The baby had absolutely nothing to complain about.
He pulled the covers away from the baby's face. "Go back to sleep," he ordered in a soft but firm voice. Ulric quit squirming long enough to smile up at Royce. The baby looked absolutely ridiculous with his hair standing on end. Royce couldn't help smiling back.
He then decided he'd spent enough time soothing the child and once again pulled the covers over the baby's face. "Now you will go back to sleep."
Ulric let out another bellow. Royce spotted Nicholaa then. She came running through the open gates with her hair flying out behind her, paying no heed to the weather, for she hadn't even taken the time to put a cloak around her shoulders in her haste to get to Ulric.
His plan had worked. Royce was relieved-not so much at having tricked her into leaving the abbey as to be rid of the squirming infant.
Nicholaa flew down the hill at a breakneck run. She was out of breath but full of fury when she finally reached Royce. "Give me that baby," she demanded in a hoarse shout.
She was so infuriated that she couldn't stop herself from slapping his leg.
"Is Ulric your son, Nicholaa?"
She hesitated for only a fraction of a second before nodding. "Yes, he's my son."
He knew she was lying. Again. He let out a sigh. The fear he saw in her gaze made him hold his silence. He wouldn't challenge her now. She had lied because she was afraid. She couldn't possibly understand him. He knew she was trying to protect the child from harm. Royce was her enemy, and he could well imagine the foul stories she'd been fed about the Normans.
"Ulric's safe, Nicholaa. No harm will come to him."
After making that promise, he reached down to her, offering her his hand.
She shoved it away. "Give him to me. Now."
He would have liked nothing better than to hand the child down to her, for Ulric was at it again, squirming, kicking, howling, too, but Royce wasn't about to let Nicholaa have the upper hand. She wasn't the one giving the orders, and the sooner she understood that, the better. The journey would be difficult enough without her challenging him every step of the way.
Ulric had gone into a rage of rebellion. Royce turned his attention to calming him. He gently turned the infant so that his back rested against the cloak covering his chest. He then removed the blanket from his face, for the babe did seem determined to look around him. He mopped his face again, too. Then he finally turned his gaze back to Nicholaa.
The bluster had gone out of her anger. Royce was being incredibly gentle with Ulric. The warrior had such big hands, and yet he wasn't at all awkward with the infant. Ulric liked him, too. The baby kept tilting his head back and grinning up at his captor.
He was only a baby. He didn't know any better, she told herself. She finally turned her gaze to Royce.
They stared at each other for a long minute while Ulric gurgled out his new sounds. The baby was very content.
Nicholaa couldn't hold Royce's stare long. She started shivering and couldn't decide if the chills were due to the weather or the giant's glacial stare.
"The game's over, Nicholaa. I've won. If this were a chess match, I would say checkmate," he said. "Admit your defeat and I'll show you mercy."
The amusement in his voice was more infuriating to her than his arrogant boast. She looked up at him again and saw that he was trying hard not to laugh at her.
The man was literally gloating with victory. She slapped his leg again. "If this were a game, your move would not be checkmate, Baron, but check, for you've only cornered me with this devil's move. Aye, this game isn't over yet."
He shook his head. "You're in an untenable position, Nicholaa. Give up this foolish struggle and accept what cannot be changed."
He had the gall to smile at her. She disliked him intensely for that. How could she have thought he was the least bit handsome? The man was a monster to use a baby to get his way. Why, he'd deliberately put Ulric in jeopardy just to gain the advantage.
Nicholaa realized that, in all honesty, the baby wasn't in any jeopardy. She was candid enough with herself to admit that truth. Ulric was safe. There was a full army within shouting distance to keep the baby safe from attack, and he was well protected in the Norman's arms.
No, Ulric wasn't in any jeopardy, but she was. It was only a matter of minutes before she would be turned into a block of ice by the wind.
Nicholaa rubbed her arms and stomped her feet in an effort to take the sting out of her toes. "Give me my son," she demanded again, though her voice lacked conviction now.
"Is he your son?"
Before she could answer that question, Ulric gurgled out a word: "Mama." Since the baby was looking at her, she seized the opportunity.
"Of course he is," she announced. "You just heard him call me Mama."
His exasperation was obvious. "Madam, in the past five minutes this babe has called me, my horse, and his fists Mama. You're trying my patience," he added with a frown. "Are you determined to stand there until you freeze to death or will you concede defeat?"
She nibbled on her lower lip for a long minute before giving him answer. "I'll concede only that you've bested me by means of sinful trickery, but that's all I'm going to concede."
It was enough to satisfy him. He lifted his cloak from where it was draped across his thighs and tossed it down to her.
"Put this on."
"Thank you."
She'd whispered those words, and he wasn't certain he'd heard her correctly. "What did you just say?"
"I said thank you."
"Why?" he asked, his puzzlement obvious.
She shrugged. "For a kindness given," she explained. "There is never a good reason for rudeness, Baron. We Saxons understand that, but I assume from the look on your face that Normans do not. 'Tis yet another reason you should go back where you belong and leave England alone. Our cultures are too different to mix."
God, she was exasperating. He let out a sigh. "Are all the Saxons as daft as you?"
She clutched the edges of his heavy cloak around her shoulders and glared at him. "We aren't daft. We're civilized."
He laughed. "So civilized that Saxon men and women paint their bodies? Don't shake your head at me. I've seen the pagan designs drawn on the Saxon soldiers' arms and faces. Even your church leaders think it quite decadent."
The man had a valid argument there, but she wasn't about to admit it. She, too, thought it a bit decadent the way some of the Saxons painted themselves. However, this was a ridiculous conversation to be having right now.
"Why can't you just leave me alone?"
The anguish in her voice caught him off guard. One minute she was arguing with him about his manners, and the next she was pleading with him and looking ready to weep.
"I'd like nothing better than to leave you alone, but it is my duty to take you to London, and it's your duty to-"
"To become some man's prize? Isn't that the real reason I'm being dragged to London?"
She was bloody furious again. Her changes of mood occurred so swiftly that he was amazed. And pleased. He much preferred an angry woman to a weeping one.
"I hadn't planned to drag you all the way to London, but the idea has merit."
The amusement in his voice made her want to scream. "You do try my patience," she muttered.
"And you mine," he announced when she pushed his outstretched hand away a second time."
"If I'm going to London, then I shall walk there. I won't-"
She never got to finish her threat, because he took matters into his hands. Literally. Before she realized his intention, he leaned to one side of the saddle, grabbed her around the middle, and lifted her up onto his lap. It happened so quickly she didn't even have time to gasp. Her bottom landed on his hard thighs. Her back was slammed up against his chest, and his arm became an anchor around her waist.