complexion he saw now, or the delicate oval of her face with its sweetly arched mouth. Her eyes were a darker hue than his own, the blue flecked with tiny triangles of gold and green, but he had already seen them sparked to deepest sapphire with anger and could not help but wonder if passion would have the same effect.
This last speculation took him by surprise and was reflected in the timbre of his voice as he bowed low over her hand and pressed his lips to her cool fingers.
“My lady, I praise God you have been returned to us unharmed.”
Servanne dared not look up into his spellbinding stare. It was all she could do to hold her wits together to face the questions she knew he would ask her. He would ask. There was no question but that he would ask, the only question was whether she could answer without betraying herself.
“Unharmed?” It was Biddy’s voice, coming her rescue. “Indeed there was not a sense or sensibility left unharmed! The food was spoiled and malodourous, crawling with vermin. The wine was as rancid as vinegar, the rushes we slept on so mouldy and slimy with rat droppings, it will take a vat of steamed rose petals to cleanse the stench from our nostrils. Why, another day in the hands of those … those rogues and villains and ’tis a certainty my lady would not have had the strength to draw another breath. See how pale my poor lamb has become? See how frail and ill she has fallen? Oh, I cannot even bring myself to recount the horrors she was subjected to in the company of that beast! That brute! That … that wolf! Black-hearted and cruel he was; cunning as the pox and as likely to come upon you unawares despite his size, by the bloody rood.”
She paused to trumpet her nose into the hem of her apron, and the knight regarded her puffed countenance with a smile that did not quite touch his eyes.
“This … Black Wolf, as he called himself,” Wardieu asked, “Did you ever hear another name used? A Christian name, perhaps?”
“He called himself Lucien Wardieu,” Biddy recalled with a sniff of outrage. “But only the once, and only at the beginning, to shock us, methinks. Why, any soul with half an eye could see he was no more noble born than a farm mule, and the fact he chose you, my lord, to support his charade, proves he is no smarter than the selfsame ass. Who, in all of England, does not know the Baron de Gournay by sight? Who does not know of your courage, your honour, your strength? Why—”
“Yes, yes. I thank you for your commendations, good-wife,” Wardieu interrupted, then looked from the maid to Servanne. “My lady? Surely he used some other name in your presence?”
Servanne’s heart jumped upward to lodge at the base of her throat. “In truth, my lord, he only called himself Lucien Wardieu, as Biddy has said.”
“Did you not question his usage?” Nicolaa asked with a sneer. “A man committing crimes in the name of your betrothed should at least have roused some curiosity.”
Servanne looked at her calmly. “I spoke to the outlaw as seldom as possible.”
“What about when you were beneath him? Did you not ask what name he would prefer you cry out?”
Servanne flushed a deep red but held her tongue, fully expecting Wardieu to