heard the lord’s indignant bellow.
“The witchwife!”
She snatched her corded belt from the bed and tied it about her hips as the door burst open. Dark-faced, the baron stalked into the room while Sperville hustled to keep pace.
“To what purpose do you skulk about my private chambers, wench?” the lord demanded. He drew to a halt and scanned the room, as if he would locate her position.
She waited for Spindleshanks to reply. After all, ’twas the chamberlain who’d procured the use of the baron’s tub for her. When he did naught but level a disgusted look at her, she gave her attention back to the baron.
“Do you accuse me of thievery?”
His sightless gaze riveted on her, black and forbidding. “I can think of no other reason for your presence.”
“Beg pardon, mi’lord highness.” Her tone was syrupy. “Did you not suggest Sir Sperville might arrange a bath for me? And were he not so concerned with his own neck, he would tell you so.”
Spindleshanks scowled. “The maid speaks the truth, though I had no inkling she would require the better part of an evening to bathe.” He cast her a sour look before returning his attention to his master. “No harm has been done, and you have more immediate matters to attend to.”
Delamaure’s features grew impatient. “You are right. Hie yourself off, wench, and keep yourself away unless I summon your presence.”
Golde crossed her arms over her chest. “I will hie myself off, all right. But not before we have discussed your children’s behavior.”
For a moment it appeared he might strangle. “Chil— Behav—” He sucked air through clenched teeth and when next he spoke, ’twas with the succinctness of a scholar addressing a dull child. “As I told you earlier, I am much involved with more important affairs. I have not the time at present”—his tone grew angrier with each word he spoke—“to worry over trifles which have no bearing on aught but worthless social graces.”
Golde clamped her teeth together and narrowed her eyes. Were all men consumed with such a sense of self-importance? Even Spindleshanks was eyeing her as if she were a bothersome gnat.
Spinning about, she marched to the tub and snatched up her shoes and dirty clothing. If his toadship couldn’t bestir himself on his children’s behalf, neither would she.
Still, she could not resist goading him with a parting remark. “’Tis no wonder your offspring are such maladjusts. They have been cursed with an officious, boot-licking halfwit for a father.”
As the baron’s jaw knotted, so did Spindleshanks’ face pale. Golde smiled tightly and headed for the door. But she got no farther than two steps before the lord clutched her arm. The shoes and clothes slipped from her grasp as he jerked her back in front of him.
Her breath caught at her body’s agitated response.
“’Tis you who is the maladjust, Mistress Dowd. Boys were not made to sit about stitching and simpering over the beauty of one another’s needlework. Though their mischief-making can become tedious, my sons have oft been a source of great pleasure to me.”
She now understood a cat’s craving to be stroked. If her flesh had its way, she would rub herself up and down the length of the lord’s body until he . . .
Plague take the bastard! What mean imaginings he inspired.
Horrified with the simile of cat to owner, she lashed out. “Alory scrambles to hide in corners while squalling like a babe to avoid his brother’s foul innuendos. Ronces curses Nicolette and takes great satisfaction in telling her you are not her father. And Nicolette relates how you chopped their mother into tiny pieces.”
She struggled to pull her arm from his grasp. “Maladjusted I may be, but my worst nightmares are naught compared to your children’s thick-comings.”
The baron’s features grew ferocious. His nostrils flared like a maddened bull’s, and his grip on her upper arm tightened until her fingertips
“The witchwife!”
She snatched her corded belt from the bed and tied it about her hips as the door burst open. Dark-faced, the baron stalked into the room while Sperville hustled to keep pace.
“To what purpose do you skulk about my private chambers, wench?” the lord demanded. He drew to a halt and scanned the room, as if he would locate her position.
She waited for Spindleshanks to reply. After all, ’twas the chamberlain who’d procured the use of the baron’s tub for her. When he did naught but level a disgusted look at her, she gave her attention back to the baron.
“Do you accuse me of thievery?”
His sightless gaze riveted on her, black and forbidding. “I can think of no other reason for your presence.”
“Beg pardon, mi’lord highness.” Her tone was syrupy. “Did you not suggest Sir Sperville might arrange a bath for me? And were he not so concerned with his own neck, he would tell you so.”
Spindleshanks scowled. “The maid speaks the truth, though I had no inkling she would require the better part of an evening to bathe.” He cast her a sour look before returning his attention to his master. “No harm has been done, and you have more immediate matters to attend to.”
Delamaure’s features grew impatient. “You are right. Hie yourself off, wench, and keep yourself away unless I summon your presence.”
Golde crossed her arms over her chest. “I will hie myself off, all right. But not before we have discussed your children’s behavior.”
For a moment it appeared he might strangle. “Chil— Behav—” He sucked air through clenched teeth and when next he spoke, ’twas with the succinctness of a scholar addressing a dull child. “As I told you earlier, I am much involved with more important affairs. I have not the time at present”—his tone grew angrier with each word he spoke—“to worry over trifles which have no bearing on aught but worthless social graces.”
Golde clamped her teeth together and narrowed her eyes. Were all men consumed with such a sense of self-importance? Even Spindleshanks was eyeing her as if she were a bothersome gnat.
Spinning about, she marched to the tub and snatched up her shoes and dirty clothing. If his toadship couldn’t bestir himself on his children’s behalf, neither would she.
Still, she could not resist goading him with a parting remark. “’Tis no wonder your offspring are such maladjusts. They have been cursed with an officious, boot-licking halfwit for a father.”
As the baron’s jaw knotted, so did Spindleshanks’ face pale. Golde smiled tightly and headed for the door. But she got no farther than two steps before the lord clutched her arm. The shoes and clothes slipped from her grasp as he jerked her back in front of him.
Her breath caught at her body’s agitated response.
“’Tis you who is the maladjust, Mistress Dowd. Boys were not made to sit about stitching and simpering over the beauty of one another’s needlework. Though their mischief-making can become tedious, my sons have oft been a source of great pleasure to me.”
She now understood a cat’s craving to be stroked. If her flesh had its way, she would rub herself up and down the length of the lord’s body until he . . .
Plague take the bastard! What mean imaginings he inspired.
Horrified with the simile of cat to owner, she lashed out. “Alory scrambles to hide in corners while squalling like a babe to avoid his brother’s foul innuendos. Ronces curses Nicolette and takes great satisfaction in telling her you are not her father. And Nicolette relates how you chopped their mother into tiny pieces.”
She struggled to pull her arm from his grasp. “Maladjusted I may be, but my worst nightmares are naught compared to your children’s thick-comings.”
The baron’s features grew ferocious. His nostrils flared like a maddened bull’s, and his grip on her upper arm tightened until her fingertips
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