Virgin Bride

by Tamara Leigh

  Gilbert's face mirrored his surprise first, then his anger. "Baseborn?" he demanded.

  "Nay, legitimate."

  A muscle spasmed in Gilbert's jaw. "I have heard of no other. There was only Philip."

  He said the other man's name with such contempt, Lancelyn winced. Well, he knew the reason for his lord's hate of the Charwycks. Still, it pained him to see his baron so eaten with that savage, destructive emotion.

  Lancelyn shook his head. "Unbeknownst to all, Edward Charwyck has a daughter."

  "A daughter? This puzzled Gilbert. Penforke and Medland were so close, he was certain he would have heard of the existence of another offspring. "Sail a child, then?" he concluded.

  "Nay." The knight shook his head, his Bps twisting wryly. "A woman ... and a nun, no less." He gave that a moment to sink in, then continued. "The old man brought her from the abbey more than a month past. It seems he intended to wed her to one of his vassals that she might give him a male heir."

  "A nun?" Gilbert echoed, then shook his head. "She would break her vows? What manner of woman is she?" He expelled a harsh breath that misted the air. "I would not think the Church would allow it."

  Lancelyn's shoulders rose and fell. "This I do not understand, my lord, but 'tis said she bears the mark of the devil clear upon her face. Mayhap the Church was grateful to be rid of her."

  "Mark of the devil...," Gilbert repeated. Though it certainly fit with what he knew of that family, he could not bring himself to believe in the absurdity of such a thing. He curled his lips back and dismissingly waved it aside.

  "I will see her returned to the abbey at once," he decided. "Providing, of course, the good sisters will accept her back amongst them after such a betrayal."

  " 'Twould seem her father is of the same mind, my lord, for he has asked Sir Royce to arrange an escort for her on the morrow."

  Gilbert was satisfied with that. "As it should be," he said, suddenly eager to be finished with this particular subject. "Now, let us talk of the state of the demesne. Is it in as poor condition as I have heard?"

  Chapter 5

  Not until she arose from a sleepless night did Graeye learn of Balmaine's impending arrival. As the news had surely been brought during her venture to the falls yestereve, she had been none the wiser until she caught a snippet of conversation from the servants.

  She was stunned. The man wasn't supposed to arrive for days. Dismay followed a moment later with the realization that she had little time in which to confront her father on the sin she had committed. He would have to release her from the obligation of taking the veil. But how would he take the news?

  Not until she returned to the hall following matins did the implications of the baron's untimely arrival fully strike her; so directly, in fact, that had there not been a table nearby on which to brace herself, she would have sunk to the floor.

  There was only one conclusion to be had. The man she had given herself to had been one of Balmaine's. Inwardly, she recoiled.

  Aye, it was true her father would know soon enough, but the humiliation of so many others possibly knowing of her sin nearly brought her to her knees. What could she do?

  A spring of hope surged forth as she contemplated the possibility that the man might not recognize her. It had been dark, after all.

  She had no time to think further on it, for her father appeared at her side, drunk from a night of heavy drinking. He smelled foul, the horrid odors wafting from his clothes causing her to suppress the breath she had been about to draw.

  "Where is your habit?" he demanded, swaying unsteadily. "You dare defy me in this?"

  She looked down at her rumpled clothing. As it had seemed sacrilegious to wear her habit now that she had broken the vow of chastity, she had chosen to wear the brown bliaut. "I—"

  "You are to return to the abbey this day, and you walk about as if you've time for a hunt! Go dress yourself now before that bastard Balmaine arrives and starts slavering over you."

  The confession hovering upon her lips was quickly swallowed when Edward gave her a forceful push toward the stairs.

  She nearly protested, then realized that the habit might well serve as a disguise if the man she had so wantonly given herself to was among Balmaine's. He would certainly not expect her to be a nun. Moreover, now was not the time to confront Edward. Soon, though.

