Once again, Geoffrey laughed. "Do you know I've even become fond of your ability to insult me? A chair, Lyssa?" His brows rose as his smile widened. "Then again, the thought of you sitting atop me brings with it haunting images."
"Geoffrey!" she cried in shock as he turned her protest into a lewd picture. Suddenly, she could see herself lying atop him, moving in passion's rhythm. His mouth would take hers, his hands would stroke and caress. She felt the heat of her blush creep up her neck to stain her cheeks.
"It’s even better now that I see it haunts you, too." His voice was warm, deepening with desire.
"Go away, Geoffrey," she said, mortified. Simon's cries were growing frantic.
She turned on the mattress until her back was to him, then lowered the blankets. Simon caught back his cry and snuffled in relief as he found her breast. From behind her, Geoffrey traced the bare length of her spine with a fingertip.
"Who will you name as his godfather, for it won't be me."
"What do I care?" she snapped, trying to snatch the bedclothes up over her shoulder to hide her bareness from him. To her surprise, he took the blankets and settled them around her until she was covered. "One man is the same as another to me. Let Sir Martin stand for Simon in your stead, then. It cannot hurt to tie Freyne's child to him. The de la Bois's are a respectable family."
Geoffrey lifted her hair free of the bedclothes, letting the stuff slide through his hands. Elyssa shuddered in reaction. "Please, Geoff, go away," she begged softly. "You must leave me be."
"I will grant you the six weeks tradition requires, after that consider yourself besieged. Be warned, I'll not cease until I have you, heart and body." He touched his lips to the spot where her neck joined her shoulder.
Elyssa gasped against his caress. The mattress shifted as he rose, then a moment later the cottage door closed. When he was gone, she leaned her head against the headboard, not certain whether she should laugh or cry.
Damn him, but he'd use her desire for him against her until she hadn't the will to resist him. When he owned her will, he'd steal from her the independence she'd always craved. Damn her, but she wanted him to do so.
Reginald stood atop one of Freyne's gate towers watching the troop of soldiers descend over the distant hills. Crosswell's men came steadily on toward him, riding single file along the road that passed through his outer fields and pastures. They thought they could retake his home, all because Aymer's wife had borne a healthy son, did they?
His gaze moved possessively across what he now named his. Freyne's orchards, having shed their spring finery in the past month, wore cloaks of green, while the newly shorn sheep were white specks against the lushness of June's grass. Haying had begun; from his vantage point, the scythes gleamed in the sun, rising and falling in unison to the tune of a reaping song. The fragrant breeze brought him the rhythmic tones, more chant than lilt.
At the tangled border of the king's forest grew thick stands of wild rose, pinkish blossoms strewn along thorny branches. Oaks thrust their dark-green heads high above the more delicate birch and hazel. Only then did Reginald realize he was gazing at the same section of woodland in which he and the commoner had laid Theobald to rest. A useless death, now that his brother's widow had borne Aymer another heir.
Freyne's midwife brought this news upon her return, along with curses against Reginald for involving her in his plotting. Although he'd pointed out no harm was done, the bitch went on and on, moaning over her treatment whilst trapped in the sheriff's prison. It became obvious that in time her complaints would become extortion.
Foolish woman. At the first hint she needed coins to ease her suffering, she'd drunk one of her own nasty potions. Died, she had, once he’d made certain the foul stuff slid down her throat.
Reginald waited for revulsion to rise against the memory of doing murder. There was nothing, not even remorse in him. How had he come to this, when he’d so agonized over doing murder in autumn past?
His conscience had turned its back on him, and now sneered over its shoulder. His continual plotting had changed him. So long had he planned to do foul deeds that now, when the need arose, murder seemed a natural and appropriate solution to any dilemma.
Reginald closed his eyes. Honor and self-respect had long since shattered in him, leaving naught but an empty shell. Just as well. His new nephew had to die. At least, a babe couldn't fight the way the midwife had.
