Page 25 of Hers To Command
“Not according to my late lord’s will.”
That brute probably only understood money, or a strong backhand blow. “Summon the ladies.”
The blond warrior crossed his powerful arms. “I think not, my lord. Their orders are plain. They have said thou art to be allowed entry, but their courtesy does not extend to thy men who caused much trouble before.”
Roald couldn’t dispute that. Nor did he wish to quibble any longer like a beggar at the gates of his own castle.
He signaled for the leader of his escort, a tall, thin fellow, to ride closer. “Dismiss the men,” he ordered. “They may entertain themselves in the town.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Duly released, his escort turned and rode back toward the village.
“Now open the gate!” Roald commanded.
The bossed wooden doors finally swung open, but before Roald could ride through, a guard of ten men came jogging out and surrounded his horse. For the first time it dawned on Roald that wishing to avoid trouble might not mean that the ladies would do as he ordered.
Surely they wouldn’t dare…
Cerdic appeared on the other side of the gate, his shield on his arm, his battle ax in his hands and a smug smile on his face. “As I said, the ladies wish no trouble.”
One day he’d wipe that self-satisfied grin off that lout’s face, Roald silently vowed, as he kicked his horse into a trot and entered the courtyard.
He was no prisoner, but the rightful master here. This was his estate, his castle, and the money in his uncle’s strongboxes was his, too.
This had to be Mathilde’s doing—how he’d make her pay!
There was nobody in the courtyard, either; it was as deserted as the village. Roald dismounted and tossed his horse’s reins over a nearby cart, then marched toward the hall.
His cousins were going to regret this insolent reception, Mathilde most of all! He would find the most spartan, barren convent with the sternest mother superior he could in which to imprison her. Giselle, he would enjoy making beg for forgiveness before—
No one opened the hall door for him. He shoved it open himself and, immediately upon entering, spotted that bitch Mathilde glaring daggers at him from where she stood on the dais, as proudly impertinent as if she were a queen.
She hadn’t been so proud the last time he’d seen her, he recalled as he walked forward, that memory slightly mollifying his rage.
The beautiful, blushing Giselle stood beside her, dressed in a gown of soft burgundy that hugged her shapely body. It was skillfully embroidered around the cuffs and hems, no doubt the work of the lady herself, who was forever at her needle or tending to some minor wound or scrape.
He looked at the man standing next to her—and bit back a curse. Where had D’Alton come from? No doubt he’d come nosing after a beauty who stood to inherit an estate and a fortune. But Henry would have to be mad—or even more arrogant than Roald had long assumed—if he thought Roald would agree to an alliance between their families.
Roald reached the dais and gave them a nominal bow. “Good day, Giselle. Mathilde. I give you my sympathies on your father’s death.”
“Do you, indeed?” Mathilde replied with a lift of her brow.
By God, who did she think she was? Had she forgotten his last visit? The things she’d said. And done. “Of course I’m sorry he’s dead, although he was old and ill and all men must die.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “All men must die, and some deserve to die sooner than others.”
He hadn’t come here to bandy words with her. “Mathilde—”
“I believe you know our guest,” she interrupted, nodding at the Norman at her side.
“I don’t think your cousin is very pleased to see me,” the Norman rogue noted, mockery in his voice and in his eyes.
“No, I’m not,” Roald retorted, mounting the dais. “Why is he here?” he demanded of Giselle.
She didn’t answer; she only blushed and sidled back behind her sister and the landless Norman.
“Sir Henry is visiting at our invitation,” Mathilde replied.
