Free Sweet Enchantress by Parris Afton Bonds Page B

glorifying his specialness nor repudiating his multidimensional capabilities with false modesty.
    The Englishman lieutenant remained quiet, attentive, occasionally asking negligible questions about court life at Avignon. Absently, his fingers traced the blade of his dinner knife. She noted that the fair-haired Esclarmonde also wat ched that sun-browned hand, contrasting with her pale one, so close to his own.
    Tactfully, Francis did not broach the subject of Dominique's position there. He waited, taking his c ue from her. Her wits were scattered but she had the presence of mind to discuss the crops, the weather, the castellans, and their state of affairs.
    Esclarmonde pressed Paxton for details of English court fashion styles, and he replied cordially, “ I profess my ignorance, my lady, as I have been absent, involved in campaigns in the wilds of Wales and Scotland.''
    Her lips formed a moue of disappointment that was no doubt meant to enchant the foreigner. Dominique would have dearly enjoyed confronting the soldier about the rumors reaching Languedoc of the English chevauchee —those vicious tactics of laying waste the Scottish countryside, so that crop, animal, and peasant alike were destroyed. Good sense and apprehension of what wounds he might inflict upon her pride in the presence of Francis and Esclarmonde held her tongue.
    After din ner, he was the proper host, escorting his guests to their rooms and escorting her to her own rooms to follow her inside when Manon would have closed the antechamber door. Only a single candle burned in its gilded sconce. The flickering light deepened his facial scars. The one that grooved his upper lip was a wicked path.
    “ Leave us,” he told her maid-in-waiting. Manon flashed her an alarmed glance. Dominique nodded, and the maid bobbed her head and left. When the door had closed, he asked, "Why is Francis de Beauvais here?” The question took her unprepared. "Why, 'tis Francis’s diocese and we are old friends.”
    "Bishops are known to be implacable enemies of communal self-government. Known to use their spiritual arsenal to defend their ecclesiastical law courts against a chatelaine's encroachment on potential revenue. What authority does he exert over your vassals?”
    She shrugged. "What you would expect. When he is here, he oversees their spiritual lives.”
    “He is here often?”
    “ Not that much anymore. Pope Benedict uses him occasionally as an emissary.”
    His eyes narrowed. “ In England, the clergy has a panoply of powers. The bishops have taken over administrative duties and accompanying income, so that they are indistinguishable from the barons.”
    "Well, here in Mon tlimoux I rule—”
    "No,” he said, "I do, mistress. Tomorrow King Edward will make an appearance at the tourney.” The information startled her, but he continued on, “As Duke of Aquitaine, he will officiate at the oath of fealty ceremony. I recommend you comport yourself respectfully.”
    "And if I do not?”
    A frown creased a line between his brows. "To even think otherwise is folly. I had not imagined you a simpleton, mistress.”
    His attitude of male superiority galled her. "Baldwyn has an old saw perhaps you have not heard. ‘Better to have a corpse in your house than an Englishman at your door.’”
    His mouth tightened. “ But I am here, am I not?” Before she could react, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her to him. His hand anchored in her hair and tugged her head far back. His kiss was swift, harsh, and as much as a surprise to him, she suspected, as it was to her. Her palms pressed against the steely breadth of his chest, though she was uncertain her gesture was one of resistance or submission. Brusquely he released her. He started to say something, apparently changed his mind, and, turning abruptly, left.
    She pressed the back of her palm against her violated lips, vainly trying to restore some sense of herself.  But all she could feel was how h er chambers