to protect her. God’s wounds, what he wouldn’t give to be in the baron’s place at this particular moment.
Well, let the baron tame her first. He, Philippe, could wait.
Chapter Three
Gabriella wiped her sweating palms on the skirt of her gown as she paced the length of her parents’ bedchamber and struggled to stay calm. It was a losing battle, every moment seeming an hour while she waited for the baron to appear, trying desperately to convince herself that he would not dare to hurt her.
Her eyes caught sight of the narrow bed, the replacement she had provided for her parents’ ornate one. Her gaze quickly returned to the marble beneath her feet.
Oh, if only Bryce were here! He would save her. He wouldn’t shrink from fighting the baron himself, if he had to. He was always ready for an altercation, with his father, with Chalfront, with the reeve, the miller, the cloth merchants. How many times had she acted as mediator? Too many to count. She had come to pride herself on her diplomacy.
What had happened to her skill when she had confronted Baron DeGuerre? Had pride made her foolish? Had she felt so secure in her place and in the servants’ regard that she had stupidly risked speaking without deference to Baron DeGuerre? Or had she been too upset to think with necessary clarity?
Whatever she had thought, she would never have guessed he would assert his authority by vile means.
She still could not quite believe it. She had never heard his reputation sullied with such an accusation, or any other abuse of women. He was said to be ruthless with his opponents in tournaments, but not vengeful. His ambition was considerable, yet many men wanted power and wealth. Women vied for his attention. Would they, if he was a rough and violent man?
Or was she desperately seeking succor where there could be none?
Once again she cursed herself for a stubborn fool. Would it have been so hard to bow her head, to act afraid, to cower before him? To at least remain silent in his presence?
Perhaps if she did so when he finally came here, he would let her go. She would kneel before him and beg forgiveness. Anything to let her retain her honor. After all, her personal honor was all she had left.
Yet what kind of honor was it that begged? If he harmed her, he would be in the wrong. She would know it, and the people would know it. Her family was not totally friendless. She could tell others what he had done. She would dishonor him.
What was she thinking? This was a man who lived openly with his mistress, and Josephine de Chaney was but one of a long line. He refused to give the proper tithes to the Church, and he was harsh in his punishment of those he perceived to have broken the law. It was said the only thing Baron DeGuerre respected was power, and she had none.
Gabriella pressed her frigid hands to her hot cheeks. Why did he not come? Was this part of her torture, this agony of waiting?
She went to the window and looked out in the faint light of the slender moon. Once this land had belonged to her family, until her father had let Chalfront take charge.
Chalfront! Her hands balled into fists. She hated the bailiff as much as the baron, with his talk of help and assistance, when she knew—knew!—that her father’s financial difficulties were his fault.
What was Chalfront thinking now? Was he pleased to see her humbled and humiliated by Baron DeGuerre?
The door burst open and crashed against the wall as the baron strode in, looking like the very devil in his long black robe, his chestnut hair brushing his shoulders in that heathen fashion, his eyes gleaming demonically in the flickering light of the flambeaux he carried and set in a socket on the wall.
Gabriella stepped back into the shadows, trying somehow to hide.
Baron DeGuerre looked around until he saw her. With a leering smile made grotesque by the shadows cast by the torch’s flame, he closed the door, shutting her inside the room with him. “Come here, Gabriella,” he said, his deep voice low but the command clear.
Now was the time to beg for mercy, Gabriella thought desperately. She told herself she should throw herself on her knees. Implore. Plead.
Instead, all the proud heritage of her noble blood asserted itself within her, and she simply could not be the instrument of her own further humiliation.
The baron’s brown brows lowered as his hands went to the lacing at the neck of his robe. With slow movements his long fingers untied the knot there, and as she watched, speechless, he drew the heavy garment over his head and let it fall in a heap on the floor.
His chest was muscular, covered with several small scars of battle, his broad shoulders powerful, his arms lean and sinewy beside his narrow waist. His hips, encased in taut chausses, were slender, but muscular, too.
Not taking his eyes from her, he went to the bed and sat on it. “Come here and take off my boots, Gabnella.”
He had the strength to defeat her. She could fight all she wanted, and he would triumph at last. Struggling against him would be useless.
Slowly Gabriella raised her eyes to his face. What was he, really, but a man, and one completely in the wrong? She had righteousness on her side, and surely God would help her. She would not let this man defeat her. There must be some way, some weakness, if only she could find it....
“Take off my boots, Gabriella.” He held up a booted foot and waited as if he had no expectation of refusal.
With watchful eyes, still searching for an opportunity, Gabriella moved slowly toward him. She reached out to take his boot in her hands—and then she thrust his leg up as far as she could and made a dash for the door.
Not fast enough. He was off the bed in an instant. He grabbed her arm before she could reach the latch, yanking her around and pulling her against him. His icy blue eyes stared down into hers as she struggled in his strong, encircling arms.
All her efforts to disengage herself from his grasp seemed to be no more than a petty inconvenience to him. Aware of his arms around her, his naked chest against her rapidly rising and falling breasts, the proximity of his mouth, she stopped struggling. “You can’t do this!” she cried desperately.
“I can’t prevent a servant from leaving my bedchamber before she has finished her work?” he asked coolly, not attempting to tighten his embrace.
“Work?” she gasped incredulously. “Is that what you call it? You have a mistress for that!”
“I don’t need an unwilling wench to excite me,” he said, letting go of her and stepping away toward a table bearing a goblet of wine, “although you might consider Josephine’s example as a way of achieving your former level of prosperity. She, too, comes from an impoverished noble family.”
Freed from his grasp and convinced that he did not mean to rape her, Gabriella frowned at his insult. “I will never be any man’s whore!” she said, tossing her head.
The baron arched one eyebrow as he turned to look at her. “I would not be so quick to condemn Josephine de Chaney,” he said as he picked up the goblet. “What do you know of her life, or the choices she
