by Tamara Leigh
Balmaine removed his foot from the table’s edge, allowed his chair to drop onto its front legs, and sat forward. “Has no one told you ’tis not necessary to feel deeply for the man you wed?” he said low. “There is one purpose to marriage, and I am sure you would be able to fulfill that part of the contract, Lady Graeye.”
She held her tongue, stared at him.
He stared back, then leaned so near his breath caressed her face. “Is there another you would choose?”
How she wished her heart did not so beat so hard, her gaze was not tempted to his mouth, memories of his kisses were not so eager to unfold. Pulling herself back from the edge over which she could easily plummet, she put her chin up. “There is no other.”
Slowly, he sat back. “Then we are in agreement as to your future.”
She smiled tightly. “We are.”
“Good. See that your belongings are packed. You leave at first light on the morrow.”
She was dismissed, as further evidenced when he turned his gaze from hers, motioned his men forward, and once more tilted his chair onto its hind legs.
Graeye rose and stepped away, but then something—some bit of mischief for which Mistress Hermana would have laid a strap to her—made her turn back. “Take care you do not upend yourself, Baron Balmaine,” she said, “for it would hardly be becoming of a great baron such as yourself.”
His eyes glittered, but he did not lower his chair.
She inclined her head, pivoted, and retreated to her chamber.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Among the generations of Charwycks long since departed, Graeye knelt before the grave of the one who had borne that name through marriage only. Clutching a spray of wilting flowers, scant survivors of summer’s last harvest of color, she drew her mantle about her and bowed her head.
“I have missed you, Mother,” she whispered, loath to speak too loudly in this hallowed place. “I…” Tears rushing forth, she could not utter another word for fear the sobs gathering in her chest would escape.
She breathed deep, swallowed, drew the back of a hand across her eyes, and flung away the moisture. When the constriction about her throat and ribs eased, she said, “Forgive me for failing you.”
She remembered her mother’s strength and determination, that she had been a woman who, even faced with one as daunting as Edward Charwyck, had not allowed him to trample her. Always, she had found a way around his anger and gained for herself and her unwanted daughter what they needed. But then she was gone, leaving her child to fend for herself.
Graeye closed her eyes, wished she knew how to handle opposition well enough to gain control over her own future. “I am learning,” she murmured.
She laid the flowers on the grave and stood. Though the lower portion of her bliaut had become sodden from kneeling in the dew-laden grass, she paid it no heed and turned from the secluded grave.
As she neared the freshly turned ground where Philip lay, she slowed. Feeling a chill that made her long to hug her arms about herself, she crossed to her brother’s grave. How long she stood there she did not know, but when she lifted her head, the first rays of the sun had struck the sky.
“You mourn for him?” a voice carried across the cool air.
She swung around.
Cloaked in a dark green mantle that hung past his knees, allowing only a glimpse of black chausses tucked into boots, Balmaine watched her.
She straightened to her full height. “You intrude, sir,” she said and wondered how his mere presence could chase the chill from her limbs.
“My apologies.” He bowed curtly and strode forward. “I would not have encroached, but your escort awaits.”
Graeye turned her back on him and looked again at Philip’s grave. “There is something that disturbs me,” she said, “and I would have you tell me yea or nay.”
Balmaine drew alongside her. “If I can answer it, I shall.”
She looked up. “Did my brother accept the cross ere he died?”
A mess of emotions swept across his face before his expression turned stony. “It was not even a consideration. Philip Charwyck died a coward.”
Her anger quickened, and she turned and walked opposite.
A moment later, he caught her arm and pulled her around. “Trust me in this,” he said. “Even had a cross been thrust upon his shoulders, he would not have accepted it.”
“As you would not?” she tossed back. “I hardly knew Philip, so I cannot judge him, but I have come to know your black heart, Gilbert Balmaine.” She swiped at the hand with which he held her. “Be careful lest you suffer the same fate as the man you slaughtered.”
His face suffused with color. “I will clarify one point, Lady Graeye. ’Twas not I who laid your brother down, though I would have welcomed the opportunity to do so.”
She gave a short laugh. “Think you I do not know it was your wicked sister who dealt the killing blow? That she did it to save you from Philip’s blade? Nay, no matter my brother’s crimes, he was not the coward. It was your sister and you!”
“You are wrong.”
“I saw the wound myself!” Her belly rolled as she was returned to the night she had spent with her brother’s corpse. “Shot through the back like an animal.”
Surprise spasmed across his face. “You saw? But your brother would have been dead near a fortnight when you were brought from the abbey. He would have been buried long before then.”
“Ha! Do you think Edward would shield me from such an atrocity? He forced me—”
Realizing she revealed too much, she momentarily closed her eyes, then said softly, “Beware, Balmaine. For all the evil of which you accuse Edward, you do not know him. Do not feel bad, though, for I did not truly know him until recently. And he is my—” Again, she stopped herself, for she wanted never again to acknowledge him as her father.
Balmaine pulled her chin up. “What did he force you to do?”
She lowered her gaze.
“Tell me!”
She compressed her lips.
