by Tamara Leigh
“Who are you?” the knight asked again, his voice deep and resonant and without slur that would have evidenced he had imbibed too much.
Not knowing how she should answer and wary of other questions he might put to her, she shook her head.
His eyes narrowed.
Once again, her resolve began to fray, causing her breathing to turn shallow. Then something taut and trembling snapped within her.
He is dangerous. This is wrong!
She pushed backward, but before she could turn away, he lunged into the water, gripped her arm, and dragged her to her feet.
She cried out and threw a hand up to balance herself. It landed on his chest, but though she was taken aback by the feel of his muscles beneath the undertunic, she held her hand there to maintain distance between them.
“What are you?” he asked, his warm breath reaching her from that great height.
The question confounded Graeye so much that she momentarily forgot she was clothed in a wet chemise that clasped itself close to her body. With a shaky breath, she peered up at him.
“Perhaps you are a fairy turned woman, come to tempt me with your wiles,” he mused.
His face had softened, the corners of his mouth curving toward a smile. And beneath her palm, his muscles eased. It seemed the danger was past.
But the wrong of it is not, her conscience once more asserted itself.
Perhaps if that voice had been louder—more forceful—she would have heeded it, but the other voice was too convincing.
Just this one thing, this one night.
She lowered her gaze to the dagger he clutched, then drew her hand from his chest to his shoulder and down his arm. He did not resist when she loosened his fingers from the hilt, nor move to prevent the weapon from falling to the water.
Though Graeye had no experience with seduction, she was certain it started with a kiss. Thus, she breached the space between them, slid her fingers over his crisp beard, and looked to his mouth. Then she rose onto her toes. Finding he was yet too tall, she curled a hand around his neck and urged his head down.
Only when he released his breath did she realize he had been holding it, then he encircled her waist and drew her close. When his mouth covered hers, Graeye was jolted by sensations she had not felt with William’s fumblings and Michael’s brotherly peck. And suddenly she was wonderfully warm—until he pushed his fingers through her hair.
She jerked her head back, swept up a hand, and was relieved to discover the mark had not come uncovered.
Frowning, he reached to her hair again.
She shook her head.
His frown deepened, but he shrugged and contented himself with running his fingers through the tresses that swept her hips as he once more claimed her mouth.
And then Graeye was lost. Completely, devastatingly lost.
“Forgive me,” he spoke into the hair atop her head. “I did not know.”
He could not have, surely would not have considered that the woman who so brazenly offered herself had never lain with a man. But there had been no way to hide it, for she had not known there would be pain, so much that she had wondered why women subjected themselves to it at all—at least, until the hurt subsided.
He drew back from her where they lay on their sides in the grass facing one another and lifted her chin to peer into her face.
Grateful the mark was not only in shadow but her hair yet clung to it, she gazed back at him and consciously made a place in her mind for his face so it would ever be with her.
“Forgive me?” he said again.
Though it was not for her to do, she nodded.
“There should be no more pain,” he said, and it took her a moment to realize his assurance was meant to ease any misgivings should they lie together again. They would not.
“You are not going to tell me who you are?”
She shook her head, then, impulsively, touched a finger to his chest and raised her eyebrows.
To her surprise, he grinned and his eyebrows jauntily rose and fell. But he also shook his head.
She knew it was best not to know his name, for she would not see him again. Still, such cool logic did not stop her from wishing it could be otherwise.
When his thumb began drawing lazy circles over her jaw, she once more yielded to impulse and pressed her mouth to his palm.
“You are real?” he asked in that deep voice she found so pleasing. “Not some spirit come to distract me from my labors?”
She smiled, shrugged.
Though his eyebrows gathered, he did not coax her further. “You are beautiful, little one,” he rumbled.
Truly? She recalled her reflection in the pool. She was not unbecoming, but to be told she was beautiful…
Were it possible, she thought she could stay with this man forever. Though unfamiliar with the notion of love beyond what she had felt for her mother, there was something here she longed to hold to. And she was swept by sorrow that it could not last, that it ended this night.
Suddenly, he raised his head, then his body followed. Moving swiftly, he retrieved his sword, and it was then she heard what had stolen him from her.
She sprang to her feet, but there was no cover to be had, and whoever moved through the wood made good progress. Knowing he would be upon them shortly, she stepped back into the water.
“Wait!” the knight called.
Graeye glanced at him, then waded farther out. She could not be discovered, especially if the one who approached was one of her father’s or the king’s men come to battle the trespasser. The knight had given her what she required, and she would not have him pay for a sin that was far more hers than his.
She looked around one last time and gasped when she saw he followed, and again when he caught her arm and pulled her back.
She shook her head, silently entreating him to release her.
“My lord!” a voice called from the trees.
The knight’s tension dissolved. “’Tis but my squire,” he said low. “You need not fear.”
Finding no comfort in his words, she tried to pull free, but he held fast.
“Duncan!” he called. “Come no nearer.”
