Prisoner of My Desire by Johanna Lindsey Page B

wants the job. Wants it! He hates it, and well he should, but I can see now why he changed his mind about that. Such a tiny thing you are, and so pretty. It must be some heinous crime Lord Warrick thinks you guilty of, to put you here, but I am sure ’twill be straightened out once he comes.”
    Rowena just stared. She knew not what to make of this man and his tirade. He was certainly indignant about something, but she was not sure what.
    He did not frighten her, however, as the other man had. Verily, there was such kindness in his light blue eyes, she almost started crying again.
    He must have noticed, for he said gruffly, “Here now, none of that. ’Twill not be so bad, your stay with us. ’Tis a deplorable place to put a lady, but private for all that, and I will see what I can do about cheering it up for you.”
    Cheering up a dungeon? She could not help but smile at such an incongruous thought.
    “Who are you?” she thought to ask.
    “John Giffard I am called.”
    “Are you a jailer also, then?”
    “Only when ’tis needful, which is not often. But I was just rousted from my fire to be told only I am to have the care of you. ’Tis late in coming, that order, though better late than not at all. That whoreson did not hurt you, did he?”
    Which whoreson? she almost asked, but realized in time that he was speaking of the other jailer. “Nay, he did not touch me. But then, ’tis your lord’s order that no one is to touch me, to assist me or otherwise, nor am I to be spoken to. Were you not told that you are not to speak to me?”
    “Nay, no one said aught of that, nor would I mind it if ’twere said. I do as I will and always will, though I have a few stripes on my back that tried to convince me otherwise.”
    ’Twas incredible, the anger she felt on his behalf. “ Who whipped you?”
    “Nay.” He chuckled. “Never you mind. ’Twas long ago, and my own stubbornness the cause. Now, let me see what I can find for you at this late hour. The kitchen is like to be locked up tight by now, but I warrant there will be some fruit at least in the “stores above.”
    He found her four plump apples freshly picked, which more than satisfied her hunger. But that was not all he found. He brought in a narrow wooden frame and a plump mattress heaped with warm bedding. He found an old, faded rug that covered nearly all the floor space. Another trip produced a crate to set her candleson, and a box with a supply of replacements so she need not deal with the darkness after all. There was a chamber pot, a bucket of water with cloths for washing up, and cold, fresh water to drink.
    John Giffard was a godsend. He turned her dungeon cell into a room that was, if not pleasant, at least very comfortable. He brought her two large meals a day, food that was fit for the lord’s table. He kept her well supplied with fresh water as well as bathwater. He brought her a needle and thread to keep her hands busy, and himself to keep her mind busy. He spent a great deal of time with her every day, gossiping about this and that, mostly nonsense. He simply loved to talk, and she loved to listen to him.
    She knew she had Sir Robert to thank for John Giffard. He must have known what the other jailer was like, and also that this one had a good and kind heart. Robert had taken pity on her after all, though Warrick de Chaville was not like to thank him for it. But she would thank him if ever she had the chance.
    The days turned into a week, then two, then three. When Rowena finally noticed that the time of her monthly flux had come and passed without flow, she sat down and laughed hysterically. Gilbert’s plan had actually worked. That damn churl’s seed had taken root with only three nights’ trying. But Kirkburough was gone. From the road they had stopped to watch the smoke billow above the treetops as every wooden building and floor caught fire. There was naught leftfor a child to secure; a child conceived for only that purpose was useless