by Tamara Leigh
Perhaps the abbess was in the midst of none, that time of prayer taken shortly after dinner, he allowed, trying to reason himself out of the foul mood into which he was sinking more deeply with each passing minute.
Shortly, a light rap sounded on the door.
“Come,” he called and stood as the door was pushed inward.
Tall and regal as any queen, the abbess entered and closed the door behind her. “Baron Balmaine,” she said when she came to stand before him, “I am Mother Celia, Abbess of Arlecy.”
Having expected Graeye to accompany her, he was disquieted by her absence. Was she in the corridor awaiting a summons? Or did she wait in one of those buildings where none but the clergy ventured?
He bowed, then removed the travel-weary parchment from his belt. “You wished to discuss this matter of Lady Graeye.”
Smiling faintly, she took the missive and lowered to the bench. “I do. First, however, I must apologize for having begun to question your sense of responsibility, Baron. You see, I expected you sooner, and when you did not come…” She shrugged and gracefully raised her palms.
Irritated by the veiled reprimand, Gilbert crossed to the window and stared down at the small procession of nuns crossing the courtyard. They kept to a line so straight and unwavering he could have been watching a military parade.
“As I was not at Medland when your message arrived,” he said, “it was delayed until it could be delivered to me at Penforke.”
“Ah. Well, now that you are here, we have much to discuss. Come, sit beside me.” She indicated the length of vacant bench.
He turned to face her, but remained at the window. “Where is Lady Graeye?”
She nodded at the window. “If she is not there yet, she soon shall be. After dinner, she feeds the birds.”
Gilbert looked over his shoulder into the courtyard. For the first time, he noticed the mass of birds that walked the flagged stones and flitted ledge to ledge as they awaited their meal. Graeye was nowhere to be seen. He returned his regard to the abbess and shook his head.
“Soon,” she said in a tone surely meant to reassure him but only further irritated him.
Did she think him anxious to catch sight of Graeye? It was mere curiosity that bade him search her out.
“I would have expected her to accompany you,” he said, forcing indifference into his voice.
“Oh, nay.” The abbess vigorously shook her head as if to impress upon him the error of his assumption. “I assure you, Lady Graeye knows naught of your coming, Baron.”
He frowned. “Then?”
She pinned him with her serene gaze. “Upon discovering Lady Graeye’s condition, I took it upon myself to contact you. You are responsible, are you not?”
Gilbert leaned a shoulder against the wall alongside the window. “She has said I fathered the child she carries?”
What seemed a self-satisfied smile flitted across the woman’s face. “Nay, but I have guessed correctly, have I not?”
If she was to be believed, and Gilbert was reluctant to extend his doubt of God to this woman, then his conclusions about Graeye’s character lost much of their credibility. It unbalanced him to hear she had not claimed him as the father and that she was unaware he had been summoned.
Still, he shrugged nonchalantly. “There is a possibility the child is mine, but only that.”
The abbess inclined her head. “Then ’tis certainly yours.”
Gilbert narrowed his gaze. “I do not know that.” What trickery was she attempting to work upon him?
“I have long known Lady Graeye—though, I admit, not well. I was but a sister of the order when she first came to us…” The abbess paused. “…eleven years ago.” She offered him a smile that lit her features and made her considerable number of years dwindle.
Settling in for the duration, he folded his arms over his chest and nodded for her to continue.
“Graeye has always kept to herself—a very sad child when she came to us. Most of the children sent to Arlecy do visit their homes, though it may be infrequently. But it was not so for Graeye. Not until her father sent for her last autumn did she leave Arlecy since arriving as a child. Indeed, never did she receive visitors. It is not an easy life she has had.”
For an unguarded moment, Gilbert began to soften. However, he hardened himself by dragging forth the memory of Graeye’s deception.
“Although I have never met the man,” Mother Celia continued, “I have heard much of Baron Edward Char—”
“No longer baron,” Gilbert corrected.
The woman nodded. “But this I know. Though the blood that runs through Lady Graeye is of her father, she is not of his ilk.”
Determined to maintain his beliefs about Graeye, he stared at the woman and wondered what enlightenment she might use next to persuade him of whatever she aspired to.
“I had great hopes for her in your world, Baron,” she said, “for I have always known it was not in her heart to join the sisterhood—”
“Then why did she consent to take the veil?” Gilbert interrupted and immediately regretted having once more stepped upon the woman’s words.
She let his rudeness pass without reproach. “There was no other option for her, and it was her father’s wish that she become a nun.”
“Why?”
“The mark she bears.” Mother Celia touched a finger alongside her own eye. “Though I know it is but a mark of birth, there are others who say it is of the devil. That was also her father’s belief, and methinks he sought to appease God by offering Graeye to Him.”
Turning this over in his mind, Gilbert looked out the window into the courtyard where a single figure had appeared. Though she was covered head to foot in a dark mantle and her back was turned to him, he knew it was Graeye. Vaguely aware he held his breath, he watched as she attempted to coax a bird down from its perch atop a roof. Unable to resist the offering of a crust of bread, it was not long in descending.
