‘Will horse riding do for movement?’
‘Horse—? No! If you fall, the stitches won’t hold. I can’t say what kind of lasting damage that would cause.’
‘If it’s the falling, then we’re fine. I mean to ask Imbert...that will take time...’
The next blink he gave was longer. She should go, but her feet didn’t want to move. When his eyes were closed like this, she was able to watch him, notice his beauty, admire the masculine symmetry, and wonder why he intrigued her so.
Now that she knew him better, she should not have been as fascinated. When she studied tapestries, she admired their beauty first, then their composition, and after she’d learned the process, she usually moved on to the next. She knew there was no moving on from Balthus. He was a beauty who changed with seasons and emotions. She could study him forever, and then ask for more.
She’d hated the Warstone parents, was terrified of her husband, and somehow desired the youngest brother. When they touched she wanted more, when they talked she could sit by him forever. She just...wanted.
‘Goodnight, Balthus.’
She opened the door, turned. His eyes were closed, he was already lying down. His breathing even, he looked asleep. She should let him be and yet some of his words she had to understand.
‘Was that the truth, about whatever I wanted you to do, you would?’ she said.
He turned his head, opened his eyes. They were mere slits of grey, but they were still piercing.
‘Always.’
‘Why?’
He swallowed, and she watched the rhythmic movement of his throat.
‘Because Ian may have married you, and you bore his children, but I watched you before he did,’ he answered.
It was almost as if he’d claimed her that day; how she wished she had claimed him, too.
‘At the announcement, I was teased about the four brothers for four sisters. Did you think that was what was to be?’
Inscrutable expression. Dark grey eyes. ‘I had hoped.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Out of all the challenges Balthus had faced in his life, mounting and dismounting a horse wasn’t one he’d thought would be among the most difficult, but day after day it proved impossible. To defend Séverine, to protect her and the boys in any way, it was a challenge that had to be met. Higher ground in any battle was essential. If nothing else, they needed to have ability to flee or to send messages for help.
Séverine had brought a battle to her little family, whether she wanted it or not. There was always a possibility his parents would want their Warstone grandsons in the clutches of their bloodstained hands. Either to mould into something like Ian before the madness had taken him or to kill them so they weren’t competition. No matter how many safe havens Séverine arranged, eventually they would be found.
Either way, he refused to let her fight alone against them. He would be there. No, he’d be leading his parents and their forces away so they couldn’t be near her or the boys.
That required him to mount and stay on a horse. It had been two weeks since Séverine had argued against him trying because he might injure himself. And he had, but not irrevocably. Mostly it had been because the recent deluge of rain had made the ground nothing but mud. He’d been filthy, bruised, but unharmed.
When he wasn’t pushing himself on the horse, he had begun his sword and balance training, which included walking distances and using the branches of trees to pull himself up to increase his upper-body strength. Anything to gain more strength since he’d been idle for far too many months.
His reasoning didn’t stop Séverine from chastising him night after night. The stitches had long ago come out. The wound was healing, but Séverine insisted on poultices and the linen wrap to keep it bound to his chest.
The limb didn’t look any more repulsive than it had before; however, it continued to look unacceptable to him. There was always that moment before the last of the linen was unfurled when he expected his hand to be there again.
Séverine’s actions were always efficient and quick, but he was still affected. He offered more than once to take care of it himself, but she refused. It was both glorious and torture to have her hands on him. But because his arm was the way it was, he kept his gaze away from her as much as possible. He couldn’t bear to see her revulsion, which he was certain must be there because his was.
No, he was out of the pit, there was no more debilitating pain, but his life wasn’t easy.
And thinking of Séverine’s kiss or the way she felt in his arms? That way lay madness. He hadn’t attempted to touch her in that way again, but she tempted him. However, since that moment they had rarely been alone. Either Sarah or Imbert hovered and played chaperones. He was both grateful and irritated by their presence. If he’d thought he was worthy of her, he’d have ignored the old servants and wooed her. He wondered constantly if Séverine thought at all about their kiss.
When he wasn’t being thwarted by a horse, or by his longing for a woman who wasn’t his, he attempted to win over Imbert, who held much sway in the village.
However, Imbert had many opinions on the best way to protect Séverine. Most of them were good...if Imbert had been surrounded by trained guards and had more resources. But there was nothing but simple supplies and simple men. Not nearly the force to bear a Warstone offensive.
All the while Balthus was well aware that this wasn’t his battle. Not truly. And it was one that, had they known all the facts, they’d have shoved him in the pit once again.
He’d argued with himself about telling Séverine of Ian’s death, and asking her for the parchment, but then he’d see her smile at a villager, or plait her hair, and he’d know he stayed not only because she needed his protection, such as it was, but simply to prolong this precious time.
Henry, in the meantime, would recite all the consequences, but kept his silence otherwise, and reluctantly accepted the excuses that Balthus’s recovery and the state of the weather were good enough reasons to stay, but time was running out. Like now.
