by Tamara Leigh
Gasping in sudden recognition, she stumbled and instinctively threw out a hand to break her fall. She managed to keep her feet, though, and when she raised her head, she found Gilbert standing disconcertingly close. It was no wonder she had not recognized him immediately, she thought, for he appeared so much younger and less ominous without his beard, even with dark shadows beneath his eyes. Aye, she had thought him attractive before, but now she was struck breathless by the handsome face revealed to her.
Though fewer than two of the baron's long-legged strides separated them, neither attempted to bridge the gap. Hence, it was Mother Celia who finally broke the stricken silence. "I believe you already know each other," she said, stepping forward. "I will leave you now to become reacquainted."
Her face serene, she took Graeye's cold hands in hers and placed a kiss upon her cheek. "Think of the child you carry," she whispered, then turned to go.
She had told him ... of course. Graeye watched the abbess leave with mounting apprehension, and still stared after her even when the older woman was gone from sight.
Another fluttering from her baby broke her free of her stupor. Keeping her gaze carefully averted from the probing eyes she felt with every pore of her being, she slipped a hand beneath the mantle and smoothed it over the gently rounded swell.
"The child you carry." Gilbert's deep voice vibrated through the air, strumming the taut strings of Graeye's frayed emotions. "Is it mine?"
Graeye knew only a sudden need to be away from there—away from this disbelieving man who would pose such a hurtful question to her. Lifting her chin, she met his stare with one of her own, putting into it all the loathing she could summon, then turned on her heel and headed down the path the abbess had taken.
Hearing Gilbert's footsteps behind, she first thought to run, but quickly quelled that idea, knowing it was far too dangerous. There was nothing she would do to cause harm to her unborn child. Nothing. Accepting that flight was useless, she swung back around just as Gilbert reached out a hand to detain her.
He looked down at her as she peered up at him from the shadowed folds of her hood. His hand hesitated in the air before he let it drop back to his side. "Is the child mine?" he repeated.
"Nay," she said, grateful for the cover the hood afforded her. "You needn't concern yourself with my child, Baron Balmaine, for 'tis another who fathered it."
He appeared stunned by her disavowal. In silence he regarded her, searching what little he could make out of her face. "Methinks you lie, Lady Graeye," he concluded. "Aye, you will need to apply yourself more diligently to such endeavors if ever you are to become an accomplished liar." Without warning he swept her hood back to reveal her face and a swath of tawny, golden-streaked hair.
Graeye's hand shot up from the folds of her mantle to catch the hood. However, before she could take hold of the coarse material, Gilbert deftly caught her hand and enveloped her cold fingers in the warmth of his.
Quivering with an anger too long suppressed, she threw back her head and stared up at him. "Has it been so long since we last met that you would forget how deceitful I am?" she hissed between lips drawn thin, "Had I acknowledged you as the father of my child, I am most certain you would have then denied it." She leaned forward and regarded him for a long moment. "Best you be warned, Baron. Such a bent toward believing the opposite of what one is told could easily be put to advantage by those who would seek to deceive you."
Gilbert remained motionless as he examined the underlying meaning of her words and attempted to understand the emotion emanating from her. Aye, he had seen glimpses of her anger—had discovered those tiny, sharp claws of hers—but this was too much like his own embittered anger. It unsettled him to see himself mirrored in her.
When she set herself back on her heels, a forced semblance of a smile curled her lips. "Consider this, my lord. Mayhap 'twas my intention to maneuver you into accepting responsibility for this child by denying 'twas yours." Her shoulders lifted in a negligent shrug. "Or perhaps I speak the truth."
Gilbert's eyes narrowed. "I refuse to play such word games with you, Graeye—"
"Graeye?" She snatched that rare opportunity to interrupt him as he had so often done to her. "Such familiarity, my lord?"
He suddenly pulled her against him and, even as she resisted, boldly slipped a hand inside her mantle and laid it upon her belly.
She stilled at his surprisingly gentle touch, her breath stopping as those long fingers began an exploration of her pregnancy. She closed her eyes on the sudden awareness his fingertips incited, an awareness she d thought long buried. How was it this man she had convinced herself to hate could still rouse such a response from her?
"Now tell me again this is not my child," he said.
Pulling free from her mind's desperate wanderings, she tilted her head back. "You would believe the words of one so deceitful?"
His hand still curved over her belly, he brought his face nearer hers. "Only if you confirm that which I already know to be true."
He meant to acknowledge her child as his? She searched his face, her gaze roving over features that had heretofore been hidden from her. Her eyes were drawn first to a mouth that was wider than she had thought, then up and to the side where a slight indentation was visible below one cheek. It would be a dimple if ever he smiled, she thought. And his smooth skin offered testament to having recently had a blade,laid to it.
Before she could squelch the impulse, she lifted a hand and placed it alongside his jaw. Immediately the muscles leaped beneath her touch, reminding her of the inappropriateness of such a gesture. Dropping her hand, and slid it beneath her mantle, and closed her fingers around his wrist. Surprisingly he did not resist when she lifted it from her belly.
" 'Tis my child, Gilbert Balmaine," she said with rigid conviction.