A touch of caution woke in him. Why did his brother's widow choose to bring her son here, when she liked Freyne not at all? Was it a trap? Perhaps what he'd plotted for Lady Freyne hadn't gone undiscovered as the midwife insisted. Ah well, he was a patient man, and the babe need not die on his first week home.
All at once, a new excitement filled him. Where his brother's widow went, there went Clare. His conscience didn't even bother to protest he was no longer the sort of man Clare could admire. It was far more convenient to excuse himself, saying once more that what he did guaranteed their future happiness. He almost, but not quite, convinced himself.
Reginald turned, descending the gatehouse tower's spiraling stairs. Past the machinery that worked the drawbridge he went, then exited at the tower's thick base. Standing in the arched gateway of Freyne's entrance he prepared to welcome these unwelcome visitors.
Crosswell's undersheriff was first to ride beneath the stony arch. "Well come to Freyne, Sir Martin," Reginald called in false greeting.
"Glad to be here, Sir Reginald," the young knight responded with a broad smile. The spawn of Adam de la Bois had removed his helmet and shucked his metal hood. Traveling had stained his swarthy face to an even darker hue, making his eyes all the blacker. The boy grinned at him. "I’m nigh on parched. I find myself praying you've got a vat of good wine hiding in this place."
Reginald forced his mouth to lift into a smile. Arrogant brat. What right had he to treat a man almost three times his age as an equal? Worse than that, the boy could and would claim Reginald's bedchamber for as long as he stayed; it was his right as Crosswell's undersheriff. Jesu, but it galled Reginald to cede even this little thing of what was his.
"Why, then you must take your ease in the hall. I'll see the butler serves you the best we have in store." His words were honey-sweet.
As de la Bois passed him, Reginald turned to watch the others arrive. He caught his breath in surprise. A woman rode in their midst. Lady Freyne's missive stated clearly she and her household would follow by cart and weren't expected to breach this gate until June's end. This week had just seen the ides.
He stared at her. With the day so warm, she wore a straw hat to keep the sun from her face. Her tawny gowns were dust-covered, dulling the fine orange color until it was nigh on the same shade as the honey brown plaits reaching past her slender waist.
"Clare?" The word was a strangled cry of need. He caught back his surge of joy in an effort to offer her a greeting appropriate to their situation. "Lady Clare, well come home to Freyne," he called to her as she rode into the dim coolness of the entryway. "I vow I cannot believe my eyes. Freyne did not expect your arrival until June's end when your lady cousin arrives."
Clare's shoulders seemed to tense at the sound of his voice. When she raised her head to look upon him, there was such sadness in her face that his heart sank to his boots. Then new hope flared in him. Mayhap the boy had died, and she grieved for him.
Threading his way through the walking horses, he took her palfrey's reins to lead the creature across the bailey. "How is it with you, my lady? You look as one aggrieved."
"That I am," she breathed, then continued in a louder voice. "You mistake exhaustion for something else, Sir Reginald. I am as well as can be expected after a long and dusty trip. How is it with you?" Her tone was bland, as if she exchanged words with a casual acquaintance not her love.
Confusion reigned. Why did she whisper one message only to speak aloud a denial of what she'd said? Damn this idiot world, anyway. What he wanted to do was take her into his arms and kiss her until what ached in her ease
d. Instead, the bonds of propriety kept him trapped in a dance of inane formality. "I am well as always, my lady. How surprised I was when your lady cousin wrote to say she would return to Freyne. She's made no secret of how deeply she dislikes this place."
"Let the others pass us," Clare whispered to him.
He brought her palfrey to a standstill, pretending to examine its shoe for a stone. As the common soldiers passed them on their way to the stables, he looked up at Clare. Some of the sorrow left her face, and her mouth lifted in a wry smile.
"She doesn't come by her own choice," Clare said, using her casual voice. "She brings with her one whose sire insists on the protection of strong walls and many men. Since my cousin cannot bear to be separated from this guest of hers, she relented and agreed to live at Freyne. I come ahead of them to make this place ready against their arrival."