The crackling of leaves ceased, and a short-lived quiet fell over the wood. “But, my lord—”
“Remain where you are!” The knight looked back at Graeye. “Stay with me.”
If only her life was such that she could, that she could know him in truth and he would accept her no matter the mark she bore. But that was fantasy. And fantasy was folly.
She shook her head again.
He lowered his face and recaptured her mouth beneath his with an urgency that made her long to lean in and not think on the morrow. Instead, she forced herself to remain still.
When he drew back, his expression was puzzled. “I will release you so that you might seek cover,” he said, “provided you stay near until I have finished with my squire.”
Graeye hated the lie, but as she could see no other way past him, she nodded.
After a long silence that bespoke doubt, he released her.
Fearful he might change his mind, she lowered herself into the water and hurriedly swam to the opposite side of the pool. There, she boosted herself out, snatched up her outer garments, and ran for the trees. Amid the tall shadows, she peered back at the pool and saw the knight had not moved from where she had left him.
She would have donned her clothes then, but she sensed he was as aware of her presence as she was of his. Unmindful of the chill that raised the fine hairs across her body, she turned and ran deeper into the wood, her vow to the knight shredded upon the breeze stirring the leaves.
So he had sinned. Again. More, he regretted not having been cautious in the sinning, for he was not one to beget fatherless children. It almost made him wish she had not been real. And, perhaps, she was not.
“Mayhap ’tis an undine I have seen,” he muttered, imagining those mythical water spirits who, it was told, could earn a soul by marrying a mortal
and bearing his child.
She had certainly deceived him. She of the witching mouth and beguiling curves had dismissed the vow she had made and disappeared as easily as she had appeared.
Curses! he silently fumed. If she is real, I will find her. If not—
Ridiculous! Of soft flesh and warm blood she had been. No wraith, but a woman. And he would find her.
Leading his destrier into the clearing where a camp had been erected for the night, Gilbert Balmaine headed for the large glowing fire at its center. There, the messenger he had sent ahead awaited him.
Immediately Squire Duncan appeared at his side and began a recounting of the messenger’s call upon the castle.
But Duncan was not the one Gilbert wanted to hear from. He threw a hand up, bringing a halt to the young man’s ramblings, and thrust the stallion’s reins at him. “See he is properly fed and watered.”
“Aye, my lord,” Duncan said, poorly disguising his frustration at Gilbert’s strange mood.
As the squire led the destrier to where the others were penned for the night, Gilbert drew a hand through his damp hair and began kneading the back of his neck as he unhurriedly advanced on the group of men gathered around the fire. Though the news he awaited was important, it seemed less so since his encounter at the waterfall. And it nearly angered him that he should be so affected.
“My lord,” Sir Lancelyn called as he disengaged himself from the others. “I bring tidings from the king’s man, Sir Royce.”
Gilbert halted and set his feet apart. “And?”
“All is secure. There will be no resistance. On the morrow, all of Medland will be given over to you.”
“What of the old man?”
The knight shrugged. “Naturally, Edward Charwyck would challenge you for Medland, but he is without recourse. Nearly all his men have deserted him, and I am told his vassals are eager to pledge themselves to you.”
This pleased Gilbert. He could think of nothing better than ridding the world of that family and their influence, and the old man was the last of them. With a grunt of discomfort, he shifted his weight off his aching right leg. “Then Charwyck will not give me his oath of fealty?” Not that he expected it—or wished it.
“Highly unlikely, my lord.”
“Good.” Gilbert ground the heel of his hand into his aching thigh.
His vassal stepped nearer. “My lord, methinks it best you expel Charwyck from Medland at the first opportunity. He is certain to prove difficult.”
Gilbert raised his eyebrows. “Then, as expected, he is of the same bent as his son, Philip.”
“This I do not know, but Sir Royce believes he is mad. The man raves with threats against you and your sister.”
Gilbert narrowed his lids. “He has been detained?”
“He was. However, this morn Sir Royce granted him his freedom. Although he does not think the old man is much of a threat, he says he is not to be trusted.”
Gilbert sighed. “He is old and now without an heir. What can he gain by resisting? Even had King Henry not given Medland into my keeping, ‘twould likely return to the crown upon Charwyck’s death.”
Lancelyn’s face lit.
Gilbert raised an eyebrow. “Tell me.”
“’Tis not as thought. The old man does have another heir—or nearly so.”
“Baseborn?”
“Legitimate.”
Gilbert tensed. “I have heard of no other. There was only Philip.”
Lancelyn shook his head. “Unbeknownst to all, Edward Charwyck has a daughter.”
This puzzled Gilbert. The lands of Penforke and Medland were so close that he was certain he would have heard of the existence of another offspring. “Still a child, then,” he concluded.
“Nay.” The knight’s lips twisted wryly. “A woman. And a nun, no less. The old man brought her from the abbey more than a month past. It seems he intended to wed her to one of his vassals so she might give him a male heir.”
“A nun?” Gilbert exclaimed. “She would break her vows? What manner of woman is she and why would the Church allow it?”
