Free Linda Needham by The Bride Bed

forever broidered on his sleeve. “Ya know I’m only askin’ after you, my lady.”
    Talia would have grabbed him back for a hug, but he was swallowed up by three other men who took his place.
    “We’re frightfully low on barley, my lady,” Alroy said. “And none in the village.”
    “And the quay’s lost its east shoring.”
    Ha! Finally, something to report to de Monteneau. “How did it happen, Leod?”
    “Blind Philip’s wife saw it ripped out by Rufus’s men trying to escape in a currack.”
    Blast it. Not de Monteneau at all. “And the fulling mill, Matthew?” Always a prime target.
    “It’s fine, my lady. Though we’re still in dire need of wool, what with our sheep gone.”
    “Aye, Matthew, if only a flock of sheep wouldwander by, or a caravan of the king’s woolens for the winter.” A quarter hour later, she was left with Leod, the rest of the problems having apparently taken care of themselves.
    “Leod, have you seen Quigley this morning?”
    “Not since last night, my lady. We left him in the village and come home.”
    Quigley often took chances where he shouldn’t. “He didn’t say anything about—”
    “Holding court, madam?”
    She ought to have known that de Monteneau was nearby; the air around her eddied and crackled, lifting the hair on her nape, sending Leod hobbling off.
    And blast it all, if that wasn’t a telltale blush blooming right out of her chemise.
    Talia spared de Monteneau a brief glance but was met with the distracting memory of the man standing naked in the light of the fire—an unwelcome artifact of the night before.
    “Good morning, my lord.”
    He took a possessive moment and cast his arrogant gaze around the growing crowd in the hall. “It will be, madam, after I talk to your steward.”
    “Why him?” Had Quigley been found out?
    A muscle firmed and flexed in his jaw. “The name of your steward?”
    “His name is Quigley. But whatever you need to say to him, you will say to me first.”
    “Very well, madam.” He took a cocky stance,one boot on the bench beside her. “When was the last time the cesspit in the barbican tower was cleaned out?”
    “Well…I don’t know. Why?”
    “Because it’s offensive to my men, and therefore to me. When was it last cleaned?”
    Talia had made a point of never entering the barbican towers. “If the cesspit offends you, my lord, you have my leave to clean it.”
    “Do I now?” That muscle in his jaw was working hard, the deep midnight of his eyes becoming darker.
    Before she could decide whether to respond or to ignore him or to haul off and kick him in the shins, a young voice rose above the crowd, parting it.
    “A message, my lord. From the king.”
    A stony coldness shuttered de Monteneau’s eyes, directed toward the lanky lad standing at attention beside him. “When, boy?”
    “Came just now to the guardhouse. I brought it straight away, my lord.”
    De Monteneau snatched the sealed document. “Does the messenger await a reply?”
    “No, my lord. He’s gone, my lord. Thank you, my lord.” The young man had dropped a terrified, trembling bow with each “my lord,” bent upon scurrying out of his lord’s reach. But when he turned to go, Talia realized that the dark red stain on his tunic sleeve was blood.
    “Just a moment.” Talia caught his wrist then studied the stain. “Is this yours?”
    His dark eyes flew open. “Of course it’s my tunic, my lady. Bought it in London a few months past.”
    She tried to smile him out of his terror. “Is this your blood, I mean? Are you wounded?”
    The young man shot his questioning gaze to de Monteneau and received an even deeper scowl. “Uhm…well…” He looked stricken, caught between flight and paralysis.
    “Answer her, boy.” It was a cold, lifeless command.
    “Yes, ma’am. My blood.”
    She gentled her voice. “Here, then, let me see.” She gingerly raised the wide sleeve past the wound. “How did this happen?”
    “Last night, my lady. I was