  Abovestairs, in the small, darkened room where her mother's meager belongings were kept, she threw back the lid of the old chest and dug down to where she had buried the habit earlier that morning. Dragging it out, she grimaced at its sorry state. Having thought never to don it again, she had bunched the whole thing in a ball and secreted it beneath the other clothing.

  She shook it out, the corners of her mouth dipping lower when she held it from her and surveyed the damage. Not only was it terribly wrinkled, it wasn't clean.

  She chastised herself for having been so careless with it the previous night. She should not have left it on the bank. Forcing her misgivings aside, she hurriedly stripped off the bliaut and returned it to the chest.

  With great reluctance she donned each piece of the cumbersome habit, all the while mumbling prayers of contrition for daring to clothe herself as a bride of Jesus. Nevermore.

  When the wimple was in place, she experienced the most awful feeling that she had sealed her fate. Ridiculous, she chided herself. Edward would have to let her remain with him. With that thought she descended to the hall.

  The room was empty when she stepped from the stairs, all thought of the morning meal put aside for the time being.

  Obviously, the decision had been made to await the baron's arrival, Graeye concluded with sudden resentment. Her brow knit, she hurried across the rush-covered floor and stepped out into the morning air. Everywhere the king's men and Edward's former retainers bustled about in readiness for the arrival of the new baron of Medland.

  But where was Edward? she wondered. Had Sir Royce imprisoned him again now that Balmaine's arrival was imminent?

  Her father had such an obvious presence that within moments she knew he was not in the inner bailey. Aye, the watchtower was where she would find him. Lifting her skirts, she hurried down the steps and broke into a half run to overtake those surging toward the outer bailey. Though she pretended not to notice the curious stares that followed her, she was uncomfortably aware of them.

  Flushed, Graeye crossed the drawbridge to the outer bailey just as a colorful procession of armored and mounted men passed beneath the portcullis. The sight brought her to an abrupt halt.

  Balmaine had arrived.

  Panic rushing through her, Graeye lowered her head and slipped among the throng of castlefolk who had gathered to greet their new lord. Their voices were loud and raucous as each clamored to view the impressive spectacle. Not until she had found adequate cover, the stark white of her habit hidden amid the dull colors of the peasants, did Graeye dare venture another look.

  She grimaced. Though she had managed to make herself less obvious pressed close to the others, because of her short stature she was forced to stand on tiptoe to catch the barest glimpse of the retinue as they surged within the castle's walls. Jostled from side to side, she unthinkingly took hold of a nearby arm and steadied herself. Haying gained a small vantage, she scanned the mounted knights in search of a dark-headed, bearded man.

  With each elimination she was swept with relief. They were all either too short, their hair too long or straight, or their faces too soft.

  "Milady." The tall woman beside Graeye lightly touched her shoulder.

  Graeye recognized her as one of the serving wenches from the hall, and was embarrassed to discover it was her arm she clutched. She removed her hand.

  "I am sorry," she muttered, and started to turn her attention back to the riders.

  "Nay, milady, I do not mind," the woman said. "I only thought to point out the baron 'to you."

  Odd, Graeye thought. She had been too intent upon discovering whether or not her lover was among his men
even to seek, him out. Flushing crimson, she thanked the woman, took her proffered arm again, and craned her neck to look where the servant pointed.

  Her gaze settled upon the great white destrier that stepped to the inner drawbridge before the others, pro-claiming by that to be Balmaine's mount. Ice poured into Graeye's veins as she stared wide-eyed at the animal. With its purity of white, it was a rare horse. In fact, she had only ever seen one so untouched with any other color but white.

  With dread, she forced her stricken eyes over long, darkly clad legs, a vivid red-and-gold tunic, and up a bearded face to familiar eyes that were staring straight at her.

  Twas he!

  Time yawned between them. For those long, torturous moments, it was as if the whole world had paused inks toils to take note of the occasion.

  With a muffled cry of distress Graeye tore her eyes free, breaking the thread of recognition.