“I will know, Graeye!”
“Or what?” She lifted her eyes to his.
He stared at her. “I want to understand.”
“Do you?”
“Aye.”
“Very well. Then understand this. I spent a night with the rotting corpse of my dead brother, on my knees in the chapel, praying him into heaven and asking God to see justice done to those who had murdered him. So tell me again of my deceit, Baron Balmaine—after you repent of yours.”
First anger, then compassion poured through Gilbert. Deep, red anger for Edward Charwyck’s cruelty. Then that same compassion he had been fighting almost from the moment he had first seen Graeye Charwyck. And there was something deeper yet.
He ground his teeth. He did not want to care for this woman. He did not want to feel the pain she had suffered at her father’s hands. He wanted her gone from Medland before she could weave another of her witching spells around him. He wanted her forgotten.
“You know naught of what transpired that day,” he said and released her. “But mayhap it is best you think the worst of me than know the kind of man your brother was.” He turned and started toward the castle. “Go back to your abbey, child,” he tossed over his shoulder, then relinquished her to her fate.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Arlecy Abbey, England
Early Spring, 1156
“How long did you think to keep it from us?” the abbess asked as she lifted her hand from the softly rounded belly.
Graeye Charwyck lowered her eyes.
Settling in to await a response, Mother Celia clasped her hands at her waist and reflected on the young woman’s return to the abbey nearly five months past. Though Graeye had always been a solemn soul, there was something changed about her—a sadness that often came with disillusionment of the heart.
From the day she had returned, she had been thus. When she had been urged to complete her vows of sisterhood, she had refused, offering only a tersely w
ritten note from the new baron of Medland to support her decision. Subsequently, she had entered the order of the convent and kept herself conspicuously absent from all but those activities she was required to attend.
However, there was also a quiet strength and resolve to Graeye’s character that showed itself more clearly with each passing day. No longer did she seem ashamed of the mark upon her face, refusing to don a wimple despite Mistress Hermana’s insistence. Chin high, she carried herself well among the others, paying little attention to their stares. Gone was the reserved young woman who had left the abbey with dreams in her eyes.
The abbess loosed a weary sigh. Though her instincts had proved correct regarding the loss of her charge’s virtue, she had not expected this result. Irritated, she tapped a foot among the rushes as she once more settled her gaze on Graeye’s waist which, beneath the voluminous bliaut, hinted at nothing out of the ordinary.
If not for Sister Sophia’s experienced eye, it might have been several more weeks before any knew of her condition. But why had Graeye kept it to herself this long? After all, it was not unusual for daughters of the nobility to be sent to the abbey to birth misbegotten children to avoid dishonoring their families. Even now there were three others at the convent in various stages of pregnancy. Surely she had not hoped to give birth with none the wiser?
Graeye knew she owed the abbess an explanation and her silence was disrespectful, but though she had feared the revelation of her secret was behind her summons, still she was unprepared. But it was time.
She met the abbess’s gaze. “Forgive me. I was ashamed,” she spoke the words that best expressed the knot of anxiety that had settled within her when she had guessed her state three months past.
“Ashamed?” Mother Celia’s eyes shone with kindness and understanding that made Graeye long to seek the comfort of her arms. “Methinks ’tis likely you have little to be ashamed of, Lady Graeye. This was, after all, a man’s doing.”
Since she had been a novice ready to take her vows, Graeye was not surprised the abbess believed her pregnancy was a result of forced intimacy. Though it would have been easier to let her continue to believe it, she could not lie to her, not even by omission.
She shook her head, once more averted her gaze. “’Twas entirely my own doing. I blame no one but myself.”
Silence.
Venturing a look at the other woman, she was encouraged by the compassion upon Mother Celia’s face.
“I shall leave here if it pleases you,” Graeye offered.
“Where would you go, child?”
As she contemplated this question—and not for the first time since discovering the new life growing inside her—the abbess took her arm and led her to a bench. Graeye lowered to it and watched Mother Celia cross to a sideboard across the room. Shortly, the woman returned with a goblet of watered wine.
“Drink it all,” she said and seated herself beside Graeye. “Then we will talk of your future.”
Relieved that, at last, here was someone with whom she could speak of her fears, Graeye quickly drained the goblet.
A placid smile upon her lips, Mother Celia took the goblet and set it aside. “Now, tell me of the father. Is he wed?”
Graeye was painfully aware she did not know the answer. While at Medland, she had not thought to ask after Balmaine’s marital status—had assumed he was without wife. “I do not believe he is,” she murmured.
“Hmm. Think you he would be willing to wed you if he does not have a wife?”
Graeye nearly laughed. Gilbert Balmaine wanted nothing to do with her, misbegotten child or not.
“He would not.” Her throat tightened. “Methinks he would first give himself to the…” Prudently, she withdrew the word that had nearly passed her lips.
Mother Celia nodded. “And he knows naught of the babe?”
“Naught.”
“Do you fancy yourself in love with him?”
“Nay!” Graeye gasped. “He is the veriest of curs.”
