by Lynn Kurland
Christopher dismounted and held up his arms for her. Gillian put her hands on his shoulders and smiled reflexively at the care he used while setting her on her feet. She put her arms around him and hugged him.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For the gift of this.”
A slight smile softened his features. “’Tis repayment for the gift of my lute a few days back. Now, hold my hand while you explore. You know the sea monsters will snatch you away if you venture out too far, don’t you?”
“Nay,” she breathed, moving closer to him.
He hugged her tightly. “Aye. A tasty morsel such as you would make a fine meal for one of the beasties who lies in wait near Blackmour.”
She pulled her head back and looked up at him. “Are you teasing me?”
“Might be.”
Gillian smiled as she reached up and put her arm around his neck. She pulled him down, unresisting, and kissed him softly on the cheek.
“You’re very sweet.”
“Pray keep that a secret between us.” He brushed his lips across hers. “Go play, Gill. I think I’d be wise to wait for you here.”
“Nay, come along.”
He shook his head.
She slipped her arm around his waist and drew his arm over her shoulder.
“Trust me.”
“Gillian—”
“Trust me,” she repeated. She took the hand that rested over her shoulder and laced her fingers with his. “You’ve given me so much, Chris. I am so seldom able to repay you.”
He smiled ruefully. “You do not fight fairly, lady. First you compliment me, then you call me by the name you rarely use outside the bedcurtains. How can I say you nay?”
“Good,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. “Might we walk a bit along the shore? Well out of the reach of the monsters?”
“Aye, we might. But have a care that you don’t walk me into a half-rotted tree.”
“I’ll take wonderful care of you, my lord.”
“You already have,” he said softly.
His words echoed in her mind as they walked along the shore. Every time she bent to examine a particularly interesting bit of rock or shell, she heard his words.
“Do you want to feel the water?” he asked.
She looked up and found that he was smiling gently.
“Dare I?”
“I’ll draw my sword to hold the beasts at bay.”
“You know I believed all of William’s tales in my youth.”
“Love, you believed William’s tales until the time we were wed. Sweet Gill, you’ve a trusting soul.”
“What you mean is I’m naive.”
He shook his head. “Trusting. Innocent. And delightful to tease. But I’ll still hold your hand. The water might suck you away if you’re not careful.”
“And that would grieve you?”
His expression sobered. “Aye. It would grieve me deeply.”
“Then hold my hand, my lord,” she said softly. “For I’d not lose you so soon.”
“Choose a smooth place and let us venture out. Not too far,” he added. “Catch up your skirts, too. There’s no sense in soaking them.”
Gillian held onto Christopher with one hand and her skirts with the other. She crept down a few steps and frowned as the water receded in front of her. She followed it, but it fled yet more. Then, before she could back up, the waves came in. She shrieked and jumped backward so quickly that Christopher stumbled.
But he only laughed. “Approach again, Gill, but not so close. Let the sea come to you.”
Gillian grabbed her sodden skirts with one hand and reached down with the other, trying to touch the water. Immediately she felt Christopher take hold of a fistful of the back of her gown.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Think nothing of it, my lady.”
“A little further out, Christopher. The sea is afeared of your mighty frown.”
She reached out and let her fingers slide through the chill water. It soaked her feet and shins as well, but she didn’t mark it. She was far too busy feeling the sand slipping from under her feet and trying to keep her balance. Christopher held his place as steadily as if he’d been standing on firm ground.
“You, my lord, are as immovable as your keep.”
“Aye, I’m too heavy to be troubled by this puny tide. ’Tis a good thing you have me, else you’d be washed out to sea by now. Now that you’ve felt the sea, might we go home? Your gown is soaked clear to your waist and I’m sure your hands and feet are like ice.”
“Might we come another day? To swim?”
Christopher paused. “Swim?”
“Aye. I think it would be fine sport.”
He smiled as he shook his head. “What a brave one you’ve become, my lady. You’re willing to face the sea monsters?”
Gillian moved easily into his embrace. “Aye, if you’re there to protect me.”
“Like as not, you’d be protecting me—”
“Stop it,” she said, surprised at the sharpness of her tone. She bit her lip and waited for Christopher to respond. She didn’t dare look at his expression.
At least he was still holding her. Soon his hand was skimming over her hair. Gillian closed her eyes and let out her breath slowly. Whatever he was feeling, it wasn’t anger. She tightened her arms around him.
“I’d have no other,” she whispered.
“Not even a man with two good eyes?” he asked quietly, but there was no despair in his voice. Indeed, there was only a kind of sadness she’d never heard in his tone before.
She shook her head against his chest. “Nay, my lord. You see more clearly than anyone I’ve ever known.”
“I wish I could agree with you.”
Gillian looked up at him. “Please, Christopher, speak no more of it, I beg you. I love you as you are. Indeed, I’m grateful you cannot see, for you would never have chosen me else and I cannot bear to think of how unhappy I would have been.”
He only smiled gravely and pulled away. “Let us go home, Gillian. We’ve both need of a hot fire and warm wine.”