His eyes narrowed. It was not the acknowledgment he had expected.
"And the father?" he persisted. Like a tightly sprung coil, he waited for the grudging admission she still owed him, and which he was determined to have.
She did not cower from his anger. "Who 'twas that scattered the seed by which my babe now grows is of little consequence, Baron. You would do best to—"
"You will be returning to Medland with me this day."
She shook her head. "Nay, I have grown content with my lot and no longer—"
Before she could gainsay him further, he swung her up into his arms and carried her from the garden.
Graeye was sensible enough not to struggle. Still, she raised her voice in fury at his arrogance. "Know you the sin you will have committed by taking me from here against my will? 'Tis my sanctuary, and you can do naught without risking the wrath of the Church and King Henry himself."
Aye, the king ... Gilbert's steps faltered at the prospect of igniting that man's fury. But he was driven by a deeper need to secure Graeye and his child for himself, so he pushed aside the consequences of the action he was about to take. Sparing Graeye no more than a glance, he stepped from the garden and onto the path leading to the courtyard, his limp becoming more pronounced as he lengthened his stride to hasten away from the abbey.
"Nay, Gilbert, do not do this," Graeye protested more loudly. "God will visit this trespass upon you tenfold."
"God!" he repeated, his eyes never wavering from the course he set. "Let Him do His worst," he muttered. "I have endured all He has hurled at me thus far. I will yet endure what is to come."
"Though you may deny Him," she said, placing a hand over his heart, "you are not godless, Gilbert. Now release me ere the damage is too far done."
At the edge of the courtyard he halted and looked down at her. "For long months I have desired to have you in my bed—longed to feel you again as I did that first night. You are a scourge to my very soul, Graeye Charwyck, yet I cannot empty you from it no matter how often I remind myself of your deceit. But I intend to try."
Graeye was shocked by his declaration, but could find no words that would lend themselves to a response.
"You are mine, Graeye," he asserted, "and the babe you carry belongs to me. Now will you come willingly or have me risk your God's wrath yet again?"
That he would lay claim to her, as well as to the child, sent quivers of uncertain hope through her. But what, exactly, was he saying? She searched his face for an answer. That he would not abandon her as she had supposed he would once she delivered his heir? Dared she hope that what he offered was of a permanent nature rather than an expedient one?
"If I go with you," she ventured, "would you then wed with me that the child would be made legitimate?"
He did not hesitate. "Nay, Graeye. Though I would offer you and the child my care and protection, 'twould be impossible for me to wed you."
A great pall fell over her. "Then you already have a wife?"
"Nay," he answered, shifting her weight, "and 'tis not likely I ever will. I will have my heir from you ... and that will suffice."
Her hope came crashing down upon her. Forgetting her earlier caution, she threw her hands against his chest and began to kick her legs.
"Release me, you infidel!" she demanded in a voice choked with tears. "I will not become your leman merely to quench your thirst. Find another to beget a child on and leave me be."
Enfolding her more tightly against his chest, Gilbert stepped from the path and into the vacant courtyard.
Though, the fight went out of Graeye, her protests became louder. In answer to them the abbess suddenly reappeared, placing herself squarely in Gilbert's path. "Baron Balmaine," she said reproachfully, " 'tis clear Lady Graeye has chosen to remain at Arlecy. Do be so kind as to set her to her feet."
Gilbert fell back to earth with a thud. Previous to this most recent encounter with Graeye, he would not have believed himself so foolish as to seize her from her sanctuary. Aye, it was imprudent at best, especially considering there were other avenues yet to be explored—limited though they were.
Frowning, he lowered Graeye to the uneven stones of the courtyard and stood back.
Graeye lost no time in retreat. Stepping around the abbess, she placed the woman before her like a human shield.
"Lady Graeye," Mother Celia said over her shoulder, "return to your room at once. I will speak with you on this later."
Graeye lingered a moment longer before turning and making her way back across the courtyard.
When she had disappeared from sight, the abbess stepped nearer Gilbert, her face full of displeasure. "Baron, that you would dare such a thing is simply beyond me. What could you have been thinking?" She threw her hands into the air as if asking God to deliver her from such stupidity. "Are you so completely bereft of the words that might persuade her to go with you that you must resort to forcing her? I warned you of the dire consequences of such a scheme."
He met her steely eyes. "My apologies, Abbess. I fear I acted in haste when she refused me. Twas indeed foolish."
Mother Celia considered him a long moment. Then, somewhat appeased, she heaved a great sigh and waved a hand for him to follow her.
Gilbert complied, and a short time later found himself standing before the guest house. Not far off was a small gathering of nun, their eyes lowering immediately upon noticing the tall giant in their midst.
The abbess regarded the women consideringly, then led Gilbert back inside to the room they had earlier vacated.
"Now that you have seen her again, what are your intentions?" she asked, turning to face him.
He laid a hand to his chin to run his fingers through his beard, but found his face bare, having scraped away the last of the beard just that morn. "I do not know," he admitted. "I cannot take her to wife, yet neither can I give her to another. I would have her and the child with me."
