feel no ill effects. Chalfront would surely do whatever was necessary to retain his privileged position here, and she wondered how the baron might respond to Chalfront’s obsequious manner—or if he would see the dishonest rogue lurking beneath the fawning mask.
Unable to bear the sight of the bailiff, she looked at William, the village reeve, who stood with Osric the hayward and Brian the woodward, the men speaking in hushed and wary voices with an occasional glance in her direction.
Her father had always impressed upon her the necessity of taking care of the tenants, and the peasants had appreciated the kindness of their lord and his family. Both her sweet, long-dead mother and her generous father had been truly mourned by everyone on the estate, from the knights in his service to the poorest peasant begging alms at the castle gate.
The knights were gone now, of course. They had taken their leave singly at first, then in greater number after her father had died. They needed to find some other lord to feed and house them, for apparently that was the only basis for their loyalty.
The outer portcullis rattled upward and the large gates swung inward. The crowd looked expectantly toward the entrance as a boisterous cortege rode into the courtyard of Castle Frechette.
Despite her resolution to be strong, Gabriella’s knees started to tremble and her mouth went dry, her attention immediately drawn to the man sitting upon a prancing black stallion at the front of the company. She had heard of the baron’s long hair and handsome face, and this tall, commanding man could be no one else.
His chestnut locks brushed his muscular shoulders, and no beard covered his cleft chin. On another man, such a fashion might have conveyed an aura of effeteness. Not the baron. His hair gave him a savage air, like one of the barbarian Celts who still roamed the far reaches of the land, and he had the broad shoulders and posture of a born warrior.
He wore a cloak completely black, and underneath that she could see an equally long black tunic. His boots were plain leather, as was his sword belt. The only ornament he sported was a simple brooch to fasten the cloak about his throat, although the hilt of the dagger stuck through his sword belt was of finely wrought gold.
All in all, Baron DeGuerre emanated invincibility and complete control.
Behind Baron DeGuerre came his knights, their horses adorned with colorful accoutrements. The metal of their armor and weapons shone in the sun. Numerous banners, carried by mounted squires, floated in the slight autumn breeze. Then the foot soldiers and hounds, and finally several baggage carts entered the inner ward, which was rendered as noisy and overcrowded as a marketplace.
The baron swung down from his prancing horse as if it were the calmest, mildest mare in Christendom and strode to the center of the courtyard. Surprisingly, he did not seem pompous or proud, but removed and aloof from the commotion behind him and the castle servants before him. To Gabriella, he looked completely, utterly alone, even in the midst of this chaos.
Just as she had felt the day her father had died.
The baron slowly turned on his heel, surveying the buildings as if he were a merchant here to offer the cheapest price, and Gabriella remembered exactly why he had come.
As she looked at the buildings around her, her heart filled with pride at this monument to her parents, nearly overpowering the pain that one such as the Baron DeGuerre would be the possessor of it. Surely he would not care about this place beyond its strength as a fortress.
But there were other strongholds as well built. What was unique about Castle Frechette was its beauty. Her father had not been content with Norman utility when it came to his home; he had decorated and embellished wherever possible and insisted upon the finest materials. The stone frames of all the doors and archways were wonderfully carved, and even the simple stone hearth in the kitchen had been decorated with the shapes of fruit and braided loaves of bread. The chapel in the north tower boasted a lovely stained glass window, and her father’s solar in the south tower had three of plain glass. The apartments above the great hall were spacious and paneled with oak. The walls of the hall had been plastered and painted, so that even without tapestries, they were glorious to behold. All of the outer stones of the castle had been whitewashed with lime and today they gleamed in the September sunlight like the lovely marble used to pave her parent’s bedchamber.
Before she could look away, the baron’s gaze fastened upon her. Her breath caught in her throat, and her limbs seemingly turned to stone, although his face betrayed neither pleasure nor displeasure, pride nor scorn—indeed, she had never seen an expression so unreadable. He simply stared, his long hair and ankle-length tunic stirring slightly in the breeze.
She was the daughter of an earl, she reminded herself, so she stared back indignantly even as a heated blush flooded her face and warmed her body.
Without a change in his expression, Baron DeGuerre pivoted and continued his survey of the castle.
She had harbored a hope that the rumors about Baron DeGuerre were exaggerated and that she would be able to ask this man to allow her to stay in the only home she had known. In her most desperate fancies, she had even dared to imagine that he would welcome her superior knowledge of the castle, the land and the tenants.
She knew now, and with more disappointment than she cared to acknowledge, that these hopes had been completely ludicrous.
In a deep, dispassionate voice, the baron began to issue orders to the servants, grooms and squires to stable the horses and unload the wagons As he did so, she forced herself to look at the others in his retinue with the same impartial scrutiny with which he had regarded her home, and her.
There were several knights, some clearly more important than others, and it was to the two pairs riding nearest to the baron that she gave her closest attention. The first twosome was composed of a sleek, dark-haired man who also wore his hair long, but unlike the baron, it was brushed back from his high, pale forehead. He had what could have been a handsome face, except that his eyes were narrow and shifty as a ferret’s, overshadowed by heavy dark brows. As for his smile, it was a scornful, arrogant, sneering slash. His clothing and accoutrements were very fine, and she wondered if his favored position in the retinue meant he had influence with the baron. Woe betide her tenants if he did!
Beside this man, however, and in contrast to him, rode a blond-haired, merry individual in a tunic of very bright scarlet. At first sight, Gabriella thought him little more than a youth. When he dismounted and moved closer, she discerned subtle wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, and guessed that he was nearly of an age with the baron himself.
Gabriella found this man’s presence comforting. If the baron was as evil as men claimed, would such a pleasant-faced man be in his service? Or perhaps any man of Baron DeGuerre’s power and reputation would attract many followers, both good and bad.
Behind these two rode a pair of young knights. One was a slender, thoughtful-looking fellow, the other big and brawny. When they conversed, it was through the simplest of words and gestures, as if they had been friends for so long, nothing else was necessary.
Then Gabnella saw the woman who had to be Lady Josephine de Chaney. She was astonishingly beautiful, with a heart-shaped face and a perfect complexion, her pale, smooth cheeks having a very slight tint of pink; large green eyes fringed with incredibly lengthy lashes; rosy, full lips; delicately arched brows that were slightly darker than her blond hair; and a long, slender neck. She wore a cloak of rich blue and a headdress that sparkled in the sunlight over her bountiful blond hair. It was no wonder songs had been composed celebrating her classic beauty and graceful deportment, and that men had died vying for her love.
Gabriella smoothed down her simple brown homespun gown, and for an instant wished she had not sold all her fine dresses. But that was a vain thought, unworthy of her, and one quickly subdued.
Her self-evaluation was interrupted by the baron’s quiet yet commanding voice, which carried to every corner of the ward. “Where are the late earl’s children?” he demanded.
Now it comes, Gabriella thought. If only Bryce were here beside her instead of somewhere in Europe, ignorant even of their father’s death. Surely her brother would have