When she was done speaking, she glanced around her. The others were yards ahead of them. Clare turned her gaze on him. The sorrow returned. "I come to make Freyne safe for them."
"You are to make Freyne safe?" Reginald scoffed gently. "I think me that is my duty to do."
"Aye, so it should be," she responded, pushing off her straw hat until it dangled by its ribbons down her back. "I find myself in a very strange place, good sir, my heart torn by two loves."
Reginald stared up at her. What he read in her pretty eyes set a new nervousness in him. "What is it you mean?"
"I am saying we must speak and privately." Her voice was so low he strained to hear her. "Is there such a place within Freyne where it’s certain we cannot be overheard?"
In that moment, he was certain she knew of his attempt to kill the babe. Panic woke in him. She, of all folk, had to understand what he'd done and why. "There is the garden," he offered, pointing to the curve of the wall where that meager place lay.
"Nay, there can be no possibility of intrusion," she said, her voice soft and sad. "What I must say will forever remain between us."
Reginald's panic lessened. What she knew she had not shared, nor would she ever do so. Unlike him, Clare owned both honor and loyalty. But surely he'd killed her love for him.
The woman who held his heart moved as if to dismount. Reginald dropped the palfrey's reins to take her by the waist and assist. When she stood beside the beast, he kept his hands atop her hips, glorying at the feel of her slender waist beneath his fingers.
Clare caught him by the wrists, but didn't pull his hands away, as if she, too, ached to prolong this moment. The love that touched her face was the same now as it had been on that cold October day. How could it be that her knowledge had not changed what she felt for him?
"The upper chamber of the keep tower. Will you come there alone, and in night's embrace?" His was a whisper that not even her steed overheard.
"I will come." She caught his hands, twining her fingers between his for a brief instant before releasing him.
He nodded. "Matins. It will be full dark by then."
Taking her palfrey's reins, she started toward the stables. Reginald stood where he'd stopped, his hands empty and his head bowed against the man he’d been and had lost.
From just inside the keep’s upper chamber with the door open wide, Reginald could look into the starlit sky above him. The night was clear, the moon nigh on full. It swam high overhead, a pale disk marking the place where today became yesterday. Borne on a fresh warm breeze, bats darted and swooped in their quest for their meal. All in all, it was a glorious night to be abroad.
A bit dizzy in his thoughts, Reginald moved until he nearly stood upon the landing. Sir Martin and he shared more than a few cups of wine this even, but all he'd discovered was that the lad had honest respect for him and his stewardship of Freyne. Nay, he'd learned more than that. The guest Lady Freyne brought with her was the sheriff's daughter, but that information had been given freely, not as if it were the secret Clare had made it seem.
Below and to his left lay the hall. Reginald scanned the darkened landscape for some sign of Clare. When she appeared around the hall's edge, the moonlight shimmered silver on her skirts. She came boldly toward the keep's mound then climbed the pathway. Reginald moved outside the door, being careful to keep to the shadows, so he wouldn't be discerned.
Clare wore the same brief head scarf she'd donned this afternoon as she worked to arrange the women's quarters and solar to suit her. Between that and how she wore her hair caught behind her in a single braid; her face and throat were completely exposed. When she set her foot on the lowest wooden step leading to where he waited, she paused and lifted her head.
Reginald caught his breath. The silvery light gentled all sign of time's passage from her face. For this instant, she looked to be a girl of ten and eight. Dear God, why had no man ever offered for her? She was a beauty, worth owning even if she claimed not a furlong to her name.
A touch of concern marked her features, but if she worried she must have thrown it aside for she began to climb upward toward him. Reginald awaited desire's rush within him as she drew near. Instead, there was only confusion and pain. She knew what he was and what he planned, yet seemed to love him still. Why?
As she halted on the landing, Reginald reached from the darkened doorway to take her hand. She neither gasped nor started as he appeared. He drew her into the tiny chamber behind him, their footsteps echoing hollowly on the wooden floor. Below them, the storage cellars were empty, awaiting autumn's bounty.