"You told her this?" At his nod the abbess shook her head. "Then I understand why she would refuse such an offer, Baron. 'Tis quite unseemly what you propose." Stepping nearer, she pinned him with her direct gaze. "Tell me, do you love her?"
Gilbert was so astonished by the question, he nearly choked on his own saliva, his color deepening as he fought to control his reaction. "Love her! A Charwyck?"
Mother Celia shrugged. She no more believed his denial than she had believed Graeye's. "Then what will you do, Baron Balmaine?"
"There are other ways." He began to pace the room. After several crossings he came back to stand before her.
She did not like what she saw upon his face, the slight, triumphant smile curving his lips.
"I will petition King Henry for the charge of my child once 'tis born," he said. " Tis not likely he would deny me my heir."
Mother Celia was taken aback by his declaration. Aye, he might just succeed with such a petition. Having been awarded the Charwyck lands, he was obviously, in the good graces of the king. "That could take a very long time," she said, attempting to dissuade him from this ruinous course of action.
He shrugged. " 'Twill still achieve me the same end."
"And what of Lady Graeye? You would take her child from her without remorse?"
His smile widened. "Nay. She will come of her own accord, and then I will have all I desire."
Mother Celia knew such a plan would likely widen the rift between these two young people, so much so that it would be impossible ever to bridge. Still, there was another way to bring them together, a way she would never have contemplated had not the baron informed her of his plans.
"There is one other possibility," she said, folding her hands before her waist as she waited to gain the baron's full attention.
He gave it to her.
Her expression turned rueful at the prospect of disclosing that which she had recently learned. "I fear I will repent for the breaking of this confidence," she began, "but I am told that, following matins, Lady Graeye is wont to slip outside the walls. She walks along the river that lies beyond."
For an interminable time the baron only stared at her.
Interpreting his silence as ignorance of what she was striving to say, she tried to clarify. "Alas," she said, " 'tis lamentable indeed, but the Church cannot extend its protection outside the walls."
He frowned with obvious suspicion. "And why would you tell me this?"
"Were I Lady Graeye, methinks I could more easily forgive you the trespass of carrying me away than that of stealing my child from me by decree of the king."
She was right, of course, Gilbert thought. Having had a fair glimpse of Graeye's temper, his means of having her and the child lost much of its appeal. He nodded. "How goes she?"
The abbess smiled. "By way of the postern gate, of course."
Chapter 12
Angered at having been a party to what he perceived as trickery, Gilbert decided it was time to put into motion his other plan of petitioning the king.
For four long, wet days he and his men had hidden themselves in the woods surrounding the abbey, lying in wait for their prey to venture forth. In all that time Graeye had not left her refuge. Gilbert was certain of this, for he was not so foolish as to trust completely in the assurances offered by the abbess. Hence he'd set men to watch the comings and goings through all the gates of the walled sanctuary, lest an attempt be made to spirit Graeye away while he watched for her at the postern gate.
It was well past the hour of matins' on that fourth hellish day when he and a handful of his men returned to the camp empty-handed. Heatedly barking off orders, his mood evident to all, he lent his shoulder to hastening their departure that they might make for London.
Sensing his fury, Gilbert's destrier shied away from him when at long last, they were ready to ride. Reining in the flood of his emotions, Gilbert offered a soothing hand to the animal's quivering muzzle, all-the while wondering with deepening irritation where his squire had wandered to. As he thought further on it, he could not remember the young man accompanying them back from the river.
When the destrier had calmed sufficiently to be mounted, he grabbed the pommel of his saddle and slid his foot into the stirrup.
"My lo
rd, she comes!" his squire, Joseph, called as he sprinted from out of the trees to the center of the disassembled camp where Gilbert stood.
"She comes," he repeated.
Gilbert took hold of the younger man's shoulders, "To the river?"
"Aye, my lord, though she does not venture too far from sight of the abbey."
Though it would have been best to come upon Graeye without the hindrance of the clamor made by horses, there was no time to waste. She might return too quickly to the protection of her sanctuary.
"Good man." Gilbert slapped a hand to Joseph's back. Smiling broadly for the first time in days, he vaulted into the saddle and turned to look again at his squire. "You will ride with me," he said, then motioned to a half dozen of his men to follow.
With nary a care for the noise they made within the deep of the woods, they rode with speed toward the river. However, as they neared the clearing that lay beyond the dense grouping of trees, and through which the river snaked, Gilbert motioned his men to spread out and proceed with more caution.
He guided his horse to the edge of the wood and peered around, but saw nothing that would indicate Graeye's presence. He glanced at the abbey beyond, thinking she might have already started back, but saw only an empty stretch of land laden with the soak of recent rainfall.
Then, to his left, he heard the beautiful trilling of a bird. It was a call he knew well. Farther up and nearer the river sat Joseph, a smile splitting his youthful face as he gestured to a place hidden from Gilbert's view.
Relief washing over him, Gilbert gave the signal, then prodded his destrier out of the covering of trees.
Though it didn't matter how noisy their approach was, for it would be impossible for Graeye to reach the abbey before they came upon her, they proceeded at barely a canter. It was a consideration based on Gilbert's worry that if they frightened her, or alerted her too soon to their presence, she might take an unnecessary risk that would harm her or the babe.
