if you want the chit that badly, by all means have her.”
Wardieu was instantly on his guard. It was not like Nicolaa to give in so easily, and certainly not with regard to another woman. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a low, iron-bound oak door leading off the corridor and, after thrusting it open and ensuring the small room was empty, he grabbed Nicolaa by the arm and ushered her inside. It was a storeroom of some kind, with shelves lining the walls holding an assortment of crockery jars and twine-bound stacks of parchment. Light from a low, arch-shaped window covered in panes of pressed horn, reduced everything to the texture and colour of pond scum with the exception of the two angry faces, livid and occasionally blue-white through flashes of lightning.
“Admit it, my love,” Nicolaa seethed. “You find the chit interesting.”
“She has a comely enough face,” he agreed.
“Comely?” Nicolaa backed up closer to the window. “You find pale and insipid … comely? I vow she will prove to be a frigid little cullion—did you not see the way she shrank from your touch? The first time she sees you naked, I warrant there will be a stinking puddle around her feet, especially if your brother was less than feather-gentle with her.”
Wardieu grasped her shoulders between his hands. “You will be civil to her, Nicolaa. You will be sweet as honey and do everything within your power to see she feels welcome.”
“And if she does not? If she decides she would rather run away back to Wymondham?”
“She will not,” he said evenly. “We will both endeavour to ensure she will not.”
“I do not like her!”
“You do not have to like her. You do have to accept her.”
“Never.”
Wardieu’s hands squeezed harder. “She is to be my wife.”
“A temporary inconvenience.”
“Perhaps.”
The green eyes glanced up sharply. “What do you mean … perhaps?”
Wardieu smiled thinly and released her shoulders. “She has good blood. Sir Hubert had strong ties with William of Pembroke and, in fact, it was the old marshal himself who gave final approval for the marriage in Richard’s stead.”
“So?”
“So …” He arched a tawny brow. “One simply does not toss her from the ramparts at the earliest convenience. One might even consider it prudent to breed a child or two on her first. Bloodmoor needs an heir. The future of the De Gournay name and title must be secured.”
Nicolaa gaped at the golden-haired warrior openmouthed. On more occasions than she cared to remember over the past fourteen years, she had been obliged to seek the skills of herb-women versed in the ways and means of scouring unwanted seeds from the womb. Wardieu had made it abundantly clear he wanted no part of fatherhood. One of the carefully guarded secrets she had paid heavily to learn was that he habitually made gifts to D’Aeth of the women foolish enough to boast of carrying his seed. Now, suddenly, he wanted heirs? Now, when her own womb had been scoured so many times she was barren?
Controlling her fury, she turned her face into a lightning-bright flash of illumination from the window. Rain was beating as savagely on the horn panes as her heart was beating within her breast, and she was thankful for the diversion.
“You made certain promises to me,” she reminded him tersely.
“They have been honoured. You have more wealth, more power, more influence than any other woman in the reeve. And you know full well as soon as your devoted husband relinquishes his soul to the Devil—what in God’s name is keeping him alive, I would ask?—you shall have a good deal more.”
Nicolaa angled her face enough to slant her eyes up at him. “Sheriff?”
“I can think of no man better suited to the task. Even Prince John agreed, on his last visit, there is good reason for the people of Lincoln to fear and respect your wrath. Methinks he fears you a little himself.”
Nicolaa knew she was being placated, thrown tidbits to sooth her vanity and win her cooperation. Then again, it was good to know he felt a need to placate her.
“I will have full claim to the title? Full power? Full authority?”
“You will be able to order the flesh stripped from any deserving lout between here and London if the mood suits you. Even an undeserving lout, for that matter, if it pleases you.”
Nicolaa experienced a flush of giddiness at the thought of the power lying within her grasp. Onfroi had been a weak and indecisive agent of the