Gillian nodded and slipped her arm through his as they walked back along the shore. She looked up at the cliffs, then stopped when she saw the stone house perched atop one of the steepest. It was large, as far as houses went, and seemed sturdy enough. But the path leading up to it was indeed very steep and looked dangerous. Jagged rocks lined the winding route. It was easy enough to see how one misstep could mean disaster.
“What are you staring at?” Christopher asked.
“I’m not sure. There is a house of sorts there above the cliff.”
“’Tis the Lord’s Hall. My father’s folly, if you will.”
Gillian remained silently, waiting. Christopher had never said much about his family and she had begun to wonder about them. When he remained silent, she nudged him.
He sighed and dragged his hand through his hair. “The entire tale, eh? I take it you’ve nothing better to do with your day.”
“The entire tale, if you please.”
Christopher released her hand, then bent and felt for a handful of rocks. He turned unerringly toward the sea and began to cast them out, one by one.
“My father was the second son. His older brother, Gervase, died while out hunting boar. The title fell to my sire, which in truth was a pity for he was completely inadequate to the task of maintaining my grandfather’s enormous wealth and properties.” He flung another stone into the sea. “The Lord’s Hall is just another in a long list of his extravagances. He married my mother when he was a score and she but ten-and-two. After a few years, he got her with child and realized his mistake.” A grim smile twisted his mouth. “My mother found childbearing not at all to her liking and complained of the grief I caused her from morn till eve. It was then that my father began to build himself his own private escape.”
“The Lord’s Hall,” Gillian murmured.
“Aye. In truth, I cannot
blame him, for my mother was impossible to endure. I escaped to Artane as soon as I could and was more than happy to be free of her harping. My father escaped to his folly.”
“Your mother never came to fetch him?”
“Up that path? Gillian, you can see for yourself that the way is perilous. The means of ascent up the back is just as dangerous for the cliff is separate from the mainland, just as is Blackmour. My mother never fetched my sire, but she did brave the climb once, while he was away squandering more gold. She stole his sanctuary right from under his nose, thinking he would come for her.”
“I take it he didn’t.”
Christopher snorted. “Of course not. He claimed the climb was too steep and left her there to rot. She never saw the inside of Blackmour’s walls again, for she was just as stubborn as my sire. I cannot blame him. I wouldn’t have gone after her either.” He looked out over the sea and his blue eyes were dark and cold. “A man would be daft to attempt it. Now, does that satisfy your curiosity?”
“More than amply, my lord.” In truth, she was very sorry she’d asked, for the telling of the tale had certainly fouled Christopher’s mood.
She guided him subtly as they walked back up the shore. Her heart was heavy and she forced herself to ignore the stone dwelling that perched on the edge of the cliff like a vulture overlooking its domain. It said so very much about what had gone on during Christopher’s youth. A pity he’d never known love from his parents.
The irony of the thought wasn’t lost on her. Her mother had died soon after her birth and it certainly wasn’t as though Bernard had been lavish with his affections. But at least she’d had William. Christopher likely hadn’t had anyone.
Christopher mounted, then held down his hand and pulled her up in front of him. Gillian twisted so she sat over his powerful thighs and she pressed her cheek quickly against his.
“I love you, my lord,” she whispered.
“What inspired that, lady?”
“Nothing,” she lied. “It seems that all it takes is the sight of you to bring the words to my lips.”
Christopher smiled briefly, then turned his mount and headed back up the path. Gillian relaxed in his arms and rested her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes. The gentle motion of the horse and Christopher’s warmth came close to putting her to sleep.
“Riders approaching!”
The cry startled her. Christopher cursed and spurred his stallion on. Gillian remained as still as she could, trying not to distract him.
“Ranulf, who is it?” Christopher demanded.
“Too far to tell,” Captain Ranulf said from beside them.
Gillian didn’t open her eyes until Christopher had stopped inside the inner gates and swung them both down from the saddle. He started barking out orders and she wondered if her father had suddenly decided to lay siege to Blackmour just to annoy his son-in-law. Then Jason came running toward them. He plowed into Christopher and Christopher almost lost his balance. He made a grab for his squire and shook him.
“Mindless babe!” he bellowed. “What are you about?”
“My lord, ’tis my sire,” Jason said breathlessly. He was grinning from ear to ear. “And both my brothers. Aren’t you pleased?”
Gillian didn’t pay any attention to Christopher’s expression. She was far too busy trying to control her own unease. Christopher she could manage. Even Colin didn’t intimidate her and surely Cook was under her sway. But Jason’s family? Strange men? Nay, that was something she couldn’t face.
She started toward the keep and suddenly found herself nose to chest with Colin. The saints only knew where he’d come from, and Gillian cursed his appearance. He folded his arms over his beefy self and looked down at her with a frown.
“Where are you scampering off to, my lady?”
“I forgot something in my chamber.”
“No doubt you would like to believe you forgot your courage but I know for a fact that you have it right there with you.”
“Colin, please,” Gillian begged, sidling past him.