  Landing heavily on her heels, she stumbled backward and collided with the man behind. He steadied her, then loudly exclaimed when she trod upon his feet in her haste to push past him. Intent upon escape, she barely noticed the offense, though she was all too aware of the commotion that followed her slow progress through the crowd of people. As a result she trod upon many more toes in her reckless bid for freedom.

  Frightened, she did not spare even a glimpse behind, though she was certain he followed. An opening ahead spurred her on, though she did not know where she was going—did not even consider her destination. She knew only that she had to find a haven.

  When she at last broke free of the crowd, the destrier materialized before her, his huge eyes pinning her with their fire. A murmur of interest arose from the people as they directed their attention to this odd turn of events.

  A hand to her pounding heart, Graeye jumped back from the menacing beast and nearly collided with someone behind hen She managed to keep her feet beneath her and ventured a glance at the rider. The contemptuous look he swept her with spoke more than words could ever begin to.

  Cornered, the quarry of the black-hearted cur who was responsible for her brother's death, Graeye broke the stare and looked around anxiously for an avenue of escape. Beyond, the community chapel stood waiting, and with no more thought she skirted the horse and ran to the building on legs that threatened to give way beneath her.

  She mounted the steps two at a time and slipped inside. Pushing the door firmly closed behind her, she leaned back against it as she attempted to regain her breath. Moments later she resolutely pushed herself off and made for the altar.

  The sudden appearance of the chaplain directly in her path brought her to a standstill. "F-father," she stammered, then lowered her gaze to her tightly clasped hands.

  "What is it, my child?" he asked, his voice proclaiming his usual lack of interest in the members of his flock. "Something is amiss?"

  She looked up at him, then quickly away. "I must needs pray," she said, then stepped past him to the altar. She had barely settled herself upon the kneeler and clasped her hands before her when the door of the chapel was thrown wide. It crashed against the wall and issued in a swell of light that rarely knew the darkened interior of the chapel.

  Bowing her head, Graeye attempted to block the sound of boots upon the floor with an offering of fervent prayer.

  Still, the harsh voice that burst upon the chapel made her start violently. "Out!" the baron commanded the chaplain.

  Shuddering, Graeye fingered the knots of her leather girdle, offering a prayer for each that slid through her fingers.

  She heard the chaplain sputter incoherently for a moment before falling silent. Though their exchange was unspoken, she knew something had transpired between the two men. A moment later there was a shuffling of feet followed by the door closing once again, taking with it the light and returning the sanctuary to its normal gloom.

  Graeye did not falter in her prayers, thinking that by some miracle she might yet find her escape from the inevitable. Mayhap the floor would fall from beneath her knees, or the ceiling yawn open to raise her up and away....

  Gilbert Balmaine's presence became a tangible thing as the minutes dragged by. She prayed him away, but his presence persisted. She prayed it was a terrible dream she found herself in, but knew she was fully awake. She prayed herself to another time and place, but found she was still in the chapel upon opening her eyes. In the end there was naught for her except to brave the encounter and have done with it.

  Crossing herself, she slowly rose from the kneeler, then turned to face the one responsible for her brother's demise, and to whom she had unknowingly given herself the previous night. The Baron Balmaine.

  Legs spread wide, arms crossed over his broad chest, he stood in the center aisle that divided the benches into left and right, presenting a formidable adversary. His partially shadowed countenance hard and expressionless, he slowly drew his gaze from her face and down her disheveled habit.

  Graeye forced herself to remain motionless. Still, her insides were churning with a fear she was having far too much difficulty keeping hidden. Her heart beat a wild, frantic tattoo in her chest that made it difficult to draw a full breath.

  When at last Balmaine's eyes returned to hers, looking as if they could pierce her straight through, she felt thoroughly degraded. There was no mercy there—not a hint of tenderness for the night now long past.

  This, she realized, was not the man who had loved her yestereve, though his likeness was hone other's. This was an angry man, a man who looked ready to tear her limb from limb rather than make love to her again. A coldness thrust itself upon her as she waited to hear the deprecating words she knew would come.

