Wounded Heroes Boxed Set

by Judith Arnold

  Hugh rolled his eyes and wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword. "I swear on the baby Jesus’s manger hay that I’ll keep my sword away from Graeham Fox’s privities."

  "And your dagger."

  "And my dagger."

  "I know you’re furious with him," she said. "Imagine how I feel. But time will lessen our rage. I just don’t want you to do anything rash in the meantime."

  "Time will have no impact on the anger I feel toward that lying whoreson," Hugh said, his expression murderous.

  "Nonsense. You’ve never been able to stay angry at anyone."

  "I’ll stay angry at Graeham Fox until I draw my dying breath," Hugh said grimly. "Just see if I don’t."

  Chapter 26

  * * *

  AN OCTOBER CHILL was in the air when Joanna stepped out into the slanting late afternoon sun to feed her chickens. The autumn-hued leaves on the big oaks overhanging her little wattle-and-daub cottage rattled as a breeze wafted out of the woods just beyond her front pasture.

  Perhaps someday she could afford a sheep or two to graze in that pasture; the wool would come in handy. She could use a few pigs, too. Pigs weren’t much trouble; they could forage in the woods during the summer and feed her all winter. In the meantime she’d make do with her chickens —for she got a half-penny apiece for the eggs—and her goat, which provided the milk she’d been craving in gluttonous quantities of late.

  Manfrid strode in front of her as she crossed to the poultry house with her sack of feed. He threw himself to the hard-packed ground at her feet, belly up, a silent but plaintive entreaty. Joanna crouched down to stroke his silky stomach, causing him to squirm in delight and emit that remarkable grinding purr of his.

  Like cartwheels on gravel, Graeham used to say.

  Manfrid had missed Graeham after he was gone. For days the big tom would wander in and out of the storeroom, as if hoping Graeham would suddenly materialize if he just kept checking.

  ‘Tis a mystery to me why you keep him, Graeham had once said about Manfrid. He’s too timid to be of any use. But he’d befriended him anyway, and lo and behold, he did prove to be of rather significant use eventually. For to hear Graeham tell it, it was Manfrid who’d awakened him that eventful day when Rolf le Fever’s ugly blue and red house had burned to the ground.

  Joanna was glad she’d taken the trouble to transport the two cats to her new home. Petronilla kept the byre in back of the cottage free of vermin, and Manfrid...well, Manfrid was Manfrid. He kept her lap warm at night. He kept her from getting too lonely. Her few neighbors lived too far away and were too busy to visit frequently, and Hugh had set off for the Rhineland last month after making sure she got settled into her new house.

  She ought to be used to being alone, after all those years of making do virtually on her own, but having Graeham around had spoiled her. God help her, she missed him more than ever, despite his duplicity and the fact that he was married and living on some grand Oxfordshire estate by now. He’d been like wine for her soul. For the first time in years, she’d felt as if she were a part of someone else, not just desired, but well and truly loved.

  It had all been an illusion, of course, crafted partly out of whole cloth by Graeham Fox and partly out of her own loneliness and need.

  Never again. No handsome devil would ever use her like that again. Ever.

  She’d made sure Graeham Fox would never use her that way again by moving here to this remote corner of the Midlands, far from her former life. No one in London knew where she’d gone; it was as if she’d disappeared from the face of the earth. Graeham couldn’t find her in a thousand years, even if he wanted to. That knowledge both comforted and depressed her.

  She treated Manfrid to one last, indulgent scratch behind the ears and then stood, fighting a wave of disorientation. These dizzy spells were much less frequent now, in her fourth month, than they’d been in the beginning. In addition to all the nausea and weakness, she’d actually fainted several times. But according to the local midwife, all that would taper off completely soon, and she’d have more energy than ever.

  Manfrid made that funny little sound in his throat he sometimes made—almost like a dove cooing—and leapt up, suddenly alert. If he’d been Petronilla, Joanna would have assumed there was a field mouse lurking about somewhere, but Manfrid doggedly avoided the prey that his sister found so compelling. The big cat strolled over to the dirt path that cut through the pasture and sat, staring off in the direction of the woods, his tail twitching.

