by Tamara Leigh
“Then come with me.”
She drew back from the hand he reached to her. “Be gone, Sir Michael. On the morrow will be soon enough to talk.”
Without further word, he slid an arm beneath her and scooped her from the bench. Her immediate response was to protest his boldness, but she checked the indignant words lest she roused the others. Fortunately, though he presumed where he should not, she did not fear him as she feared William. Too, the scrape of claws over the floor assured her Groan would not leave her to fend for herself should she have misjudged the young knight.
Resigned to the conversation, she grabbed fistfuls of his tunic and held to him as he picked his way over the sleeping bodies toward the stairway.
Sir Michael was not of a great height or build, but he proved surprisingly strong, easily negotiating the stairs to the first landing where a torch flickered. There, he lowered her to her feet. “Forgive me, my lady.”
Graeye jerked the blanket closed around her shoulders. “’Tis unseemly behavior, Sir Michael,” she whispered, comforted by the press of Groan’s body against her side.
“I saw no other way.”
She glared at him a long moment, then sighed. It was, after all, her fault. Had she given him the time he had sought earlier in the day, this would have been unnecessary. “Well, speak,” she said.
He shifted his weight as if uncomfortable, then said in a rush, “I would have you go away with me.”
She blinked. “What?”
He set a hand upon her shoulder. “There is naught for you here, as there is naught for me. Though I am the fourth of five sons, I have not much to offer, but ’tis more than the abbey can give you. Surely you do not wish to return there?”
She leaned back against the wall for support. “Of course not.” Was this the answer she sought? “Is it marriage you speak of, Sir Michael?”
He slipped a hand beneath her chin and tilted her face up. “I offered once before and you denied me.” There was a bitter edge to his voice. “Should I offer again, would you refuse?”
She stared into his imploring eyes. “Surely you know the reason I denied you. Even had I expressed a preference for you, my father would not have agreed, and I did not wish blood spilled for a lost cause.”
“Then you thought I could not best Sir William.”
“I did not know,” she said with apology, “but ’twas not worth the risk.”
“I am not a child unable to defend myself!” he snapped. “‘Twould have been William’s blood spilled, not mine.”
Hoping to soothe his injured pride, she said, “I am sorry.”
His indignation was slow to ease, but when it did, he lowered his head and touched his mouth to hers. “Will you marry me, sweet Graeye?”
Surprised at the gentleness of that fleeting kiss, she lowered her gaze. He was a better man than William, and what he proposed held more appeal than returning to the abbey and leaving her father to fend for himself among enemies—providing Edward was included in the offer.
She looked up. “What of my father?”
“Your father?” His disbelief boded ill. “Your loyalty is misplaced, Graeye. You owe him no allegiance. Allow Baron Balmaine to decide his fate.”
Leave him to the mercy of one of those responsible for Philip’s death? No matter what he felt for her, he was still her father. “I cannot desert him.”
Sir Michael gripped her shoulders. “Can you not see the evil in him? You, my family would accept, but Edward?” He shook his head. “I will not ask that of them.”
She pulled out of his hold. “And I will not leave my father to the greater evil of Balmaine. Good eve.” She turned and placed a hand on the wall to guide her down the steep steps.
Groan followed, but Sir Michael made no move to detain her. Clearly, his desire for her was not strong enough to cause him to change his mind about Edward.
Upon regaining her bench, Graeye huddled against the wall and tried not to question if she had made a mistake in refusing the young knight. Failing, she acknowledged that her only other option was to return to the abbey. Whether she went with Sir Michael or back to the Church, the result was the same. Edward would be alone to face the cruelty of Baron Balmaine.
Unless you make it impossible for him to return you to the abbey, whispered a small, desperate voice.
She frowned. What would cause him to—?
Chastity, the voice came again. The breaking of that vow is unforgivable. Lacking purity, you cannot be professed a nun.
Feeling the moral foundation upon which her life was built shudder, Graeye clasped her arms around herself and tried to push the wicked idea down by naming it ungodly…blasphemous…wanton, but it kept rising to the surface. It even struck her that, had she not escaped William when he had tried to force himself upon her weeks earlier, there would be no question regarding the taking of vows. Edward would have to keep her with him.
If Sir Michael—
She shook her head, squeezed her eyes closed, and began to pray away the evil thoughts. If there was a way out of the Church, it was not in that direction. Never that direction. She must trust in the Lord, not herself.
“Dear God, help me believe it,” she breathed. “Pray, help me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
In the late afternoon of the fourth day following the arrival of the king’s men, Sir Royce ordered that Edward Charwyck be released from the watchtower.
Immediately, the old man sought out Graeye and told her arrangements had been made for her return to the abbey the following morning. He was calm, almost emotionless, until she tried again to convince him to allow her to remain with him. Then he had raged so terribly that he might have done her injury had Sir Abelaard not interceded.
Thus, a defeated Graeye slipped out the postern gate late that evening and headed for the one place that might offer solace—the waterfall where she had spent sunny days with her mother before an untimely death had stolen away the one person who had loved her unconditionally.