Wan light shot through the unshuttered arrow slits to mark his path to the two massive treasure chests set against the far wall. When Clare was seated on one, Reginald found his place atop the other. She leaned her head against the wall, and the moon's glow caught on her tears.
"You mourn us," he said, knowing he had slaughtered the one bit of goodness life could have offered him.
She sighed. "I ache in self-pity because I still believe in your love for me. If I grieve, it is because you have made what we wanted impossible."
Reginald closed his eyes as what might have been slipped forever from his grasp. "There is no more between us?" he breathed as his own ache grew to match what she said lived within her. "Your love is finished?"
"Nay, God forgive me, 'tis not." This was a soft, sad breath. "My heart is fixed and will not be moved, not even when my head tells it how horrible what you've done is.
"How, Reginald?" she cried. "How could you use me the way you did? I took that potion you gave me in autumn past to Crosswell's midwife. She told me it was an abortive brew."
As the full extent of what he'd done hit him, Reginald struggled to breathe. How could he have believed he'd not be found out? Worse, what he'd done wasn't only her betrayal, but his own.
"I did it for us," he tried, desperate to excuse himself. "All I wanted was a life worthy of you. I'd not have made you a simple steward's wife, barely better than a peasant. You deserve to be Freyne's lady."
"Avarice is a terrible taskmaster, Reginald," Clare replied in quiet bitterness. "The Church will not let us marry and handfasting to Freyne's lord would make me a whore. Your peers would have scorned you. Before long, you'd have turned your back on me, wanting a rich, young bride."
"Nay, not true," he protested, but deep within him he knew she was right. Gone was his ability to tolerate a position of subservience. Banished was all patience with those he'd once considered his betters.
"Did you kill Theobald?" If her question was emotionless, there was something about the way she held her body that said she needed to know the whole truth.
Reginald shifted on the chest until he stared out into the darkened tower chamber. "Nay, although I did participate in disguising what happened to him. It was the father of the girl Theobald raped who killed him. The man was out gathering dried wood for his hearth when Theobald rode by. He knocked the lad from his horse with his pruning hook and was beating him as I rode up. When I realized Theobald was injured past recovery, I panicked." He shot Clare a quick, apologetic look.
"In all truth, I'd been cont
emplating murder as I chased after my nephew. In that moment, all I could think was that Gradinton and Lavendon would never believe I'd no hand in it. Together, his murderer and I moved his body, taking his horse with us to make it seem he'd gone astray in his grief. Since neither of us can afford to reveal the other, we continue on as if nothing occurred."
"I see," Clare said as if she truly did understand. "What of Jocelyn? What did you plan for my cousin's eldest son?" She made this a casual question as if she asked how grows your wheat this year?
Reginald freed a scornful breath. "That weakling? Why bother with murder, when squiring will be his end? Don't you see? There'd have been no blood on my hands, save that my brother set a babe into your cousin's womb. I never meant to hurt her. I only wanted what is mine."
He braced his arms on his legs and fisted his hands against the frustration and greed that lived in him. "Clare, you cannot know what it is to work nigh on two score years making this place grow and prosper. Why should I be expected to give up the fruits of my efforts because I am second born instead of first?"
"For the same reason I must live a barren life, without hope of my own home and happiness." If her bitterness was equal to his, she tempered it with a sigh. "Such is the world in which we live. I cannot even afford a place in a convent."
She looked at him. "Reginald, without my cousin's generosity there'd be no joy at all in my life. Your greed nearly took from me what I most value, all because you cannot bear the thought of being steward to your nephew."
Reginald stiffened in sudden anger at her accusation, then sagged as the truth of her words stabbed through him. "Aye, you are right."
In admitting this, the darkness on his soul lifted. This brief respite from greed left him feeling wondrously free. Hope filled him. For this moment, he found again the contentment of being Freyne's steward. Aye, things would return to what they'd been. If he could but convince her to trust him once more, they would handfast and spend their remaining years in quiet comfort.
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