  Joanna turned toward the poultry house, then turned back around as something caught her eye—a movement at the edge of the woods. Squinting against the low orange sun, for the woods were to the west, she identified the source of the movement—a man on horseback.

  All she could see of him was the distant, dark shape of man and horse advancing toward her along the path. She wondered who he was. Most folks around here rode mules unless they walked. Horses were a luxury.

  She touched the dagger hanging from her girdle, a concession to the riskiness of living alone in relative isolation. Pray God this fellow was some local nobleman, or perhaps a priest, and not...

  Joanna shielded her eyes, peering at the horseman’s hair, gleaming rustily in the golden sunlight. It hung in waves over the collar of his brown, split-front riding tunic. His long legs were encased in leathern leggings secured with crisscrossed thongs.

  "Nay..."

  Joanna focused on his face, her heart skittering in her chest. "Holy Mary, Mother of God."

  The feed sack thudded to the ground.

  It was him.

  Thank God he found her.

  Oh, God, why did he have to find her?

  Joanna pressed a hand to her fluttering stomach, mentally scolding herself for her lack of backbone. She hated Graeham Fox. She despised him utterly for lying to her, using her, getting her with child, then leaving her to marry the lovely and learned Phillipa.

  How the devil did he find her? Only Hugh knew where she was, and Hugh was in the Rhineland.

  Graeham slowed his dun stallion to a walk as he got to the end of the path. Those earnest, dazzling blue eyes of his still had the power to steal the breath from her lungs, damn him. Something looked different about him; she realized his nose had a bump halfway down that never used to be there, and his forehead was marred by a livid little scar that cut through the outside edge of an eyebrow.

  Reining in his mount, he said, "Joanna...my God, it really is you."

  She wrapped her arms around herself and stared at him.

  His expression sobered. He dismounted and tethered his horse to the limb of one of the oaks. Manfrid rubbed deliriously against his legs. Graeham squatted down and stroked his back. "You’re happy to see me, aren’t you, boy?"

  Manfrid purred lustily. Graeham looked up and met Joanna’s gaze as he petted the cat. "Christ, Joanna, I’ve missed you. I thought I might never see you again."

  He stood and took a step toward her.

  She backed up a step.

  He stopped in his tracks. "I know you’re...put out with me."

  "You have no idea," she said, her voice low and unsteady.

  "I just need you to listen to me." He held his palms up placatingly, started walking toward her. "Just that—hear me out."

  "Roast in hell." Joanna stumbled backward as he advanced on her, his strides growing swift, determined. She backed up against the poultry house and she turned to flee, but he seized her by the shoulders and pressed her against the earthen wall. She pushed against his chest, but it was like trying to budge a wall of rock.

  "I can’t believe it," he said, his gaze feasting hungrily on her hair, loose and uncovered, her eyes, her mouth, and lower, to her swelling breasts and the belly that pushed stubbornly against her snug violet kirtle.

  He lowered a hand to her stomach, caressed the slight roundness, his expression one of wonderment.

  So. He knew.

  Looking into her eyes, he said, "You’re even more beautifu
l now. I wouldn’t have thought it possible."

  His face was very close to hers now, too close. He was bending his head to hers, his gaze on her mouth. She tried to shake her head no, but that only brushed her lips against his.

  A whimper of longing rose from her as he closed his mouth over hers, his lips so warm, so demanding. He framed her face with his hands, threaded his fingers through her hair.

  The world spun as he kissed her. She grabbed fistfuls of his tunic, her heart pounding, reeling with riotous emotions—love and hate, desire, bewilderment.

  How could he do this to her? What kind of power did he have over her? She felt drugged by his nearness, his kiss, his warm, familiar scent that she’d missed so much.

  He broke the kiss with a breathless whisper. "I love you."

  "Oh, God, more lies." She covered her ears with her hands. "Stop lying to me, Graeham, that’s all I ask of you."

  He pulled her hands away from her ears. "‘Tis the truth, Joanna, I swear it. I should have told you long ago, but I was an idiot." Lifting her hands to his mouth, he kissed them. "I love you, Joanna. I do, I—"

  "What of Phillipa? Do you love her, too, or did you just marry her for the land?"