She was not running away, for life in the Church was less daunting than the prospect of being on her own in a world she did not know. She but longed to see the falls one last time and revive the memories made there so that, come the morrow, she could carry them with her back to Arlecy.
Leaving the castle walls behind, she entered the wood and made her way over the debris-strewn ground and among towering trees whose branches had begun to shed their colorful leaves. She made good progress until night began to creep across the blue sky and she had to slow to ensure her footing and direction. When, at last, the ground began to slope away from her, she paused and listened. Catching the distant sound of falling water, she corrected her course, and it was not long before the wood opened up to reveal a glorious white veil that swept from on high into a large pool below.
As she stared at it, memories sweetly drew her back to a time when she had mattered to someone, when she had been happy, when she had known love. It was more than some ever had.
She ventured forward and, shortly, knelt upon the pool’s upper bank. As she dipped her fingers in the cool water, she told herself to forget the castle and those who dwelt within—to be here and nowhere else.
“Such a night as this will not come again,” she whispered. “Not ever.”
She stood, dragged off the heavy habit, and entered the pool clad in her thin chemise. The water was not frigid, but it was chill enough to make her limbs quake and teeth chatter until she began to exert herself.
With the moon and the awakening stars her only witnesses, she attempted the strokes her mother had taught her years ago. They were not graceful, nor efficient, but they allowed her to cross the deepest stretch of the pool and venture into the falls’ biting spray.
For what must have been an hour or more, as told by the dark of the sky, she became so immersed in her solitude that, had the animal not whinnied loudly, she might not have noticed the trespasser until it was too late.
Returned to the present, she treaded water as
horse and rider halted upon the grassy bank near the lower portion of the pool.
Water lapping at her shoulders, she berated herself for lingering so long and glanced at the half moon that had traveled some distance since her arrival. Praying its dim light would not reveal her, she turned and slowly pulled herself through the water until she reached the long shadows where she had entered the pool on the opposite side.
Though instinct begged her to flee, fear of discovery stayed her. Even with the length and width of the pool separating her from the trespasser, there would be little to deter him if he decided to give chase. Thus, submerged up to her neck, she knelt in the shallows and used the cloak of darkness to appraise the one who had happened upon her.
He was no wayfarer. With his fine, glittering vest of chain mail and highly prized white destrier, he had to be of the nobility. Dark of hair and beard, he sat tall in the saddle and appeared every bit the gentleman warrior. But gentleman or not, with the breadth and certain height of him, he would be a formidable opponent. Indeed, he exuded something more ominous than strength, something that caused disquiet to skitter up her spine. Anger?
Rubbing her hands over her arms beneath the water, she wondered if he might be one of her father’s former retainers who had heretofore gone unnoticed.
She rejected the idea, certain she would remember such a man, even had she only glimpsed him from afar. Neither did she think he was one of those sent by the king. One of Balmaine’s men, then? Nay, the new lord of Medland was not expected for three more days. Thus, the man was likely a knight-errant passing through.
When he swung a leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, Graeye fought the urge to flee and pressed herself more deeply into the shadows.
As he descended the bank, she thought she detected a limp, but she could not be certain, for it took only two strides to carry him to the pool’s edge where he dropped to a knee to quench his thirst. Perhaps he had simply partaken of too much drink, she considered, and conjured a vision of her father.
The knight rose and surveyed the pool.
Though she assured herself he could not see her amid the shadows, fear rippled across her skin. Did he sense her presence?
When he finally returned to his destrier, she sighed. However, rather than mount, he unbuckled his belted sword and draped it over the saddle. Then he began to remove his chain mail.
Graeye held her breath for fear he intended to bare himself. But even when he drew the armor off over his head, she found herself transfixed by curiosity that Mistress Hermana would have severely punished.
Amid moonlight and above the pour of the falls, came the gleam and metallic peal of thousands of joined rings as the chain mail was draped over a large boulder. Next, he drew off his tunic.
Though her maidenly senses protested that he should so boldly disrobe, she reminded herself that not only was she scantily clothed in a chemise, but he had come upon her sanctuary unwittingly—was unaware he shared with another the dark-mantled sky that danced stars upon the tumbling water.
But when he removed the padded undertunic, leaving nothing save the gloss of night upon a broad, tapering back above the waistband of chausses, a gasp escaped her.
He swung around, and she nearly cried out when she saw he had brought his sword to hand.
With a snort and a toss of its massive head, the great animal echoed its master’s disquiet as the knight peered into the darkness where Graeye knelt.
She stared at him, told herself he could not have heard the small sound she had made above the tumult of falling water. And yet, it seemed he had. If she ran, would he pursue her in nothing save chausses and boots?
After an interminable time that had her chest burning from lack of sufficient air, he turned to his destrier, slid the sword into its sheath, and belted a dagger at his waist. Then he shed his boots and hose, leaving only his chausses.
Though Graeye was grateful for that one item of clothing that covered his lower torso and legs, she flushed so deeply she momentarily warmed. This was far more of a man than she had ever seen.
