The Wagered Wench Read Online Free PDF Page A

challenge me.”
    Flustered, she realized her error and hastened to correct it. “ If , is what I meant! Even if you were the last man…in the world.”
    He resumed his meal, throwing another piece of bread into his mouth, his gaze lowered to the plate. His fingernails, she noted, were lined with dirt, his knuckles scarred. He wore a ring on his finger with a crest. Probably ripped from a corpse on some battlefield, she thought angrily. He was clearly a thief with no conscience. A scavenger, thriving from other folks’ misfortunes.
    “Listen, Norman swine, you don’t want this place. It is remote and the land yields poorly. Why else do you think we have been left alone this long, unmolested by your countrymen? The people here will never welcome you. Surely there are other manors. Friendlier, richer, more fertile places that would suit you better.”
    He said nothing.
    She sank to her bench, the box of jewelry in her lap, her fingers fidgeting with the catch on the lid. “It is very dull here. Nothing new ever happens. No one new ever comes.” She sighed. “Except you.” When he remained silent she continued, “Count Robert cares so little about this place that he has forgotten us. If you stay here, you too will be forgotten. Don’t all men want to make their mark in the world and be noticed?”
    He used his crust to mop up the remaining streaks of gravy on his plate and then chewed it slowly, not looking at her.
    “The last vainglorious Norman knight who came here did not know enough to keep from eating poisonous mushrooms he found on the moor. This is a place of many dangers for those unfamiliar with its terrain. If you have not lived here all your life, you cannot know the pitfalls. Better you go back to what you know, before something bad happens to you.”
    He yawned so wide she saw all his back teeth and the remnants of his supper disappearing down his gullet.
    Elsinora shook her head at his ill manners. “There is no war here. The only battle we fight is with the land and you are no farmer. You know nothing but bloodthirsty sword-play. You are simple-headed, I see that. Of course, your Norman king wanted stupid recruits who know how to wield weapons and have no conscience. I doubt you can even read your own name.”
    Now he pushed the chair back and swung his feet up, his boot heels falling to the table with a bang that shook the candles and empty platters. Clearly no one had ever told him it was bad luck to put shoes on a table.
    Evidently, this man thought he could do as he pleased, ride rough shod over her life and the lives of everyone in Lyndower.
    “Coeur du Loup?” she snapped. “What does that mean—idiot with big balls?”
    At last he looked at her and replied, “You’ve seen them then?”
    * * * *
    Dominic slept that evening in the stables with the grooms. Gudderth’s steward, an elderly fellow named Alf, had offered him a pallet in the great hall, but he preferred the hayloft.
    He lay on his back, thinking over this curious adventure upon which he’d embarked. He should have left that evening, once he saw the old fool safely to bed, but instead here he was contemplating the shrew daughter, thinking about staying just to help the bony wretch out.
    Dominic had spent more than twenty years of his life traveling—first as a groom, then as squire to a knight, and finally as a soldier. He was quite content with his life. Getting by without drawing undue notice to himself, not seeking any great rewards, content to do the bull work and let others take credit. As for women, he’d been foolishly in love only once and that ended disastrously. He touched the scar on his cheek, remembering.
    Since then he’d decided they were not meant to be a permanent fixture in his life. He was far better off with a few wenches scattered about the country, women he could visit once in a while and never have to see when they were in a bad mood. The minute they began questioning him he could be out the door and