Margaret Moore - The Baron's Quest

“What is it?” Josephine asked, genuine distress in her voice.

“It is too cold in here.” He went toward the battered chest he had used all his life. He opened the lid and drew out his fur-lined robe.

Josephine gave him a glorious smile, reminding him of her beauty. “This castle is a fine one, Etienne. A worthy gift from the king. With some proper furnishings, this room will be quite comfortable.” She hesitated a moment. “I am not surprised she refused to leave it.”

Etienne did not insult Josephine’s intelligence by asking who she meant. “I didn’t expect her to stay. She seems an overly proud woman.” He wrapped himself in the robe, the fur soft against his naked skin.

“But one with limited alternatives,” Josephine noted. “She is not unattractive. Perhaps someone will offer to marry her. Will you allow that?”

“Of course,” he answered brusquely, then told himself he was simply annoyed as always when Josephine spoke of marriage. From the beginning, he had made it very clear that he had no intention of marrying again. For him, marriage had been terrible, his wives demanding his attention when he had more important business to attend to than what he would like on the table for the evening meal or if he liked her latest gown bought at great expense. And as for the alleged pleasures of the nuptial bed—he would rather spend ten hours in the saddle than make love to a woman raised only to be a nobleman’s wife, taught that what took place in the marriage bed was merely a disagreeable duty to be endured.

“The bailiff seems most anxious about her,” Josephine remarked with another smile.

“Why do you say that? He did little enough to defend her below.”

“I saw his face when you ordered her to this room,” Josephine said. “He was most upset and actually ran out of the hall.”

“If he wants her, he can have her,” Etienne replied. “For the present, I ordered her to wash my tunic.”

Josephine’s brow furrowed with a frown. “It is not her fault that her father was a wastrel,” she said softly.

“I know, and that is why I gave her money to leave. She chose not to take it.”

“But a laundress!” Josephine looked at him with mild reproof. Still, even that much condemnation was rare for her.

He went to Josephine and took hold of her slender shoulders. “I do not mean for her to be that permanently. You need a maid, and she will know what you need done.”

Josephine did not meet his gaze. “Yes, I need a maid.”

He pressed a kiss to her fingertips. “There is no need for you to be jealous,” he assured her, and leaned down to kiss her lightly.

“She is a pretty creature.”

“I had not noticed,” Etienne lied. “Gabriella Frechette means nothing to me. You seem to be seeing jealousy everywhere.”

An obviously relieved Josephine flashed him a brilliant smile. “Since I have no maid for the time being, Etienne,” she murmured huskily, presenting her back to him, “will you help me with my gown?”

Etienne went to stand behind her, untying the laces below her pale, smooth neck, a thoughtful frown on his face.

He should be extremely happy. He was rich, powerful and respected, and he had done it all on his own, with no help from influential friends or family. He had achieved every one of his cherished ambitions: wealth, fame and power. More, he had fulfilled the destiny his mother had always claimed for him, the destiny the death of his father before he was born had seemed to circumvent. He was very happy.

“Thank you, Etienne,” Josephine whispered. “I can finish by myself.”

“As you wish.” He went to the bed and began to pull off his boots, recalling for a moment the astounded look on Gabriella’s face when he had requested her assistance. Clearly she had expected him to drag her onto the bed and overpower her, and he marveled at the defiant pride she maintained in the presence of such a belief.

She really was unlike any woman he had ever met. It was a pity the circumstances of their lives were as they were.

As he straightened and looked at Josephine while she brushed her hair, her body wrapped in a velvet robe, an overwhelming feeling of loneliness swamped him. Theirs was little more than a business arrangement. He did not love her, and he was quite certain she did not love him.

Which was of no consequence. They were pleased with each other, and understood the boundaries of their relationship. If he was lacking anything, it was only a son and heir, and that was not important. He had worked and fought not to acquire goods to bequeath to some unknown offspring who might squander them away, but for himself alone.

With renewed resolution to put the late earl’s daughter from his thoughts, he went to stand behind Josephine. He took the brush from her hand and set it down, then ran his fingers through the golden cascade. She sighed and leaned back against him, the contact increasing his arousal.

His hands slipped down her slender neck to her shoulders, and into the bodice of her gown toward her breasts. Gently he caressed her, her nipples pebbling beneath his palms, until she moaned with unabashed pleasure.

He removed his hands and she rose without speaking, turning toward him, a gleam of unmistakable lust in her limpid green eyes as she brushed her fingers over his hardened manhood.

As he closed his eyes, he was determined to lose himself in the delight of Josephine’s talent, to enjoy her exquisite body and to marvel at her particular skills.

Gabriella was surely a virgin.

Etienne pulled Josephine impatiently into his arms and pushed his tongue between her lips tinted with red wine while he gripped her buttocks and pressed her to him. This was the woman who shared his body and his bed. He would think of no other.

With a low moan, Josephine responded, her hips moving seductively and her expert fingers caressing the muscles of his back. Her tongue flicked against his nipples, adding to the exquisite sensations.

“I was indeed a fool to be jealous,” she murmured as she arched against him.

“Yes, you were,” Etienne replied, kissing her passionately and effectively stopping any additional discussion. He had no wish to further examine the state of his emotions, and he knew of one very good way to quiet his thoughts.

Chapter Four

Perched precariously on her haunches on the bank of the river where the townsfolk did their washing, Gabriella lifted the wet, heavy tunic and began to wring it out. It was an arduous process, complicated by the sheer size and weight of the garment, as well as the fact that her freezing hands ached with the unfamiliar task. Cold water ran down her arms, dampening her bodice and soaking her skirt so that it clung to her uncomfortably.

A group of women from the town were doing their laundry a short distance away, occasionally glancing at her so woefully that Gabriella wanted to scream that she had done nothing wrong, that the baron had not attacked her, that she did not need or want their pity or their sorrowful looks. What she wanted was their friendship, or some sense that she had not erred in doing whatever was necessary to remain here.

She let her gaze pass over them down the river toward the mill. A group of laborers were busy there, replacing the grindstone, or so Guido had said, and the huge wheel was still. The cook had been delighted to tell her about it, for apparently he had been complaining to her father for weeks about the quality of flour and blaming it on the old and worn grindstone. It seemed the baron, on his first full day as master of the estate, had seen that for himself, among other things, and given orders that it was to be replaced immediately. Several of the outbuildings were to be rethatched, more hay had been purchased for the livestock that would be allowed to overwinter, and the castle stores were to be replenished, albeit not with the luxurious foodstuffs the earl had preferred, but more common fare such as peas and lentils.