to occur on his lands. He should prostrate himself on the ground at your feet and beg forgiveness. You should have been better safeguarded. He must have known the forests were unsafe. He must have known they were populated by murderers, thieves, and rogues. He should have had them burned out and their hiding places razed to the ground rather than endure the risk of having our cavalcade ambushed! No, no, my lady. You must not meet him with guilt in your breast and a plea for penance in your eyes. This was none of your doing. None at all!”
Servanne sighed wearily as the diatribe continued on behind her. Obviously Biddy had exonerated them in her own mind. For women to be kidnapped and held to ransom was almost an accepted method for two enemies to exchange hostilities. The resultant outrage and sympathy, if any, was usually directed toward the man whose pride and honour had been blemished. Rarely did anyone consider the poor woman’s feelings or even acknowledge the fact that she had been the one to suffer the most throughout the ordeal.
Servanne’s plight would be regarded no differently. After all, she had been neither a virgin nor bound to Christ by vows of chastity and purity. She had been fair game to anyone who sought to tickle Wardieu’s nose for revenge or profit, and her own anguish would be forgotten in a day or so, dismissed by men whose ire would be roused in defense of Wardieu’s tarnished honour. That was how the world would see it, how Biddy had worked to convince herself to see it, and how Servanne would be expected to accept it now that she was back, safe and sound, under Lord Wardieu’s protection.
The trouble was, she did not accept it. She felt angry at being used and betrayed, but she was also hurt and confused, and the last thing she wanted to have to do now was face the knight who called himself Lucien Wardieu, especially when her mind and body were filled with the essence of the rogue who sought to challenge that claim.
Arriving at the threshold of the small antechamber set aside as Abbot Hugo’s sanctum, Servanne was halted by a rush of torn emotions. The Baron de Gournay was standing in front of the miserly fire that had been built in the corner alcove. The light from the solitary window was dim at best, the air murky with smoke and dampness, the crack and hiss of the weak flames adding nothing to the sinister atmosphere but a sour smell.
As she stared at his broad back, she realized he was easily as tall as the Black Wolf, disturbingly as long-limbed and muscular. He had abandoned the glittering ominousness of chain mail for a rich velvet surcoat and a long-sleeved doublet. Well-fitting hose shaped the powerful thickness of his thighs and calves, while low deerhide boots moulded his feet like slippers. His head was bare; the gleaming gold waves of his hair curled to the top of his collar, lying like fine silk against the dark blue velvet.
A second movement, deeper in the shadows, startled Servanne’s gaze to the opposite side of the chamber. Her surprise was not diminished in finding the dark green gaze of a woman had been studying her with the same silent intensity she had been studying Wardieu. The look in Nicolaa de la Haye’s eyes did not invite any attempt at speech. Rather, it commanded Servanne to stand and endure a slow, increasingly disapproving inspection that climbed from the hem of her subdued, modest gown to the embroidered linen headpiece that capped her wimple.
“Lucien, darling.” The full scarlet lips curved into a semblance of a smile. “The moment of truth has arrived at long last.”
A frown of annoyance was cast sidelong at Nicolaa, then, realizing they were no longer alone in the airless chamber, Wardieu turned fully around.
Regardless of the Wolf’s forewarning of a resemblance between the two, seeing Wardieu’s face without the impediments of the steel helm or the gloom of the forest, was enough to send Servanne’s hand digging into Biddy’s for much-needed support. The stern line of the jaw was the same, as was the width and authority of the brow. The straightness of the nose, the resolute firmness of the mouth bespoke a long and shared ancestry of noble Norman blood. Moreover, Servanne found herself drawn deeply and helplessly into eyes that were dangerously familiar in raw, sensual magnetism. Instead of being pewter