Margaret Moore - The Baron's Quest

Gabriella halted, her full lips pulled into a thin line of strength and she bowed her head in acknowledgment.

He must and would control this estate, this castle, this hall and most of all, this woman. “Fill my goblet,” he ordered.

Gabriella did as she was told, trying not to look at Baron DeGuerre’s lean, handsome face illuminated by the many flambeaux set in sconces in the walls Despite her self-confidence in the kitchen, she had dreaded meeting him again, and with good reason. His pale blue eyes were so intimidating in their inscrutability! The man was like a statue, betraying nothing of his feelings. Indeed, it was as if he were not quite human, but some kind of supernatural warrior put on earth to remind others that they were weak, frail vessels of humanity.

While she bent to fill his goblet with hands that must tremble, he moved not at all.

No, not a statue, she thought as she poured his wine slowly to avoid a spill. He was more like a cat sitting before a mouse’s hole. She was aware of the others in the hall, but all her attention was focused on the man in front of her although she did not look directly at his face.

She had already seen enough of it. The baron’s features, lean and battle-hardened, presided over by his cold, unrevealing eyes, might have belonged to a martyr. She doubted even being burned at the stake would make the man flinch. But he was no holy man. It was not hard to envision the baron’s slender, strong fingers, grasping the goblet before her, around a man’s throat, squeezing the breath from his body.

Gabriella forced herself to concentrate on her task so that she could finish and be gone, away from his intense eyes and unreadable face.

At last the baron moved, to lean back leisurely in his straight-backed chair with a motion of sinuous grace.

She tipped the vessel of wine up and backed away. Before she could leave, however, the baron smiled slowly, slyly, seductively, and said, “Go to my bedchamber.”

“Etienne!” Josephine de Chaney gasped. Suspicion and pain appeared in her lovely green eyes, her reaction giving Gabriella a confirmation she did not want.

“Being a servant is new to you, so this once I will repeat myself,” he said deliberately, ignoring his mistress. “Go to my bedchamber.”

Gabriella could only stare at him, shocked, aghast and horrified. Surely he didn‘t—couldn’t—mean it! She felt as if she had been stripped naked in front of everyone. A wave of hot shame washed over her as she hoped against hope that he would rescind his order. She may be no more than a servant now, but she was a free woman. If he took her against her will, it would be rape. He would be committing a crime. She would go to... whom? Who would stand up for her against the powerful Baron DeGuerre, favorite of the king, the terror of tournaments, a man who had once fought for ten straight hours simply to win a bag of silver coins?

While he continued to regard her with those implacable blue eyes, she began to understand that she had engaged an enemy whose power and influence she had never fully considered.

But she had power and strength on her side, too. He would be a criminal if he touched her, and all would know it. And if he thought it necessary to stoop to such tactics, who had the upper hand then?

With her back as straight as an arrow’s shaft, her carriage as regal as any queen, Gabriella turned and headed toward the wide staircase leading upward, toward the north tower and the bedchamber.

“Well, well, well, what are we to make of that?” Philippe de Varenne asked, gesturing with his head toward Gabriella as she disappeared inside the tower and those assembled in the hall broke the silence with a flurry of murmurs and whispers.

Sir George de Gramercie, usually so quick with a witty remark, could only raise his shapely, patrician brows and shake his head.

“I mean, I think we can all understand his intentions,” Philippe went on before taking a large gulp of his wine. “I know what I’d do if I had a wench like that at my service.”

“He’s not going to hurt her,” Donald said, both shocked and defensive.

“Oh, no, I never said he would hurt her,” Philippe replied with a wink. “I’d give a purse of gold to know what Josephine is thinking at this particular moment.”

The men glanced at her. Both the baron and Josephine de Chaney were eating as if nothing at all unusual had happened, which was very far from the truth.

“She’ll never question him,” George said with absolute certainty. “She’s far too clever for that.”

“Which makes her the perfect mistress, eh?” Philippe noted. “That and other talents.”

“You are speaking of a lady,” Donald said severely.

“A soiled dove of a lady,” Seldon observed with more honesty than tact before shoving a large morsel of beef into his mouth.

“But a lady nonetheless,” Donald answered. “Nor do I think it fitting to bandy about the name of the baron’s lady, or to make such jests.”

Seldon, who usually agreed with Donald and followed his lead, shrugged his shoulders George grinned and Philippe clicked his tongue in disgust.

“Pardon me for offending your delicate sensibilities,” Philippe said, “but no matter how beautiful she is, Josephine de Chaney is still a—”

George held up his hand. “Not exactly, and I believe the distinction is worth noting,” he warned the impetuous young man beside him. “And she is a noblewoman.”

“Yes, she is,” Donald said firmly.

“Aye!” Seldon seconded, wiping his lips with his large hand.

“Oh, very well,” Philippe grudgingly conceded. “However, that Gabriella, she’s not anymore.” He smiled, and it was not a pleasant sight. “Let us drink to the impertinent Gabriella,” he said, raising his goblet. “I daresay she’ll be taught a lesson she won’t soon forget, eh?”

Donald-looked appalled. Seldon did, too, but it was George who was the first to speak. “Philippe,” he said with a touch of anger in his usually mildly amused voice, “you know the baron will not harm her.”

“Then why did he order her upstairs?” Philippe demanded.

George chuckled ruefully- “He probably has something he wants her to do.”

“That’s precisely my point,” Philippe said as he sullenly surveyed the others.

“I meant work,” George chided. “Maybe something to do with his boots or his cloak. He has no body servant, you will recall.”

“So you think he’s planning on having a female body servant? A most fascinating concept, I grant you.”

“All I’m saying is,” George replied, “the baron has never dishonored a woman in his life to my knowledge, and I see no reason for him to start now.”

“You don’t? Are you blind, man? She’s got the roundest, most detectable—”

“We noticed,” Donald interrupted, blushing like a boy.

“Did you?” Philippe asked Donald. “I thought you concerned yourself solely with the life to come.”

“And my duty here on earth,” Donald said stoutly. “It is our duty, as knights of the realm, to protect women.”

“Besides, why would the baron risk a charge of rape when she’s so skinny?” Seldon asked solemnly.

“You would dare to fight the baron over a serving wench?” Philippe demanded, ignoring Seldon.

“Yes, I would,” Donald replied with conviction.

“God’s holy heaven!” Philippe chided as he looked at Donald. “You should have been a monk.”

“That little bailiff didn’t look at all happy, poor fellow,” George remarked, obviously attempting to defuse the tense situation. “He ran out of the hall like he was pursued by one of the hounds.”

“What’s he got to be upset about?” Philippe said as he filled his goblet again. “He’s still the bailiff. For now.”