  Releasing her hands, he lightly stroked her cheek. "Joanna..."

  "Did you seek me out thinking I’d be your leman, that you could come to me whenever the fancy struck you and I’d just spread my legs like some twopenny—"

  "‘Tisn’t like that, Joanna."

  "Go back to your wife, Graeham." Joanna pushed against him as hard as she could. He staggered back a step, just enough for her to sidestep him.

  Joanna strode swiftly toward the cottage; once inside, she could bolt the door, locking him out. She passed the sack of chicken feed lying on the ground, and automatically bent to retrieve it. As she straightened up, a resurgence of her former dizziness made everything whirl slowly.

  Please, God, not now, she thought as dark spangles filled her vision and her knees gave out. Not now.

  "Joanna?" Strong arms banded around her, lifted her off her feet. She felt herself being cradled like a baby against his chest, felt the steady reverberations of his footsteps as he carried her, limp and half-senseless, in the direction of her cottage.Graeham kicked open the door, paused for a moment, and then she felt him walking again. He lowered her gently; she heard the crackle of straw beneath her, felt the scratchy woollen blanket that covered her little bed, the soft feather pillow beneath her head.

  He stroked her forehead, her hair, and then he was gone. Feeling suddenly bereft, she forced her eyes open and saw him, clawing his hair back with his hands, looking wildly around the little one-room cottage. Spying her wash stand, he crossed to it, dipped a wash rag in the bowl of water, wrung it out and returned to Joanna’s side.

  "Joanna, what’s wrong?" he asked, sitting next to her on the bed and wiping her face with the damp cloth. He looked stricken. "Are you ill? Do you need a physician?"

  She shook her head slowly. "I’ve had a bit of a rough time with the pregnancy," she said listlessly. "It’s getting better."

  His gaze lit on her stomach. He rested a hand there in a way that struck her as endearingly protective. "Is anything wrong? The baby’s all right, isn’t it?"

  She nodded. "The midwife says everything’s fine."

  "You need a physician, not some—"

  "There are no physicians around here, and Claennis is a very good midwife."

  He smoothed his hand over her abdomen, shaping its roundness, his expression troubled. "It’s been hard for you. I hate to think of what you’ve been through since I left." Looking around the tidy little cottage, with its whitewashed walls and jars of fall flowers scattered about, he said, "You’ve made the best of things, though. You always did persevere in the face of adversity. Your strength is one of the things I most love about you."

  She snatched the wet cloth from his hand and pressed it to her suddenly throbbing forehead. "Don’t say that."

  "Don’t say what?" He leaned over her, his arms braced to either side of her head, looking almost amused, the arrogant bastard. "That I love you?"

  "I don’t want to hear it."

  "It’s true, Joanna. If I had any sense at all, I’d have told you months ago. Let me tell you now."

  "Why? So you can try to sweet-talk yourself underneath my skirts?"

  "Ah, that again."

  "I may be foolish and gullible and all too susceptible to handsome, charming devils like you—"

  "I’m handsome and charming?" he asked with a delighted smile. "You love me, too. I know it."

  "‘Tis your vanity speaking. How could I love a man who used me so ill?"

  "I did use you ill," he admitted. "I let you give yourself to me without telling you about Phillipa and the estate in Oxfordshire. I didn’t know what to do. I loved you so deeply, and I wanted you desperately, but I couldn’t imagine giving up that land. Like an idiot, I kept trying to figure out how I could have you and the land, but of course, there was no way. I’m a flawed man, and I made unforgivable mistakes, for which you suffered dearly, but you still love me. I know it. I felt it when you kissed me."

  "‘Twas you who kissed me."

  "You returned the kiss. Now tell me you love me."

  "I don’t."

  He leaned closer, his eyes scaldingly blue. "You do. Tell me. Say it."

  "I may not have a lick of sense when it comes to you, Graeham Fox, but I do know better than to return the endearments of a married man."

  "I admire your noble stand," he said dryly, "but it really isn’t necessary. I’m not married."