Mother Celia reflected on the note given her the day of Graeye’s return. Though brief, the baron had been explicit regarding Graeye’s entry into the convent. Because she had not wanted to read too much into it, Mother Celia had not understood then what she was fairly certain she understood now. There was no reason for the man to have concerned himself with this young woman’s future at the abbey unless he had knowledge of her undoing—a knowledge, she suspected, that was of a personal nature.
“Worry not.” She patted Graeye’s clenched hands. “You will be provided for. Now seek your rest.”
Her charge thanked her, rose from the bench and, moments later, closed the door behind her.
For some minutes, Mother Celia contemplated the best course of action, then she rose and crossed to her writing desk.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The cold wintry months that followed Graeye’s return to the abbey did little to improve Gilbert’s disposition. Not only were his days filled with the management of his newly expanded estates, but coordination of numerous forays against the brigands who attacked the villages.
Worse, the long nights dragged by on leaden feet. When sleep finally came, too often his dreams were touched by sad, silvery eyes, soft lips that rarely knew a smile, and silken strands that ran through his fingers in an endless stream of gold. But though he tried to banish his visions of Graeye by calling up the faded memory of Lady Atrice, it was futile. It made for a restless sleep and a foul temper when the morn finally presented itself.
Five months after Graeye’s return to Arlecy, a messenger made his way through a frigid, pelting rain to Medland in search of Baron Balmaine, only to be told he had returned to Penforke. Sir Lancelyn, whom Gilbert had named the castellan of Medland, bade the man to pass the night at the castle and, before the sun rose the next morning, sent him on his way with a small escort to speed and ensure his safe journey. Thus, the disgruntled messenger seemed nearly in as foul a mood as Gilbert when he was ushered into the great hall at Penforke.
After an introduction that Gilbert cut short with an impatient wave of his hand, the man was led to a bench against the far side of the room to await an audience. The time lengthened, and when the messenger was finally called to deliver his message, it was found he had fallen asleep.
Having spent a good portion of the morning confined with his steward who had painstakingly cited the losses suffered from raiding brigands, Gilbert had little tolerance for the messenger’s fatigue. Thus, he divested the man of his duty by retrieving the missive himself.
Without regard for the elaborate wax seal that held the parchment closed, Gilbert broke it and strode back to where his steward bent over the books. He thrust the parchment at the man.
Though Gilbert could read well enough, he found it and writing to be tedious work. Given a choice, he left it to his steward, or any other man capable of that rare talent with words.
Leaning back against the edge of the table, he drummed his fingers on its surface and waited for his steward to divulge the contents.
“’Tis from the abbess of Arlecy,” the man said, squinting at the broken seal.
Gilbert stilled.
“She says, ‘Baron Balmaine, there is a discreet matter of great import that I must discuss with you regarding Lady Graeye Charwyck.” He cleared his throat. “She—”
Gilbert snatched the parchment from him. Ignoring the steward’s stammered entreaty, he turned the missive toward the light of a torch and read: She is many months with child.
Gilbert struggled to get his emotions—anger, disbelief, suspicion, and something he refused to name—under control. Expelling his breath, he momentarily closed his eyes. Then he reread the message from the beginning. It ended with: As she was last under your guardianship, I ask that you make haste to call at Arlecy so we might discuss this matter.
Allowing the parchment to curl in upon itself, Gilbert drew a hand down his face and raked his fingers through his thick growth of winter beard. Was it possible Graeye c
arried his child—after but one night together? If she did, why had she waited so long to inform him of her condition? Was this another of her carefully worked deceptions?
In spite of his yearning for her, he knew he must not forget she was a Charwyck, and that it could as easily be another man’s child she carried. If she carried a child at all.
Grudgingly, he acknowledged that even without the arrival of the missive, the unwanted bond between Graeye and himself would have had to be addressed eventually. There was unfinished business between them, and it must be seen through to its completion if he was to free himself of the stranglehold she had on him.
Still, if she did carry his child…
His thoughts turned to the trap he had planned to lay for the brigands two days hence. It was an opportunity he was loath to let pass, for if carried out without mishap, it would likely see Edward Charwyck, the brigands’ leader, delivered into his hands.
Until that moment, he had thought there was nothing he wanted more than to apprehend the man. He was wrong.
He groaned, crumpled the crisp parchment, and called for his squire.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
With growing impatience, Gilbert paced the room he had been asked to wait in a very long half hour past. From time to time, he stopped before the window and scanned the courtyard below and the winter-ravaged garden beyond it that made one think spring had forgotten its place in the order of the seasons. Then he resumed his pacing.
What was keeping the abbess? Though he had given no warning of his arrival, he had been assured she would be along shortly. Considering the chill weather, his men were surely growing restless where they awaited him outside the abbey walls. Had he known the wait that lay ahead, he would have insisted they were brought inside as well.
He dropped down on the hard bench facing the door and began to massage his leg. Since he and his men had left Penforke two days past, nearly every waking hour had been spent in the saddle. Though that by itself did not usually trouble his old injury, coupled with the cold damp weather, it was nearly painful.
