by Ann Lawrence
He put out his hand to Cristina. “When we find a priest, I will wed the woman I love and give Felice a mother. Will you take my brother as your husband?” he asked Nona.
She bit her lip. “I don’t know if I can wed the Lord of Skirts,” she said softly.
Luke shot to his feet. “Lord of Skirts! I’m sick of that appellation. I’m guilty of naught more than coveting Lady Nona when I knew she was for Durand,” he swore to the company. “I’ve done naught to be ashamed of, and when I wed—if I wed—I will be the most faithful of husbands!”
“What of your list of lovers?” Nona rose just as swiftly. “A list so long ‘twas a source of great amusement—”
“That was Durand’s doing.” Luke swept a hand out to his brother. “He could not see Cristina suffer and sought to raise some doubt as to Simon’s guilt that he might save her. If you listened well, you heard the king ask me who visited the counting room. I collect the Ravenswood rents, you know. I see every man, woman, and child in the manor in that room!”
Nona stared at him but a moment, then threw her arms about his neck with a soft cry of joy. She kissed Luke’s cheek, and, along with a promise of eternal love, she also extracted a promise he put off using Cristina’s rank hair preparation no matter how bald he might become.
“Well, I’m sadly disillusioned,” Penne said with a laugh. “How the famed lord has fallen. Now there will be no one left at Ravenswood to flatter the ladies and soothe their troubled spirits.”
The words struck Cristina as if it were she who had taken Godshall’s dagger to her middle and not Durand. She thought of how Simon’s son, Hugh, had reminded her of Felice. She thought of how her husband had inquired so of Lady Marion as she lay dying. She remembered well how often Lady Marion had called Simon to the keep when first they had come to Ravenswood.
Cristina looked at Oriel who dropped her gaze and bit her lip. “It was Simon, was it not, Oriel? He flattered Lady Marion and soothed her troubled spirits, did he not?” She found it did not hurt as she expected. Nor was it quite so great a surprise. “Come, admit it, Oriel; they are beyond our touch and want only our forgiveness.”
Durand looked down at Felice. “You think—”
“I said nothing for Cristina’s sake, Durand,” Oriel said. “I thought ‘twas just another of Marion’s passing fancies that would disappear like the morning dew once you returned. Only you did not…and when she found herself with child…”
“Say no more,” Durand said. “She knew well my anger.” Cristina saw regret upon his face.
“I’m sorry, Durand, Cristina,” Oriel said softly. “I think she might have loved Simon in her own way. And forgive me; I did little to discourage her, for I was already very jealous of her and thought she would turn her attentions to Penne.” She put her head on her husband’s shoulder.
Durand shook his head. “Forgiveness has never been one of my strengths, but this time I find it simple. And I must put this behind me. I have sons to care for, and now a daughter.” He held out his hand to Cristina. “You taught me many things, trust and forgiveness among them.”
* * * * *
Several hours later, when his children were sleeping, Durand placed Felice in Oriel’s arms. “Practice your mothering skills,” he said.
He drew a mantle from his saddlebag and tossed it over his arm. He then took Cristina’s hand and led her into the purple and black shadows of the woods.
They walked for what seemed over a league to her. When he stopped, it was in a tiny clearing. Moonlight washed the small glade bright as day. It gilded the gold on his mantle. When he swept out a hand in invitation, she went to him.
He stripped quickly and dropped to the mantle. Every fiber of his body went taut with anticipation as he watched her unlace her gown. With a sudden modesty, she turned away. Her gown fell to the ground. The soft linen underdress joined it.
She set her hair free to tumble down her back. When she turned, his breath caught, and it had naught to do with the injuries to his body. “I dreamed of this here, in this place,” he whispered, offering his hand to her so she might come and lie at his side. “It made me curse the dawn for sweeping the dream away.”
She linked fingers with him. Going down on one knee, she touched her mouth to his pulse. There were no more words between them as she licked along his inner arm. His blood ran hot.
Ready, nearly shaking with want, he pulled her astride him. But he could not contain the need to conquer and possess. He rolled her beneath him, rising on his hands and staring down at her. And it was he who was conquered as she whispered his name. It was he who was possessed when she arched and met his every move, her fingers molding each muscle of his back and hips.
In a rush of sensation, at the height of her release, he gave himself to her.