He took two large steps and blocked her path again. “Cease,” he whispered sharply. “You’ve nothing to fear from Robin of Artane or his lads. Women, the lot of them. His boys are whelps and Robin himself will likely weep if you look at him crossly. Now, what you should be worrying about is meat and drink for your lord’s table. And if you cannot stomach that simple task, have a care for his heart’s comfort. If you think he relishes these tidings, think again.”
Gillian ventured a look at her husband. He’d stopped bellowing his orders. He stood in the midst of the activity, still as stone.
Looking stricken.
Colin gave her a gentle push, but she hardly needed that. She had no idea why Christopher wasn’t anticipating with joy a visit from his former master, but she could easily speculate on the possible reasons. From all she’d heard, Robin had loved him like his own son. Christopher’s reaction likely had a great deal to do with his loss of sight.
By the time Gillian reached her husband’s side, she was in a fine temper. Damn Robin of Artane if he thought to make Christopher feel inadequate. Gillian took her husband’s hand and tugged. She tugged more forcefully when he didn’t move.
“Christopher, we’ll go in now,” she said firmly. “It isn’t fitting that the Dragon of Blackmour greet his guests in the courtyard like an insignificant lord. Come inside and sit in your great chair. Artane may seek you out there.”
She busied herself seeing to her husband’s comfort, praying that Lord Robin was truly as womanly as Colin had made him out to be. It would be easier to kill him then if he upset Christopher.
Then again, she might just do it if he were as fierce as her husband.
twenty-five
CHRISTOPHER PACED FROM THE DAIS TO THE HEARTH. He likely would have paced straight into the fire if he hadn’t run into his wife. He mumbled an apology, then turned and walked back to his high table. He ran into that too, and the pain in his thighs was enough to make him cease his movement.
He leaned his hands on the table and bowed his head. Saints, he wasn’t prepared for this. Robin never arrived unannounced. Christopher always had several days to accustom himself to the idea of having his former master about, to steel himself against Robin’s kindness and understanding, to shield his mind from the memories that the very sound of Robin’s voice brought back to him. But this meeting had come upon him too quickly. His heart was open, assailable, unprotected. If only he’d had more time!
The doorway to the great hall opened. Robin must have entered, for Christopher heard Gillian squeak. And, in spite of himself, Christopher felt his heart lighten. Obviously the lord of Artane had lost none of his intimidating presence. Christopher could sympathize with Gillian and her reaction, for he remembered well his own first sight of Robin of Artane.
He’d been but a lad of seven—and a terrified lad of seven, if the truth were to be known. His father had seen fit to escort him to Artane, but Christopher had paid the price in the tales his father had told him along the way. By the time they’d reached the keep, Christopher had been convinced Robin would beat him to within an inch of his life if he made even the slightest misstep.
Robin had been standing in front of the hearth when Christopher had entered the hall. Christopher had hidden behind his father, too terrified to speak. And then his sire had begun to list Christopher’s faults and he’d almost lost what little food he’d managed to ingest that morn. He’d been certain Robin would take him outside and thrash him for his past bad behavior. The blood had been thundering in his ears so loudly that he hadn’t heard his father call him to step forward—but he certainly had felt his sire’s sharp cuff to his ear.
And so he’d come to stand in front of Lord Robin, shaking so hard he could barely remain upright. When Robin had commanded him to look up, Christopher had—but very slowly. He’d started at his new master’s feet, then given more than a passing glance to those large hands and upward to those broad shoulders.
He’d forced himself to meet Robin’s eyes steadily and tried his best not to break down and weep in fear. Saints, but the man had seemed huge! Christopher had come to realize later that Robin had been but a man of five-and-twenty at the time, but to young eyes he had seemed very old and very intimidating. Indeed, Robin had seemed so lordly and fierce, Christopher had been hard-pressed not to turn tail and flee as quickly as his shaking legs would carry him.
Then Robin had reached out suddenly, taken Christopher’s trembling hand in his own and drawn him to his side.
“I’ll take him,” had been Robin’s only comment.
His father had grunted and advised the young lord of Artane to be liberal and harsh with his beatings. Christopher had felt his stomach begin to violently protest that thought when a most astonishing thing had occurred. Lord Robin had squeezed his hand. Christopher had looked up, unsure, only to receive a wink in return.
And thusly his life as page had begun. There had been no beatings, no undeserved bellows, no listing of his faults. There had only been joy in serving a man who treated him fairly and with great affection. Because of that small first gesture, Lord Robin had earned Christopher’s unswerving loyalty. There wasn’t anything Christopher wouldn’t have done for his lord.
The sound of firm footfalls coming his way brought him back to the task at hand. Christopher heard Gillian’s sharp intake of breath and surmised that Robin was frowning. He frowned back, out of politeness.
“What, no greeting?” Robin barked. “No kiss of peace? No ‘my dearest Artane, how happy I am to see you?’ I’ve trudged over your God-forsaken bits of soil for two days looking forward to a warm welcome, fine food and drinkable wine. And here you cannot even come outside your hall and acknowledge me?”
Christopher clasped his hands behind his back and smiled gravely.
“Well, my lord, I would have had a score of naked dancing girls awaiting your pleasure if you’d but given me more warning.”