Gilbert felt not only a softening about his heart, but a crumbling of the walls that guarded it. Again, his mind threw up her deceit, but it was useless. It seemed she had not set out to trap him into marriage, but still she had used him to avoid taking vows. After a struggle so fierce he felt as if he had taken on wounds as formidable as the one that scarred his leg, he conceded to a standoff between heart and mind. But it was a confusion he could not afford—a tumultuous mix of antagonism and yearning that he could see no way to mesh.
“How many months is she with child?” he asked, frustrated by his inability to glimpse the shape of Graeye’s body beneath the layers of winter clothing.
“It approaches five months since she returned here,” the abbess said as she rose. “So she is at least that far along. No less, I assure you.”
Gilbert worked his jaw as he followed Graeye’s progress about the courtyard. He willed her to turn so he could gain a better view of her and see again the delicate beauty of her face. He was disappointed when she unknowingly fulfilled his desire, for her hair and features were hidden beneath her hood.
“She does not belong in a cloister of nuns,” the abbess said where she came to stand alongside him. “Lady Graeye is of your world.”
“You are right, she does not belong here.”
“Then you will wed her and give her child your name?”
Without hesitation, Gilbert said, “It would be impossible for me to marry her.”
Mother Celia frowned. “I do not see the difficulty. I have inquired and been told you are without a wife. Mayhap you are betrothed?”
“Nay,” he ground out. “Were I of a mind to wed a Charwyck, there would be naught to prevent me from doing so, but I would never entertain such. Thus, ’tis not the solution you seek to this dilemma.”
The woman studied him. “I know naught of your dispute with the Charwycks, Baron Balmaine, but I would ask that you not visit the sins of Lady Graeye’s family upon her. She cannot be held responsible for wrongs done you by their hands.”
“What of the wrongs done me by her hand?” he retorted.
“I know not of what you speak, nor can I guess what Lady Graeye might have done to earn your ire, but if you are set on condemning her, I would ask that you first consider your own conduct.”
“Mine?”
She nodded curtly. “The lady was chaste when she left the abbey and spoiled when returned to us. That you would set yourself to seducing an innocent young noblewoman is most dishonorable—and then restore her to the Church with your child growing in her belly!”
Gilbert nearly choked. “She has accused me of seducing her?” He clenched his hands so tight he felt the bite of his nails in his toughened palms. “Truly, it surprises me she did not call it ravishment.”
Anger flashed in the woman’s eyes, but she looked away, and when she looked back, her gaze was clear. “As already told, Lady Graeye accuses you of naught, Baron Balmaine. Though I had initially thought she must have been forced, she assured me she was not.”
But she had made it clear she had been seduced, Gilbert concluded. And it was obvious the abbess did not believe Graeye capable of deception. Bitter laughter and denial nearly made it to his lips, but he forced it down. Regardless of what lies she told, he would not reveal the true circumstances surrounding her pregnancy—though she certainly warranted no such consideration.
“I would ask that you reconsider and marry Lady Graeye,” Mother Celia broke through his roiling.
“She is a Charwyck,” Gilbert said again, “and every bit as deceitful as her brother and father. Look elsewhere, for I will not bind myself to that one.”
This time, the abbess made no attempt to clear the anger from her eyes. “Then your taking of her virtue was merely a means by which to gain revenge against the Charwycks?”
Gilbert scowled. “In no way did revenge enter into it.”
She sighed, stepped aside, and began pacing.
Leaving her to her plotting, Gilbert returned his attention to the courtyard, certain that in voicing his convictions he had strengthened his resolve to stay free of the treacherous bonds the abbess would impose upon him.
Disappointment swept him when he saw the place was empty save for a few remaining birds who foraged for scraps overlooked by the others. Where had Graeye gone?
“Then if you will not marry her…” the abbess said.
Gilbert did not move from the window. However, when several minutes passed and Graeye did not reappear, he turned back into the room.
“’Tis simple,” Mother Celia said with a tight smile. “You must find another to take her to wife.”
All of Gilbert balking at the suggestion, he crossed the room to stand before her. “It is not as simple as you say. Ere Lady Graeye was returned to this place, I did find a man eager to wed her, but she refused him.” He did not tell her that, had Graeye accepted Sir Michael, he probably would not have consented to the match. Even then, when he had most deeply felt her deception, the thought of another possessing her had nearly infuriated him.
The abbess placed a finger to her mouth and pursed her lips against it. “It would seem, then, her heart lies elsewhere.”
Suspicious, Gilbert stared at her.
Something other than anger glittering in her eyes, she patted his arm. “’Tis a great burden you bear, Baron Balmaine, but if you set yourself to discovering to whom Lady Graeye has given her heart, there you will find the husband she would have, and all your problems will be solved.” She shrugged. “And if you cannot find it in you to do that, then look for another more acceptable to her. However, I warn you to be careful lest you choose a man unworthy of raising your child.”
Knowing she dangled bait, Gilbert resentfully took the hook, though he did not for one moment believe the words he next spoke. “You imply Lady Graeye thinks herself in love with me.”
