well, um, my lord, Bryce Frechette is somewhere in Europe at the moment, we think, and—”
“Where in Europe?”
“Nobody knows, my lord. Naturally we tried to locate him when his father fell ill, but to no avail, I’m afraid”
Etienne listened impassively, although he had been informed of this before He wanted to hear how the local people interpreted the childish action of the son of their late lord. It was quite obvious his sister did not condemn him for it—more fool her! “He did not say where he planned to travel before he left?” Etienne asked, already knowing the answer.
Chalfront cleared his throat nervously and gave a sidelong glance at the blushing Gabriella.
“He, um, left home rather abruptly, my lord,” Chalfront said, “after a quarrel with his father. His father claimed he did not care where his son had gone. When it became clear that the earl’s illness was mortal, Lady Gabriella sent men to find him. Unfortunately, by the time they returned with no news of her brother, the earl was dead. Lady Gabriella could not afford to send the men again and, being wiser in her handling of money than her father, she did not.”
Gabriella Frechette stiffened, but said nothing.
“This Bryce Frechette ... what do you think he would do, should he hear of his father’s demise?” Etienne inquired.
Chalfront looked down at his hands, then glanced at Gabriella Frechette. Her expression was murderous, and Chalfront’s tone changed to one of angry defiance, aimed not at the baron to whom he spoke, Etienne guessed, but at the woman beside him. “I cannot say, my lord. He was something of a wild youth, if truth be told, impetuous and spoiled. Some—nay, most—felt it was better that he had gone, although of course it is regrettable that any son should quarrel so with his father.”
“You felt it was better he was gone!” Gabriella Frechette cried impetuously, her hands drawing into fists at her side. “You were glad that there was no one to watch over you except my sick father! No one who might see your dishonesty!”
“Dishonesty?” Chalfront squeaked, growing red in the face.
“My steward has examined the account rolls of Castle Frechette and found nothing amiss,” Etienne said, believing Gabriella Frechette’s accusation was made of haste and hate. He had every confidence that Jean Luc, his steward of many years, would have noticed had anything been amiss with the castle’s financial records. “And I should not have to remind you again that you will speak only when you have been addressed,” the baron said to the young woman. He spoke not loudly, but with unmistakable firmness
Rather impressively and contrary to the reaction he had anticipated, she quickly regained her self-control. Her eyes still flashed with angry fire and she did not look at the bailiff, but it was clear she was capable of subduing her emotions when it was necessary. A most rare quality in a woman, and one completely unexpected.
“Why are you not married?” he asked suddenly, trying to confound her. When she did not answer, he said, “Well?”
“Excuse me, my lord, I did not realize you were addressing me.”
She was playing a dangerous game, this pretty woman with the defiant eyes standing before him in wounded pride and unbowed majesty. But she would lose. He would win this first test of his authority, because he must always win. “Why are you not married?” he repeated, and no one who heard the stern tone of his voice would have dared refuse to answer.
“Because I did not wish to be,” Gabriella Frechette said, some of her defiance replaced by obvious fear.
“My lord, if I may say so, Lady Gabriella tended to her parents most devotedly,” Chalfront stuttered, clearly terrified. “She said she would entertain no suitors while she did her duty to them.”
“I did not ask you for your opinion, bailiff,” the baron noted dispassionately. The man looked about to collapse, but that was of no concern to Etienne. He spoke only to the young woman. “Apparently your father was more shortsighted than I had been told, since his lack of concern for your future has left you on my hands. Is there no other family to whom you could go?”
“No.”
“You will address me as ‘my lord’ or ‘Baron,”’ he said.
“No, my lord,” she replied with undeniable scorn in her dark brown eyes.
What kind of creature was this? The boldest knights in England were more easily dominated than this wench. “Who fostered you?” he demanded.
“No one, my lord. My parents wished to raise us.”
“If you are as devoted to God as you were to your parents, you should go to a convent.”
“Excuse me, my lord?” Chalfront interrupted again, his voice like the squeak of a mouse.
The baron turned his impartial gaze onto the bailiff. “What is it?”
Chalfront cleared his throat nervously. “Lady Gabriella is penniless, my lord. It would cost some money for her to be accepted into a convent, and there is nothing left.”
“There are debts still unpaid, too,” Baron DeGuerre noted.
Suddenly Gabriella realized he had known more of her family history than he had indicated.
Obviously his questions, embarrassingly posed in front of the assembled servants and tenants, had but one purpose: to reveal her penniless state to everyone and shame her in public. He was a cruel and heartless man, worse than even the rumors had led her to believe!
She must have been mad not to see immediately the unfeeling creature he was. How could she have been so impressed with his strength and commanding presence when he did not temper those qualities with mercy? How could she have thought there was a hint of vulnerability in his aloofness? How could she ever have found him attractive, unless she had felt the same fascination for him that Eve had experienced for the snake in the Garden of Eden?
They were engaged in a battle, and Gabriella would not admit defeat, especially when Baron DeGuerre took a step toward her and made what she supposed was his idea of a smile. “However, I can be generous.”
The look in his eyes assured her that his idea of generosity was not one she would share.
Chapter Two
The baron reached into the wide, plain brown leather belt about his waist and produced a leather purse.
Gabriella had very little doubt what he might expect in the way of recompense for his “generosity,” this vain, arrogant bully who had tried to humiliate her in the courtyard of her own home. What kind of woman did he think he was dealing with? One like Josephine de Chaney, who had abandoned her morals for the sake of money? “I want nothing from you, my lord,” she said contemptuously.
Not a muscle moved in the baron’s handsome, impassive face.
“You...you have been most munificent, my lord,” Chalfront said anxiously, reminding Gabriella of his odious presence. “Surely everyone understands that.”
“Except this person,” the baron replied, his gaze still fastened upon her. “Whether you accept my gift or not, you will leave this castle and the village at once.”
“No, I will not. This is my home and—”
“If I order you to go, you will go.” The baron said the words quietly, but the menace was unmistakable. Then he smiled again. “You may stay in the castle if the tenants’ feelings are so vital to you. As a servant.”
It took a mighty effort, but Gabriella straightened her shoulders and said, “The tenants will be most upset if you make such an order.”
“The tenants?” he asked with a very slight hint of incredulity. “What care I for the feelings