Enchantress (9 page)

The other women exchanged glances back
and forth across the cookhouse table.

Finally Princesa spoke. "Of course
they do. But there are different meanings to the word."

"To what word?"

The small woman looked down at the
babe in her arms and smiled. "To the meaning of love."

Jesamyn glared at her. "I don't
understand."

Isobel tried to explain. "There is the
act of love, the need for sexual adventure. There is a caring,
protective concern. And then there is the deeper emotion. In this
house we have many shades of it. Many layers."

But Jesamyn did not believe the
d'Anzeray men knew anything about "deeper emotion". Least of all
love. They had sold these poor women on a fantasy and let them
drink it down as if it were a magical elixir. Why had these women
agreed to live this way? Because they were lonely perhaps, or
needed protection and escape from their past lives. From what she
had heard, all these women had suffered at the hands of men before
they were "rescued" and brought there. In that case, anything might
seem like an improvement.

"Aelfa," exclaimed Isobel, "will you
not have your fortune told too?"

The auburn-haired woman declined
again. Jesamyn noted now that there were scars across Aelfa's hands
where she'd once been beaten. She closed her eyes, seeing again the
misery of her own childhood at the hands of The Master. Quickly she
let her mind rove, stretching out into Aelfa's thoughts. And what
she saw there in the other woman's memory sickened her.

It caused her sympathy for the second
wife to grow stronger, pushing beyond her wariness and her
skepticism. She wanted to help Aelfa. They had shared similar
hardships, known equal horrors. Aelfa's heart was good, glowing
with kindness and honesty, but it was protected by a hard shell to
show the world that she was brave. If she was hurt she would never
show it. And she believed in love, that every soul was worth
saving. In many ways, Aelfa reminded Jesamyn of her beloved
sister.

Surely she could befriend the women,
she reasoned. They were victims in all this.

It would not stop her hatred of the
men in the family and her determination to see them
dead.

A draft swept into the room, battering
the candle flames. They all turned and there was Nino, looking for
her. "My father wants to meet you."

Excitement stirred her blood, made her
pulse quicken. She would meet the black heart of this family at
last. She was in.

* * * *

Nino led her up the tower staircase to
the room in which the notorious Guillaume d'Anzeray rested on his
supposed deathbed, like a great spider waiting in the midst of his
web.

Supposed
deathbed, because Jesamyn saw at once with
disappointment that he was not dying. The man feigned illness for
some reason. At first, she did not know why, but it would come to
her if she let her mind search long enough.

"What's your name, wench?" he shouted
at her, as if he thought she might be deaf or stupid.

"She speaks the tongue, father," Nino
explained, his tone bemused. "No need to bellow."

Guillaume stared at her through sly,
narrow eyes. "Well? Is she mute?"

She drew herself up, spine straight,
shoulders back, chin high. "My name is Jesamyn of
Al-Andalus."

He smirked. "And many places since,
eh?"

She looked at him, ready to feel the
full heat of her hatred.

But he was just a man lying there. A
man with grey-peppered curls and a beard to match. A man who was
still handsome, still had a powerful presence even as he pretended
to be weak and dying. A man with a mischievous spirit.

Like her Tarot cards of
late.

Nino would look like that one day, she
mused. It was an unexpected thought. Pointless, idle and
irritating. "Yes, I have been in many places," she
snapped.

This was her least favorite, because
it was trying her as none other ever had. Spirits were pulling her
in many directions. She suspected she was being tested.

Was this man's power trying to thwart
hers? Trying to challenge her?

His eyes twinkled as he
laughed.

"What do you find so amusing?" she
demanded, fists clenched at her sides.

"She's a handsome creature, boy, but
be wary. There's a fire in her. I think she'd rather slap you than
kiss you."

Nino laughed. "I know that, father."
He rubbed his cheek with one hand. "She has done both to
me."

"I have never slapped you," she
exclaimed.

"In the souk you did. Remember? When I
wanted to hide behind your pot and I offered you some of my supper.
You kissed me, slapped me and then kissed me a second
time."

She stared. "Supper?"

"Honey cake with almonds. I had some,
and I gave it to you."

"No." She refused to believe it.
Refused to believe this was the man with whom her twin had shared a
kiss. How could her good sister have succumbed? Of course, she
could not have known the boy would grow up and in just a few years
would ride alongside her murderers. His own sword might have been
the very blade that killed Jasynda, the dear little girl he once
kissed.

If that was a true story.
If.

He shrugged and said to his father,
"She just doesn't remember the first time I met her."

Guillaume made a tutting sound with
his tongue against his teeth. "Women usually only remember the
things they care to." He turned his head to study her again. "What
are you looking at so intently woman?"

She was sorting through his mind,
racing down the twisty, tangled passages. Until at last she saw the
answer to her question. "You feign this illness, d'Anzeray, to spur
your sons into action."

That turned his self-satisfied grin
into a frown. "I am dying, wench. You will have respect for
me."

"Nonsense. You are no nearer death
than I. Or anyone here."

Nino was staring at her, appalled,
astonished. "Silence, Jesamyn."

"No. I speak as I find. Why should I
be silenced?"

"You will not speak to my father this
way."