  As if part of his design to disgrace her, Balmaine allowed the awkward silence to drag out for interminable minutes, until Graeye had clenched her teeth so tightly, her head pounded.

  Perhaps he was uncertain as to her identity? She toyed with the far-fetched possibility, but found no consolation in it. Nay, he had placed her, otherwise he would not have pursued her.

  " 'Tis obvious," he said at last, his voice deep and clear in the silence of the chapel, "you are not accustomed to keeping your vows, Sister—sacred or otherwise."

  His words jolted her. Truly, he must see her in the very worst of lights. She had offered her body to him, then made a vow she'd had no intention of keeping. And today she stood before him clothed in the raiments of a nun.

  He stepped forward, his limp slight but noticeable.

  Graeye mentally armed" herself for what was to come. She stiffened her spine, straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and instructed herself that she was not to cower.

  When Balmaine stood but an arm's length away, he halted. His hands fisted upon his hips, he looked down that long, straight nose of his.

  Graeye swallowed hard on the lump of anxiety lodged in her throat as she raised her eyes to brave the wintry stare so far above her. His face no longer shadowed, she was taken aback as she met the most amazingly blue eyes. In the darkness of the night they had disguised themselves as being anything but this vivid hue. Never before had she seen eyes that color.

  "By what name are you called, daughter of Edward Charwyck, faithless bride of Christ?" he asked, his upper lip curling.

  Graeye pulled herself back to the present. Her mouth having gone suddenly dry, it was some moments before she was able to answer him. "I am—"

  "Ah. So you can speak, after all."

  Yet another mark against her already maligned character. Feeling a flush of color steal up her neck to inflame her face, she nodded. "I am Lady Graeye Charwyck," she said, feeling her voice was far too husky. Except for a barely perceptible narrowing of his eyes, the baron seemed not to notice. "But I am not—"

  "Graeye." He spoke over her words, then rolled the name upon his tongue a second time. "Appropriate," he pronounced with an inclination of his head. "And what is your name in religion, Sister?"

  She shook her head, taking a step backward when he moved nearer. Immediately, she chastised h
erself for the retreat, but could not check the impulse to take another step away from this daunting person. As she did so, it crossed her mind that she was forever running away from those who threatened her. She hated herself for it. Still, as it was the only comfort she knew, she gave over to shielding herself, throwing a hand out before her in hopes of warding off his advance.

  "I am not of the sisterhood," she said.

  Her words stopped him. His long shadow falling over her, he searched her pale face before commenting on her claim.

  "Naturally, I spoke literally when I afforded you the title of Sister," he snapped. "I was not speaking of your genuine disposition. Do we not both know what that is?"

  Her eyebrows flew high, skimming the crisp headband at her forehead. She tried again to clarify the misunderstanding. "I am not a nun."

  "Certainly not after last night." He took another step forward, and his long, hard leg brushed her skirts.

  Dismayed, Graeye found she could retreat no farther from his menace, for the kneeler was against the backs of her calves. "Nay, you do not understand," she said, her neck-strained by the angle she had to hold her head to look up at him. "I do not play with words. I speak true when I say I am not a nun. I have not yet made my profession."

  When his hands suddenly descended to her shoulders, she nearly shrieked. Grappling with a fear that threatened to shatter her, she dropped her head and stared sightlessly at the bare space between them.

  He gave her a brusque shake, his fingers biting cruelly into her—hands so different from the ones that had caressed her in the pool.

  One of those hands pulled her chin up, forcing her to look into his hardened face. "If you are not a nun," he ground out, "then why do you dress as one?"

  Again she was made aware of how angry he was. Not only the planes of his face evidenced this ominous emotion, but also the tautness of his body where it brushed against hers.

  "I am ..." Her words trailed off as she gave herself a mental shake. Muddling through the words in her mind, she found it difficult to formulate a coherent explanation with him so near. This strange mixture of fear and desire confounded her.