She laughed. “Nay, Baron, I would not suggest such a thing, especially now that I have met you and seen for myself the embittered man you are. It must be another to whom she has given her heart.”
Though vexed by her effrontery, Gilbert did not take the bait second time. She was correct, after all. He was not an amiable man. His every day was shadowed by constant reminders of the wrongs done him and his family by Philip Charwyck. Still, he resented the abbess’s meddling and wanted nothing more to do with it.
He turned, snatched up his mantle, and secured it with a simple brooch. “I will be taking Lady Graeye from here. See she is ready to depart within the hour.” He threw the door wide.
“Her sanctuary is here at Arlecy, Baron Balmaine.”
He turned in the doorway and leveled his gaze on the woman.
“If Lady Graeye does not wish to go with you,” she said, “naught can be done to remove her from this place. Hence, you may have to set yourself the task of convincing her otherwise.”
In his eagerness to depart, he had not considered the possibility Graeye would choose to remain at the abbey. If she did, he could not simply subdue her and carry her away. The protection afforded by the Church denied him that course of action. And though he would willingly risk its wrath, he would not risk the king’s.
“Come,” the abbess said. “I will take you to her.”
Gilbert stepped into the corridor and allowed the woman to precede him from the guest house. In silence, she led him across the courtyard to the gardens where she clearly expected to find Graeye, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“Wait here.” Mother Celia waved at an arbor enclosed on three sides. “I will send for her.”
Gilbert stepped into the shelter but declined a seat on the bench. How would Graeye receive him? he wondered, feeling his pulse quicken at the thought she would soon stand before him.
It was not long before the abbess reappeared. “She is at prayer, but I have asked Sister Sophia to send her along.”
“She will know the reason for her summons?”
“Nay, for I do not know that she would come if she knew.”
Gilbert inclined his head and turned toward the walkway to gauge Graeye’s reaction when she discovered him in this place.
When a handful of minutes passed and she had yet to appear, he muttered, “She is not very punctual.”
The abbess looked up at him. “As told, this is not her world. Too, the babe has been troubling her some—”
“Something is wrong?” he pounced.
She nearly smiled. “I do not think so. ’Tis likely a malady of pregnancy that many women experience.”
Regardless, Gilbert was keenly troubled.
Carefully picking her way over the frozen ground to ensure her footing, Graeye faltered upon hearing the abbess’s voice carry across the long, narrow strip of garden. She was with someone.
Quickening her pace, she admonished herself for forgetting her gloves in the chapel. Though her hands had grown cold in the short time she had been outside, she held them out to her sides lest she slipped.
As she rounded the corner, a fluttering in her belly reminded her of the necessity to slow her advance. Smiling, she pressed a hand to the subsiding movement and continued forward with greater care.
Two stood within the shelter of the arbor—one well known, the other striking a chord of familiarity. Curious as to the identity of the dark-haired visitor, she stepped nearer and considered the clean-shaven face, then the eyes that shifted to her. Startling blue.
She stumbled, but kept her feet beneath her. When she looked again, Balmaine had closed much of the distance between them.
It was no wonder she had not recognized him immediately, for he appeared much younger and less ominous lacking a beard, even with shadows beneath his eyes. She had thought him attractive before, but now she was struck nearly breathless by the face revealed to her.
Though fewer than two of his long-legged strides separated them, he halted and neither attempted to bridge the remaining gap.
“I believe you know one another,” Mother Celia said. She came alongside Graeye, leaned near, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. �
��Think of the child,” she whispered and turned away.
She had told him. Graeye watched the abbess depart, staring after her even when the older woman went from sight.
It was the babe’s movement that pulled her from her stupor. Keeping her gaze averted from the eyes she felt through every pore of her being, she slipped a hand beneath the mantle and smoothed it over the swell.
“The child you carry,” Balmaine’s deep voice strummed the strings of her emotions, “is it mine?”
How she longed to flee, to be far from this disbelieving man who posed such a hurtful question. Instead, she lifted her chin and met his stare with one of her own, putting into it all of the loathing she could summon before pivoting and heading down the path the abbess had taken.
When she heard Balmaine’s footsteps, she had to struggle to quell the impulse to run. It was too dangerous, and she would do nothing to harm her child.
Accepting that she could not escape, she swung back around just as Balmaine reached to her.
As she peered up at him from beneath her hood, he lowered his arm to his side. “Is the child mine?” he asked again.
“Nay. Another fathered it. Thus, you need not concern yourself.”
He appeared momentarily stunned, then said, “You must apply yourself more diligently if you wish to become an accomplished liar, Graeye Charwyck.” Without warning, he swept back the hood to reveal her face and the tawny, gold-streaked hair she had not bothered to tame into a braid this morn.
Graeye reached to retrieve the hood, but before she could take hold of the coarse material, he enveloped her cold fingers in the warmth of his.
Quivering with anger, she glared up at him and said, “Has it been so long since last we met that you should forget how deceitful I am? Had I acknowledged you as the father of my child, I feel certain you would have denied it.” She raised her eyebrows. “Be warned, Baron, such a bent toward believing the opposite of what one is told could place you at a disadvantage against those who seek to deceive you.”