When he entered the water without pause, as if unaffected by the temperature, she slowly threaded breath into her lungs and prayed he would keep to the lower portion of the pool and be quick with his bath. Having grown chill from the lack of exertion, she feared that if he had heard her gasp, he would more easily pick out the sound of chattering teeth.
His great height had been obvious at the outset, but when he stood at the center of the pool, she was better able to gauge his measure. Head and shoulders above the surface where she had earlier treaded water, she guessed he would stand a foot or more above her head.
A moment later, he dived beneath the surface.
Though tempted to take the opportunity to flee, Graeye doubted he would stay under long enough to allow her to slip away.
When he reappeared, relief swept her. Not only had she been right not to risk leaving the shadows, but he had returned to the lower portion of the pool. What might have happened had he ventured toward the upper end did not even bear thinking upon.
Go, she silently entreated, holding herself tighter, clenching her teeth harder. Pray, go.
Rather than accommodate her, he turned onto his back.
As moonlight traveled across his chest, she once more found herself warmed by embarrassment—a brief respite from the cold. Though she hated to admit it, even if only to herself, it was interest as well as fear that made her follow his movements.
This is as much as I will ever know of a man, she attempted to soothe her conscience. Never will I wed. Never will I lie in a husband’s arms. Never will I hear the laughter of children I might bear. Never.
Her throat tightened and she felt the sting of tears. Now that she was no longer a pawn upon which to get heirs, she was to be tossed aside. On the morrow, she would journey back to the abbey where she would profess herself a nun and live out her days beneath the disapproving regard of Mistress Hermana.
All was hopeless. There was nothing left to her—
The thought that broke free of the depths to which she had pushed it did so with such force that she jerked. As when the idea had first occurred to her on the day the king’s tidings had caused her world to collapse around her, her conscience screeched and named her every vile thing for thinking the unthinkable. What would it name her if she did what she should not do?
I ought not, she told herself. It is wrong. But…
Before her was a man to whom she could give her virtue. An unknown—here this night, gone come the morrow. Once all that remained of him was proof she was no longer worthy of being professed a nun, she could stay at her father’s side.
Do not, Graeye! her conscience cried. ’Tis sin most foul. Turn from such thoughts. Pray! Pray hard!
She nearly sought the Lord’s help to fight the temptation to do what was settling far too comfortably into her, but her baser, desperate self whispered that, in this, she must trust Graeye Charwyck.
But would the knight be willing? If men were as lecherous as Mistress Hermana warned and William would have proved if not for Groan, then the trespasser would take what she offered. Unless…
She raked her teeth across her lower lip. If he saw the mark upon her face, he might reject her. She glanced at the half moon. Perhaps he would not notice. But perhaps he would.
In that moment, she longed to fling the idea back to its pit, but as she was swept with equal parts regret and relief, she became aware of the sodden weight of her hair. She pulled the mass over her shoulder, raked it forward, and smoothed the wet strands over the mark at her temple. Then she considered and considered again. With a painfully hard swallow, she once more gave herself over to the idea.
Forgive me, Lord, she silently prayed. Forgive me, though I know what I do.
It was surely blasphemous to try to gain His ear, and foolish to think to gain forgiveness of a sin from which she could still turn away, but she had to ask.
She looked to the trespasser who was
now swimming toward the bank where he had entered the pool. Shortly, he rose up and stepped from the water.
“Ah, nay,” she breathed and pushed forward. The silt and mud sucked at her feet as if to keep her from committing the wicked act, but she freed herself and, when the ground fell from beneath her, fanned her arms out and swam forward.
As she drew near the knight where he stood near his destrier, he dragged his undertunic on over his head.
Graeye was still several yards away, heart pounding furiously, when he swung around and wrenched his dagger from its sheath.
“Who goes?” he demanded as his gaze settled on her where her chin bobbed on the surface. His dark expression turned to disbelief, then he blinked as if to dispel a vision and leaned forward to better see her.
She saw then that his short hair was not simply black, but pitch—so much that night bestowed a blue cast upon the unruly locks. Though more handsome than she had gleaned from her hiding place, he looked every bit as hard and dangerous as first thought. And he frightened her nearly as much as a lifetime spent behind abbey walls. Nearly…
Pressing her fear down, she raised her gaze to glittering eyes that held no kindness. What color might they be, and did they ever shine with the light of a smile? She shifted her scrutiny down the length of his body, the lower half of which was clothed in wet chausses that clung to his legs.
Oh, Graeye, what are you doing? Stop this now!
But even as she tensed to abandon her plan, that other side of her told that it was the only way—just this one thing, this one night, and she could remain with her father.
You assume he will wish a wanton at his side, her conscience argued.
Of course he would not, but what other choice would he have? And even if his wrath left her bruised, in the end he would be glad of the succor she provided. Thus, she must finish what she had begun.
Assuring herself her hair hid the mark, she lowered her feet, crouching so that only her shoulders and head were visible above the water.