"Ah, you are a coward then. A fool
indeed," she sneered. "You are not a grown man, and they are right
to treat you as a boy if you cannot stand up to your father." She
turned back to the man on the bed. "Your ruse has worked thus far,"
she added crisply, "with a generation of grandchildren already
being born. What happened, Guillaume? Were your sons avoiding
marriage for too long? The eldest must be thirty at least. You
found it necessary to take these measures to get them married? And
this idea of seven brides to be shared would keep them from feeling
as if they had committed themselves only to one woman. A feeling
you yourself could never bear."

There was silence in the chamber. Only
the gently sighing wind that cleared clouds and allowed the sun to
shine across the floor, made any sound.

Until Guillaume growled. "Get her out
of here."

As she turned to leave, Jesamyn
finally realized there was another figure in the chamber, an old
woman in nun's robes, mixing something in a pestle and mortar. The
woman had been so silent and unobtrusive, lurking in a dark corner,
that her presence had not registered. Now she rushed forward to
open the door for Jesamyn, and as she did so, she gave a wry smile
and muttered, "About time."

* * * *

"Why did you say those things to my
father?" Nino demanded, his hand tight around her arm as he raced
her back down the tower steps. "Why did you insist on raising his
wrath?"

"Because it is the truth." Apparently
no one had ever told Guillaume that before. Were even his sons too
scared?

"How do you know he is not
dying?"

She stopped on the steps and turned to
face Nino, spinning around so fast that the bells still around her
wrists and ankles all tinkled. "He has the aches and pains of any
man his age. Perhaps a few more because of the ungentle life he has
led. But he is not dying."

"How do you know?" he persisted, voice
rising in anger.

"Because I see it."

"In the cards?"

"No," she said simply. "I see it
inside him. I see it with my mind. I see inside all of
you."

He exhaled a small, tight sound of
frustration and hurried her onward.

"Who was the nun?" she asked. "I did
not think your father allowed such within his walls." Perhaps she
could somehow get her poison into whatever potion the old woman
mixed for her wicked patient. Clearly she would have to use poison,
as there was nothing weakened enough inside the old man, no natural
thorn to push on its way and finish him off.

"Sister Marie Angeline is the only nun
he allows to tend him in this illness, the only one whose presence
he ever tolerates."

"I am surprised. For a man
of no religion, to have a nun at his
deathbed
—"

"It is no business of yours,
wench."

Ah, now she was back to being "wench"
again, because she had dared suggest his father was a liar and a
malingerer, using a supposed "illness" to achieve obedience from
his seven wayward sons.

"If you desire to remain a
blind fool, cub, so be it." Why should she care whether he believed
her? His approval meant nothing to her.
He
meant nothing to her.

"You are only here to entertain us,"
he reminded her briskly. "Tonight you will dance for us and earn
your supper."

It occurred to her then, as she felt
his waves of anger, that just as she was determined to remain on
her course, he was equally resolved to keep to his.

Good.

He left her in the cookhouse with the
women again while he went to find his brothers. Everyone was busy
preparing supper. It was a lively scene, and the other women drew
Jesamyn into it, without hesitation, finding little jobs for her
that would make her feel as if she belonged.

"Why are you all so pleasant to me?"
she demanded of Aelfa.

"We have no cause not to be," came the
reply. "Do we?"

Ha! Little did they know. She studied
the wine jugs. She could slip poison into just one of them and fell
several wicked d'Anzerays in one supper. "Do the men drink from a
separate vessel?" she asked innocently.

Aelfa smiled. "No. Why?"

Oh, then she could not act yet. She
did not want one of the women to drink from it and accidentally be
poisoned.

She should have felt annoyed by this
barrier, but instead a wave of relief swept over her. Tonight at
least she need not worry about her mission. She could eat and plan.
Yes, very good. It might be as well to wait until she had been
there a little longer, gained more of their trust.

Chapter Seven

Nino bit into a leg of roasted
pheasant and let the good juices slide down his chin. This evening
he was ravenous. But not just for food.

As Jesamyn danced around
the hall, he followed her every move with his eyes, drinking her
down. The damned woman had dared insult his father and
called
him
a
fool. She was sly, not to be trusted. His father had warned him,
and he knew it was true.

She'd already wormed her way into the
affections of their wives, telling the women some sad tale of her
past. Very probably all lies. Princesa had come to him that
afternoon and asked if he meant to "keep" Jesamyn. The wives, it
seemed, wanted her to join their group. He had replied that he did
not think she was suitable. Princesa did not dare argue, of course.
Princesa was an obedient woman who did not think she knew
everything, or that she could pry inside the great minds of
men.

It was late and the women all gone to
their beds tonight, but the brothers remained, eager to enjoy the
entertainment. Now that their father's health seemed improved again
they had something to celebrate. Not that they ever needed much
excuse when there was a naked woman in their midst.

A stunning enchantress with sable
hair, breasts like dainty tear-drops, and the sweetest,
intoxicating, addictive pussy Nino had ever tasted.

Do not give in to
her
. He was certain she used magic to
enchant him, for he'd never experienced this rush of confusion when
he looked at a woman. She was a whore— whatever she called herself.
He should remember that and not look into her eyes, nor look at the
scars across her back and remember the little girl with whom he
shared honey cake.

Jesamyn danced with her bells only,
nothing else to obscure the beauty of her graceful, flexible body.
All the men were entranced as she walked around on her hands, with
her back arched like a bow, feet resting on her head and knees
parted. In this manner she presented her tantalizing pussy for a
tasting by each of his brothers.