Lancelyn’s shoulders rose and fell. “This I do not understand, but ’tis said she bears the mark of the devil upon her face. Mayhap the Church is grateful to be rid of her.”
“Mark of the devil,” Gilbert mused. Though it fit with what he knew of the family, he could not bring himself to believe in the absurdity of such a thing. “I will see her returned to the abbey at once,” he decided. “Providing, of course, the good sisters will accept her back amongst them after such a betrayal.”
“It would seem her father is of the same mind, my lord, for he has asked Sir Royce to arrange an escort for her on the morrow.”
“As it should be,” Gilbert said. “Now, let us talk of the state of the demesne. Is it in as poor a condition as I have heard?”
CHAPTER SIX
When Graeye arose from a nearly sleepless night, she learned Balmaine was to arrive that day rather than several days hence. As the news had surely been brought during her venture to the falls yestereve, she had been none the wiser until the talk of servants reached her.
She was stunned, then dismayed at the realization she had little time in which to reveal the sin she had committed. Her father would have to release her from the obligation of taking the veil, but how would he receive the news?
Badly. Very badly. But she would not think on it now.
It was not until she returned to the hall following matins that another implication of the baron’s untimely arrival struck her—with such force that had there not been a table nearby on which to brace herself, she might have sunk to the floor.
The man to whom she had given her most precious gift was likely among Balmaine’s men.
It was true her father would know of her sin soon enough, but the possibility of others learning of it nearly made her retch. What could she do?
Hope. That was all. Hope the knight would not recognize her, and it was possible he would not, for it had been dark.
She had no time to worry further, for Edward appeared at her side, evidence of a night of heavy drinking all about him. He swayed, his face was florid, and the odor of his breath and that which wafted off his clothes further stirred up her belly.
“Where is your habit?” he demanded. “You dare defy me in this?”
Feeling the gaze of those in the hall who gathered for the morning meal, she looked down at her rumpled clothing. As it had seemed sacrilegious to wear her habit after breaking the vow of chastity, she had chosen to wear the brown bliaut. And now she must reveal the reason, must confess all. “Father, I—”
“This day you are to return to the abbey, and you walk about as if you have time for a hunt!” Edward pushed her toward the stairs. “Dress yourself ere that knave Balmaine arrives and starts slavering over you.”
“Will you not accompany me, Father? I must needs speak with you on a matter of—”
“Go!”
His shout caused those in the hall who had not been openly watching to look their way.
She ground her teeth. Her confession would have to wait.
Abovestairs, in the small room where her mother’s belongings were kept, she pushed back the lid of the old chest and dug down to where she had buried the habit earlier this morn. Having thought never to wear it again, she had bunched it into a ball and secreted it beneath the other clothing.
She shook it out now, and the veil and wimple dropped to her feet. She stared at the latter a long moment, then shifted her gaze to the robe that would cover her neck to toe. Not only was it terribly wrinkled, but it was far from clean. She should not have been so careless in tossing it to the ground on the night past.
With dread, she stripped off the brown bliaut, reached for the robe, and hesitated. Other than appeasing her father, nothing good could come of donning it. Indeed, it might make her impending confession worse. She was on the verge of defying Edward’s order when the veil and wimple once more drew her regard, and it
occurred to her the habit might serve as a disguise if the knight to whom she had given herself was among Balmaine’s men. He would certainly not expect her to be a nun.
Quickly, she donned each piece of the cumbersome habit, all the while mumbling prayers of contrition for daring to clothe herself as a bride of Christ. Nevermore. And yet, once the wimple was in place, she had the sickening feeling she had sealed her fate.
Not so, she told herself. Edward will have to allow me to remain with him. He cannot return me to the abbey.
When she descended to the hall that should have been teeming with those breaking their fast, she found the room deserted. Certain it meant the baron would soon be within the castle’s walls, Graeye hurried across the rush-covered floor and stepped out into the morning air where the king’s men and her father’s former retainers bustled about.
But where was Edward? He had such an obvious presence that, within moments, she knew he was not in the inner bailey, and she guessed Sir Royce had once more imprisoned him in the watchtower now that Balmaine’s arrival was imminent.
She lifted her skirts, hurried down the steps, and broke into a half run to overtake those surging forward. Though she pretended not to notice the curious stares that followed her, she felt every one of them.
Flushed, she crossed the inner drawbridge into the outer bailey just as a procession of armored and mounted men passed beneath the portcullis in the outer wall.
Balmaine had arrived.
Fighting panic, Graeye slipped among the chattering, raucous castle folk who pressed and surged against one another in their eagerness to view the impressive spectacle and greet their new lord. Not until she found adequate cover, the stark white of her habit hidden amid the dull colors of the common folk, did she venture another look.
She grimaced. Though she had managed to make herself less obvious amid the others, her short stature forced her to stand on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of the retinue as they surged forth. Jostled side to side, she took hold of a nearby arm to steady herself. Having gained a small vantage, she scanned the mounted knights in search of one who was dark of hair and beard.
