some kind of disgusting scoundrel. “My lady, I play the game of seduction only with those willing to be seduced,” he replied. “If a woman isn’t interested, I don’t pursue her, no matter how beautiful she may be.”
“I am not blind, Sir Henry,” Lady Mathilde replied, crossing her arms over her breasts. “I watched you trying to charm her. And I do not say mere seduction is your plan. After all, Giselle is an heiress, and the man who marries her will be rich.”
His pride urged him to refute that mercenary motive, but since he honestly couldn’t, he didn’t. “Do you forbid me to speak to her?”
Lady Mathilde gave him a pitying look, as if she thought him stupid but was too polite to say so. “Not at all. You have offered to help us against Roald, and you are our guest.”
“Yet you accuse me of plotting to seduce your younger sister.”
“Not plotting, precisely. Hoping to marry her for her dowry, perhaps, and so I seek to save you a useless effort. Giselle may be beautiful, but she is not a fool. I assure you, she will not succumb to any honeyed words or meaningless promises. And Giselle is not the younger sister. I am.”
Given Lady Mathilde’s command of the household, he had assumed she must be the eldest. She certainly behaved as if she were.
Recovering as quickly as he could, he said, “If I were to make an offer for your sister, it would be because I love her. I have promised myself I will be in love with my bride when I wed.”
Lady Mathilde’s expression betrayed her skepticism.
“Believe it or not as you will,” he said with a shrug, “but I would have a marriage such as that of my brother and my sister, who care deeply for their spouses. They are very happy together. Why should I settle for less?”
Lady Mathilde’s shrewd eyes narrowed as she studied him. “You seem to be a most unusual nobleman.”
“As you seem to be a most unusual lady.”
Even he could not have said whether he meant that for a compliment or not, but it was the truth. “I’m impressed with your concern for your sister,” he added as he strolled toward her, and that, at least, was true.
Lady Mathilde backed away as if she were afraid. Of him? That was ridiculous—he had given her no reason to believe he would be dangerous to her.
“Giselle’s husband will be the lord of Ecclesford. I must protect her from handsome, charming men who seek only to enrich themselves.”
He regarded her quizzically. “If she is the elder, can she not look after herself?”
The woman before him flushed, but didn’t look away. Her mouth was half-parted, her breasts rising and falling with her rapid breathing. She swayed forward a bit—enough to encourage him to think she was feeling the same pull of desire and curiosity.
Responding to that urge, he put his hands on her shoulders and started to draw her closer. With her came the scent of lavender.
She gasped and in that same instance, her eyes were suddenly alive with what could only be fear as she twisted from his light grasp. “Don’t touch me!”
Shocked by the force of her reaction, he spread his arms wide. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You were going to kiss me!” she accused, as if his kiss would kill her.
Not every woman he met was attracted to him, and he was not so vain as to expect that they would be. On the other hand, never before had he been to feel as if he were somehow unsavory, and his pride was pricked. She had been tempted to kiss him, and he would prove it.
“I thought you wanted me to kiss you,” he said, his voice low and sultry, his tone one that had encouraged many a woman to express her passionate desires.
The look she gave him! It was a wonder it didn’t strike him dead. “I did not, you base, vile, lustful rogue!”
The heat of a blush—something he hadn’t felt in years—flooded his face. Embarrassed, his pride stung, he drew himself up like the knight he was. “If you would rather I leave Ecclesford, you have only to say so.”
For a moment, he thought she was going to agree, but in the next, she shook her head, her cheeks as red as his scarlet hauberk. “Forgive me, Sir Henry,” she said, twisting the cuff of her gown in her slender fingers. “I am sometimes too quick to anger.”
Suddenly he realized exactly what her reaction reminded him of. She was like a horse that had been beaten and shied away from any person who came near it. No doubt some stupid lout had been too forward and too rough with her—a selfish youth or overeager suitor. The fool had surely gotten no further than a kiss, for a woman like Lady Mathilde wouldn’t hesitate to fight off any unwelcome advances. It was unfortunate, but the damage had been done.
His annoyance fled, replaced with regret. “No, my lady, it is I who should be forgiven for presuming too much,” he replied with a courteous bow. “I assure you, it will not happen again.”
“Good,” she murmured.
Then, keeping as much distance as possible between them, as if the very thought of touching him was repugnant to her, she sidled toward the door. “I give you good night, Sir Henry.”
“Good night, my lady,” he muttered as she closed the door behind her.
He moved the large, lit candle to the table beside the bed. He might have been a fool to come here, despite their need. Nicholas would probably say so, even taking the presence of the lovely Lady Giselle into account.
Ah well, this wouldn’t be the first time his brother would think him less than wise, he thought as he started to disrobe, and Lady Giselle wasn’t completely out of his grasp.
Yet.
AFTER SHE LEFT Sir Henry, Mathilde paused on the steps and leaned back against the curved wall, her hands clasped to her breast, her heart racing, her blood throbbing, her breathing ragged. Why had she lingered? Why hadn’t she simply told him not to pursue Giselle and left the chamber at once?
Because he was handsome and friendly and charming. Because she had both feared and hoped that he would kiss her. Because she was weak and lustful, and he aroused a desire in her so overwhelming, she felt almost helpless to resist, in spite of the chiding of her conscience.
At least now one thing was very clear: she must never be alone with the handsome Sir Henry again.
CHAPTER THREE
THE NEXT MORNING, after another restless night disturbed by dreams of the dungeon and the beating and the pain his friend had inflicted, Henry leaned over the basin in the lord’s chamber of Ecclesford and splashed cold water over his face. God’s wounds, would he never sleep well again? It had been weeks since those terrible days. His injuries had healed. So why could he not sleep soundly? Why did the memories still come so vividly, as if he were again chained to that wall and despairing that Merrick, a man to whom he had sworn to be loyal even to death, had been so quick to believe that he was a traitor?
A soft knock sounded on the door.
When he bade the person enter, he