  She narrowed her gaze on him. "Yes, you are. Lord Gilbert told me you were. Lord Gui wrote him all about it."

  "Lord Gui wrote him that he’d set a date. I never married Phillipa."

  She blinked at him. "Why not?"

  "Because I don’t love her. I love you."

  She regarded him in nonplussed silence for a moment, and then handed him the wash rag. "Help me to sit up, please."

  Setting the rag aside, he scooped an arm under her shoulders and eased her into a sitting position on the edge of the bed next to him.

  "What happened after you left for Normandy?" she asked him.

  "All I could think about during the journey from London to Dover was you. Ada kept asking me what was wrong, why I was so preoccupied. I told her I felt ill. I did. I was sick at heart over what I’d done to you, over the prospect of losing you. ‘Twas eating me up inside. The worst part came when our boat set off across the Channel. All I could think, as we pulled away from the dock, was that I might never see you again. It started raining, so they put up an awning and all the passengers crowded under it. Except for me. I stood alone at the railing and watched the cliffs of Dover disappear in the rain and wept. I don’t think I’ve done that since I was a child."

  Joanna found herself reaching for his hand.

  "Lord Gui was at his brother’s house in Paris when I arrived there with Ada," he said. "Phillipa was there, too. By then I knew what I had to do. I took Phillipa aside and told her I couldn’t marry her, that I loved someone else and would always love her, and that I’d make a perfectly insufferable husband for anyone else."

  "You did?"

  "I did."

  Joanna bit her lip. "How did she take it?"

  "At first she was disappointed, because she’d been looking forward to studying at Oxford. Lord Gui couldn’t bear to make her unhappy, so he decided to deed the Oxfordshire estate directly to her. Once she realized she could live there without being saddled with a husband, she was thrilled. The baron told me I was a fool to give up such a grand estate. I told him I was even more of a fool than that, because I was resigning from his service and returning to England."

  "My God," Joanna whispered, astounded at what he’d sacrificed for her.

  "Lord Gui asked me to remain with him long enough to escort Phillipa to Oxfordshire in October. ‘Twould take that long to get the manor house ready for her and staff i
t properly, he said. I felt I owed it to him after everything he’d done for me. I spent a few weeks in Paris with him, helping him attend to business there. When we returned to Beauvais, we found Lord—" He caught himself; his mouth quirked. "We found my father waiting there for us."

  "It must have been something of a shock," she said, "finding out you were the son of Gilbert de Montfichet."

  "It took some getting used to. On reflection, though, I should have suspected him—or someone of his rank. Why else would Lord Gui have been willing to betroth his beloved daughter to a baseborn serjant? In his eyes, I was Graeham fitz Gilbert, the son of a baron."

  "I imagine ‘twas a bittersweet meeting between you and Lord Gilbert."

  "More sweet than bitter...until he gave me your letter."

  "Ah. My letter." She squeezed his hand.

  "You gave no indication of where you might have gone off to. I had to find you. I immediately returned to London."

  "Really?"

  "The fellow who bought your house told me I’d only missed you by a few days. He had no idea where you went to, and neither, of course, did anyone else. I questioned Olive and Damian, Robert of Ramswick, Brother Simon, all your neighbors...I was at my wits’ end. I left London and spent a fortnight just riding from one village to another, asking if anyone had seen you."

  "Oh, Graeham."

  "Finally I had to return to Beauvais so I could take Phillipa back across the Channel. When I got there, I discovered that Lord Gui had a houseguest who’d shown up unexpectedly a few days before—one Hugh of Wexford."

  She gaped at him. "Hugh?"

  "He’d come looking for me while I was in England searching for you."

  "Hugh? But...but he vowed that he wouldn’t seek you out."

  "Actually, what he swore to—as he tells it—was that he wouldn’t separate me from my privy parts. And, indeed, he made no attempt to do so. He did try to beat me to a bloody pulp."

  She reached up and touched the scars on his face. "He broke your nose."

  "I returned the favor."

  "You broke Hugh’s nose?"

  "I wasn’t about to just stand there and let him pummel me to death, even if I did admire his motives." Graeham grinned. "He thanked me for it afterward. Said he’d been too damned handsome."