* * * * *
The air cooled. She knew they must dress and return to the others.
He stroked Cristina’s hair from her cheek. “I have neither castle nor finery to offer you. I have only myself and my children. Will you be my wife?”
“Oh, aye!” she whispered. She put her arms about his neck and kissed him hard. “I know I’ll never want for anything in your care.”
Breaking from his arms, she spun around the glade, twirling, her hair belling out from her shoulders.
She reveled in the freedom, the caress of the cool air, the sight of him, naked and painted with moonlight. She danced into his embrace. His arms were strong, his body warm against hers.
“It seems right and proper to love you here,” he said.
“How so?” She looked up into his silver eyes.
“You are so much a creature of the forest.”
He kissed her throat, her cheek, her lips, and she knew she needed him as surely as she wanted him. “And it seems right and proper to tell you I love you,” she whispered, “in this the place where first I saw you.”
Epilogue
Wales
Winter 1205
Cristina stood on the top of a hill and looked over the untamed land Durand had claimed. Months before, their company had ridden into Wales, hungry and exhausted. A ruined keep, its ramparts lined with ravens, had emerged from the rising morning fog.
About its walls, about twenty peasants ignored the crumbling of their great house and lived their simple lives. Their baron, long dead without issue, had not risen from his grave to haunt their party when they had moved into his keep.
Nor had the peasants done aught but go about their chores. They had taken one look at Durand’s torque and another at the birds on the ramparts and accepted him to a man.
Now, as she stood on the hill, she acknowledged all had not gone completely smoothly. Adrian missed the life and mother he so well remembered. But in balance, Robert was fascinated by Felice and carried her everywhere. Luckily Robert also had a facility for languages that quickly allowed him to act as translator between his father and the peasants.
Nona grew fat and happy along with Oriel. The ancient priest from the nearby church had joined Nona and Luke on the same day he had joined her to Durand.
Each day, she thanked God for her new family. Each night, she basked in the warmth of Durand’s embrace.
Sheets of fog stretched in layers of white and gray over the valley floor. She must imagine the lush greens that were unlike any she had ever seen in her many travels. She would travel no more. Her heart was here.
A man emerged from the mist. He wore an unadorned green as dark and rich as the hills and forest surrounding them. And she knew that when the sun broke from the clouds, it would touch his hair with a thousand shades from black to red.
When he reached her, she put out her hands.
“I should have known I’d find you here.” He lifted her basket and they walked together down the hill. “I’m off in an hour,” Durand said, putting an arm around her waist. “With luck, the abbey over the mountain will give us a fair price for the Aelfric, despite the hole in it.”
“And if they don’t, there ar
e other abbeys,” she said. “We have each other, this place, and peace. We’ll manage.”
He kissed a smudge on her nose. “Never underestimate the power of peace. I’m taking Adrian and Robert with me.”
The mists enclosed them as they drew closer to the old keep.
“With the promise of Nona and Oriel’s babes on the way, we have everything,” she said. “And smell this.” She plucked a wild rose from her basket. “It may be the last. ‘Tis a gift of nature and now, when I give it to you, ‘tis a symbol of my love.”
He took the flower and considered it. “You have given me so much. And I have naught to give you.” Then he grinned and tucked the rose into his tunic. “Mayhap there is something I have.”
He reached up and pulled the torque from around his throat. He settled it about hers and it lay there, warm from his skin, heavy in meaning.
“Durand…why?” She touched the torque with her fingers and looked up into his smiling gray eyes.
“‘Tis simple, Cristina. You rule my heart.”
The End
About Ann Lawrence
Award winning author Ann Lawrence writes both historical and paranormal romance with strong heroes and equally indomitable heroines. Her books reflect her love of English history and Arthurian legend. But whichever genre Ann chooses, she likes to include a puzzle for her readers to solve. Ann loves hearing from her readers.
Ann welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email addresses on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Also by Ann Lawrence
Lord of the Keep
Ellora’s Cave Publishing
www.ellorascave.com
Lord of the Mist
ISBN 9781419946103
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Lord of the Mist Copyright © 2001, 2013 Ann Lawrence
Cover design by Dar Albert
Cover photography by Igorzii, Charazin, Grape Vein and CURAphotography/Fotolia.com
Electronic book publication April 2013
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