Free Love at First Sight by Sandra Lee Page B

“I have agreed to stay until Nicolette—”
    “Pardon, your grace,” a voice sounded from the doorway. Golde turned to find the fair-complexioned steward standing there. “De Warrenne has arrived.”
    A pox on Sir Nigel for interrupting before she could decline Delamaure’s offer. Golde returned her attention to the baron, but at the look on his face, words deserted her. Where before his jovial spirits had rendered him most approachable, his features now appeared etched in pitted flint. One would have to be bold indeed to gainsay him at present.
    She glanced at the children. Alory yet squirmed in his father’s arm, though Ronces’ visage had grown stony. Slipping from the baron’s grasp, the brat moved to capture his brother. He whispered something in Alory’s ear, and a troubled expression claimed the younger bug’s sweet features. Both climbed from the great bed and moved to stand beside Roland, Alory clutching Ronces’ hand.
    ’Twas as if the devil himself had just been announced, Golde thought. Who was this de Warrenne, that he could breed such ill will?
    “Welcome de Warrenne on my behalf,” the baron grumbled. “Serve him my finest wine and see he is fed. I shall attend him shortly.”
    Sir Nigel bowed and disappeared from the doorway. For a moment Sir Gavarnie sat motionless, and Golde was certain ’twas despair that tinged his hate-darkened features. Then a muscle twitched in his jaw and he rose from the bed. Immediately Roland began fumbling with the laces of his tunic.
    “Sir Sperville!” the baron thundered.
    The chamberlain’s tone was yet disgruntled when he appeared from the wardrobe. “Mi’lord?”
    Gavarnie sneered. “That whoreson, de Warrenne, has arrived.”
    Spindleshanks’ petulant demeanor vanished and an icy mien settled over his thin features. “I can scarce credit the man’s effrontery. That he would dare impose himself on your hospitality so long before the tourney begins.”
    The lord held up a hand. “He is shire reeve here and needs time to collect taxes before the king arrives. However, I would that you . . .”
    No wonder this de Warrenne aroused such hostility, Golde thought as Delamaure issued orders. King William was indeed clever, having empowered the old English office of shire reeve to care for all royal affairs in the shires. ’Twas a most effective check in controlling his e’re rebellious barons, for one lord oft held the position of reeve in a shire that contained the estates of several other barons. In that way, they were kept busy fighting one another, instead of the king.
    So caught up was she with her thinking, ’twas a moment before she realized Gavarnie’s gaze was scanning the room in her direction. Roland still struggled with the knotted tunic laces, the tip of his tongue pressed to his upper lip.
    “Mistress, uh . . .” the baron began.
    “Golde,” Spindleshanks supplied.
    “Mistress Golde. If you would be good enough to see to the boys for a time.”
    ’Twas not a question. ’Twas a dismissal.
    Golde shook her head. “Mi’lord, I cannot—”
    Gavarnie spoke before she could finish. “Admittedly, I have presented you with naught but my black temper. I am e’re bedeviled with matters of state. However, I am much impressed with your treatment of my children. ’Tis a comfort to know they will never gut a person’s buttocks, nor will they ever oppose their opponents.”
    Though his face held no trace of a smile, Golde’s lips twitched at his humor.
    “And ’tis a miracle that Nicolette—” He paused and raised an imperious black brow when Roland gave a vicious yank at the cords of his tunic.
    “Your forgiveness, mi’lord,” the squire begged, his face reddening.
    Gavarnie nodded, and his gaze returned to Golde. “I would speak with you at length on your healing abilities at the first opportunity. Meanwhile, I would be in your debt if you would agree to take charge of Ronces and— Roland, do you seek to strangle me?”
    “I