take such a course!”
He took a sip of the wine. “Really? I wonder.” He sauntered toward the bed, then faced her, running his gaze over her in a way that brought a blush to her face. “Josephine needs a maidservant. I think you would do well in that capacity. Now take my tunic and wash it.”
She tried to decide if he meant what he said, or if he was toying with her.
“I assume you know how to wash a simple tunic?” the baron asked sarcastically when she did not move at once.
She did not, but she nodded anyway.
“Then take it and go.” His tone was dismissive, and she knew she was indeed free to leave.
She quickly gathered up the discarded garment in her arms. It smelled of leather and horse and smoke... and him.
As she started to rise, she realized a woman was standing on the threshold.
“Ah, Josephine,” the baron drawled. “Why the delay, my dear?”
Josephine de Chaney’s look was sweetly venomous as Gabriella hesitated, not wishing to push past the lady whose voluminous skirts filled the doorway, but anxious to be gone.
“You’re not jealous of this serving wench, surely?” the baron said with a deep, throaty chuckle that contained no true joy. He came toward his mistress and pulled her into his arms, out of the doorway.
The way clear, a relieved Gabriella hurried out of the room. Once in the corridor, she glanced over her shoulder to see Josephine de Chaney bent back over the baron’s powerful arm while he kissed her with fierce, unbridled lust. Before she could go on her way, Baron DeGuerre raised his eyes and looked at her over Josephine’s head, his lips still upon his paramour’s and the expression in his eyes mocking.
As Etienne continued to kiss Josephine, he subdued a smile that had nothing to do with the beautiful woman he held in his arms.
Now Gabriella Frechette should finally understand her place, he thought. It crossed his mind that he might have thought of a better means of education; however, he had not, and he never wasted time with useless regrets.
Not that he would ever have taken Gabriella against her will. He truly despised men who violated women of any status, and he would certainly never stoop to such a loathsome tactic.
How much better and easier it would have been if the wench had been born a servant in this castle. Then he would have given her a small present, she would have been thankful, he would have given her another and made a proposition, which she would surely have accepted, and then she would be in his arms, returning his kiss with passionate intensity....
“A moment!” Josephine protested softly as she reached up to grasp her stiffened crown and scarf that he had pushed askew. “You are going to strangle me, my love!” Josephine gently extricated herself from his embrace, watching him shrewdly as she walked past him, carefully folding the expensive scarf and placing the jeweled headdress on the table.
He realized she often looked at him thus, like a master attempting to gauge a pupil’s response. When had he ever seen Josephine truly passionate, whether with desire or hate? Never before had it occurred to him how cool and remote she often was; or perhaps, if he had noticed, he would have considered that a blessing, for he had no wish to be tied to a woman in any way. His two marriages, both of them advantageous alliances, had not been pleasant experiences. When each of his wives had died, he had been more relieved than sorry. Fortunately, he no longer had any need to increase his personal wealth or power by such a method.
What was the matter with him? He had the most beautiful woman in the kingdom to share his bed. More than that, she was also a wise and perceptive woman. Even if she was desperate to know what had passed between himself and Gabriella, she would never ask.
He had the perfect arrangement with Josephine. He gave her gifts, fed and housed her and even allowed her to act as hostess in return for the pleasures of her body and the reward of her beauty. She was like a tournament prize, a living, breathing illustration to all men that he could have the most beautiful woman in the kingdom.
“What happened to your tunic?” Josephine asked as she sat down before her mirror.
It struck Etienne that since he had entered this room, he had not observed its state at all. His attention had been drawn to Gabriella immediately.
The chamber was distinctly barren, except for the items that had been unloaded immediately from the baggage carts. No tapestries, only one chair, Josephine’s own table where she kept her perfumes, another bearing wine, the mirror, their chests of clothing and a bed that was much too narrow. He would have that remedied tomorrow. As for the rest, Josephine would see to it.
“I thought Gabriella needed to learn who was in command here,” Etienne replied, answering her unspoken question.
Josephine’s reflection revealed a mildly surprised and pensive reaction. “Half-naked?” she inquired. “Still, if you wished to impress her, I can think of no better way.”
Etienne turned away to hide the sudden flush of a blush, something he had not felt since he was a youth. At that moment, Etienne DeGuerre would have died before admitting that Josephine, the wise, the shrewd, had guessed something even he had not dared to confess to himself. Deep in his heart, he had expected Gabriella to be overwhelmed by his physical presence, as so many women were. He had more than half expected her to fall into his arms, or at least respond to the sensation of his embrace. When she had not, only then had he concocted the excuse that she should wash his tunic.
“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