There was no point in delaying further. He needed to be able to ride a horse on his own. The irony wasn’t lost on him that if he were still in the bosom of his family, servants or a squire would assist him in dressing or mounting a horse. Now he had to rely on himself...starting with his own boots.
‘I could help you with those.’
Balthus stilled at the young voice just behind him. Since his arrival, Clovis had tested boundaries but remained cautious around him. Both boys had, and Balthus guessed that if he could hear villagers outside the pit, the villagers and these boys heard that moment their mother had started slicing his arm, and every fevered curse he’d uttered since then. They had known he’d suffered.
Did he apologise? Shame wasn’t an emotion he was used to experiencing let alone acknowledging, but the truth was he had frightened his nephews when all he’d wanted had been to be near them and their mother. They were a family, or what he’d hoped a family would be.
Something of the way Clovis held himself reminded him of his brothers. The watchful gaze that was utterly Reynold. He’d asked Séverine if the boys knew who he was and she’d answered no, but he hadn’t asked whether Clovis had already guessed. He had to have noticed the colour of their eyes was nearly the same. The boy was too watchful not to wonder who he was. He was also here.
If Balthus turned, if he showed any reaction that the boy had acknowledged him, he might lose him. So he kept his eyes on his task, shoving on one of his boots. ‘What could you help me with?’
A step forward. ‘Your boots.’
Balthus stretched and thumped the heel in, then he pulled the lace up and tucked it into the top. ‘I can put my own boots on.’
Another step and Clovis was in his peripheral vision. ‘That way doesn’t work. It’s why you’re falling off. You can’t grip with loose boots.’
<
br /> Balthus glanced up. Clovis’s wary gaze swept across his features as if he was trying to understand him. He hadn’t proven himself trustworthy yet, and he wondered how he could. But here was this boy, brave enough to talk to him on his own, regardless of his fears. What motivated him? Did Clovis remember Ian? His heart hurt when he thought that his brother was denied even these wary expressions.
Balthus huffed. ‘I don’t want someone else lacing them. It’s why I do this on my own.’
‘I saw your boot slip off before you fell. You won’t stay on a horse without tied boots.’
He didn’t know where this conversation was going. It felt as if Clovis wanted to talk about something other than laces and boots. Balthus was completely inept at conversation and out of his depth talking with children. Should he apologise and walk away? But the boy fidgeted with his tunic and Balthus held still.
‘A man doesn’t like to have his weaknesses pointed out to him.’
Clovis kicked some dirt at his boots. ‘Neither do boys.’
Ah.
‘Mama says that even if you’re bad, I should be nice to you because you’re trying.’
Balthus’s heart skipped. Any breath he’d been about to take was gone. How could a boy know so much? These words...felled him. Mistrust from a boy who looked like Ian. That goodness from Séverine...
‘Did you know me when I was little?’
Very brave indeed. ‘Is that why you want to talk to me?’
Clovis pinched the bottom of his tunic and pulled it, but he looked at the ground and his cheeks had turned.
Perhaps that wasn’t how he was to reply. How did he know? The more he watched Séverine and watched the boys play, the more he knew she was right to have taken them away from his family. At the same time he wished Ian could have known them like this. Wary, but brave enough to ask.
How could he not reflect on his own family, especially when Clovis had asked if he knew Ian? ‘I did know you.’
‘She won’t tell me who you are.’
So the child had asked Séverine and she hadn’t told him. What had that taken from her to deny her son that answer? Given the cruelty of his family, probably nothing.
‘You won’t, either,’ Clovis said.
That voice: he shouldn’t have remembered Ian as a young boy, but that tone, that victory lacing every word, was almost familiar.
‘I am Balthus, but your mother should tell you the rest.’ Balthus stood. Prepared himself for the humiliation ahead, aware that he was being judged by a boy of barely nine years.
‘Mama has ignored other men who followed us.’
There was too much significance in that sentence, and he was far too ill equipped to unravel it. ‘I’m not your father.’
‘I didn’t say you were.’ Clovis looked away then. ‘I don’t have a father.’
He did, and he didn’t. The child was stabbing him with every regret he had. Had he ever been around a boy as young as this before? Never, but he was desperate to build bridges between them.
‘I think we’re both stubborn, though,’ Balthus said.
‘I’m stubborn?’
‘You’ve insisted on showing me how to tie my laces, and I don’t want you to.’
‘Because you think you can’t do it?’ Clovis said.
Balthus was offended but wanted to laugh. ‘You know other one-handed men who can tie laces?’
‘I couldn’t tie my laces when I started.’
Something ugly reared up violently inside him. It demanded he dismiss the boy. Some cruelty that wanted to shove or shout that he could tie his laces, that he wasn’t a child. Balthus knew immediately what it was: Warstone training that fought against what the boy suggested. He’d shown enough vulnerability, weakness, softness in front of others. The boy wouldn’t respect him unless he had a firm hand, harsh words and cold punishment.
But Clovis wasn’t looking at him as if he was weak, he wasn’t looking at him with fear or trepidation. He was looking at him like...he wanted to help. The emotion in his grey Warstone eyes was Séverine’s warmth and goodness.
Obeying that, Balthus sat down and was rewarded with Clovis’s half-smile. That smile was also Séverine’s.
Pointing at his boots, Clovis began, ‘First, pull out your laces and lay them flat on the ground, and hook one under your other boot so it’s stuck and you’re pulling only one...’
* * *
Tearing out the centre of a bread loaf at the small oak table in her hut, Séverine spun around as her boys entered and brought into her home warm spring air and the noise of clomping feet and happy chatter.
Her boys. How easily that sprang to her mind, but how could she not when all three wore similar grins on their faces? Balthus’s smile...
Séverine hadn’t seen Balthus smile since the pit, when Imbert had interrupted them. She could still feel the heat of his hand on the back of her neck, the words he’d growled against her lips. The way she’d needed, desperately, to be closer to him.
As if he knew her thoughts, his gaze swung to her. Feeling caught out, she swiped the side of her arm against the loose curl that annoyingly kept falling on her forehead.
‘He stayed on the horse today, Mama!’ Pepin tugged hard on her gown, jolting her to one side. Righting herself, she blinked at her youngest.
‘He wobbled like this, and like that.’ Pepin demonstrated, until all of them were laughing. ‘But he stayed on!’
‘I was taught well.’ Balthus clasped Clovis’s shoulder and they shared a look. Tears pricked Séverine’s eyes, and she quickly brushed her hands against her apron and willed herself to be calm.
She was Clovis and Pepin’s mother, but Balthus was her husband’s brother. How many times did she need to repeat that to herself? Many, and it still didn’t feel true.
‘Food’s about ready, and all three of you need to wash first,’ she said.
Her boys ran right back out as if what she’d said was of no import. But to her it was. Clovis had dirt in his hair. Her eldest had, at least for a day, allowed himself to just be. Joy threatened to rip her apart, and she turned to face the table and the bread loaf. Just a few more tears and maybe Balthus would also leave. Once she was done with this part, she’d add butter and—
‘Séverine, turn around,’ Balthus said.
She couldn’t—not just yet. Not when she was afraid he’d see what she was feeling. That whatever had happened today between her children and him had now added to the tumult of emotions their kiss had started. This had all started with her wanting to persuade him to help her...she hadn’t gotten to that part, not truly. He stayed now, but for how long?
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I need you to, I would like to say something. Please.’
She needed to stop pulling at the bread or there’d be nothing left for the butter. She turned.
His gaze was softer but no less intense. She wasn’t ready and grabbed the table behind her.
‘You gave me this day, you know that? By taking away the pain, by allowing me into your home, and to be around your children.’
He looked as overwhelmed as she did, and she grabbed the table behind her for support. Then gripped it as she felt her entire being leaning towards him. Wanting what they’d shared, wanting more. It was all wrong. Everything about this was wrong, he wasn’t Ian, not her husband, as much as her traitorous heart wished he was. Whatever was happening between them or with her children needed to stop. Now.
‘If you believe you can say a few kinds words to soften me towards you, you can think again. Just forget all that.’
He huffed out a breath and scuffed his boot across the floor. The same movement her children often made.
‘No,’ she said, not wanting to acknowledge that closeness either, and he looked sharply at her. His scrutinising gaze turned predatory and she realised her mist
ake.
It wasn’t he who’d mentioned the kiss, or how they’d touched, or confessed that such actions affected him. She had by telling him to forget all that. He knew it, too.
Gone was the man with the wide grin and before her was the man who had kissed her devastatingly, who had touched her with need, desire, and had made it clear he wanted to again as his gaze leisurely took in her every feature, savouring her in a way she couldn’t understand but was achingly aware of.
And her body responded. From her breath to her heartbeat to the heated pinpricks fluttering across her skin when his eyes darkened to almost black.
‘Séverine, I see what is in your eyes, and we have no chaperones,’ he whispered, his voice a little deeper and rougher than before. A particular rasp that flushed heat through her.
He’d noticed that, too.
A step towards her, and another. All the while he kept his gaze on her, until he was close enough for her to feel the heat from his skin, to smell the fresh cold air trapped in the wool of his clothes. To watch, truly watch him lay his hand on hers and still the last of her nervousness. Until she was nothing except a woman all too aware that the man that she wanted...wanted her, too.
‘Balthus, don’t—The boys will return and...’ Why could she not get her words out?
‘Then let me say something else,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Séverine, for the life you’ve shown me. Today meant much, and not only because I can ride again and have earned some respect from Imbert, but because I shared it with Clovis and Pepin. They taught me much.’
Relieved he’d decided to be courteous, she released the table behind her. ‘The boys appreciate your time, as well.’
The corner of his mouth curved, and he shook his head. ‘Look at you. You think that is all?’
He reached out and pulled one of her locks and freed the crumbs caught there before releasing it to spring back onto her shoulder. She shouldn’t have felt that touch, should have been embarrassed to have crumbs in her hair, but instead she had a mad desire to sprinkle more there, just to have her curls wrapped around his thick fingers like that again.
Harlequin Historical May 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 58
