by Tamara Leigh
His eyes searched her face, and there was satisfaction in knowing he stared at a stranger.
“Consider this,” she continued. “Mayhap my denial is but a means of maneuvering you into accepting responsibility for my child.” She shrugged. “Or perhaps I speak the truth.”
He grunted. “I refuse to play games with you, Graeye—”
“Graeye?” she snatched up the rare opportunity to interrupt him as he had so often done her. “Such familiarity, my lord?”
She was entirely unprepared when he pulled her against him, slipped a hand inside her mantle, and settled it upon her belly.
She started to resist, but his gentle touch stilled her, and her breath caught when his long fingers began an exploration of her pregnancy that incited an awareness of him she had thought long dead. How was it this man whom she had convinced herself to hate could still rouse such a response?
“Tell me again this is not my child,” he said.
Pulling free of her mind’s desperate wanderings, she tilted her head back. “You would believe the words of one so deceitful?”
He brought his face nearer hers. “Only if you confirm what I know to be true.”
Then he meant to acknowledge her child as his? She searched his face, lingering over features that had heretofore been hidden behind a beard. His mouth was wider than she had thought, and there was a slight indentation visible below one cheek. It would be a dimple if he ever smiled. And his smooth skin offered testament to having recently had a blade set to it.
Before she could think better, she lifted a hand to his jaw. The muscles beneath her fingers leapt, reminding her of the inappropriateness of such a gesture. She dropped her hand, slid it beneath her mantle, and gripped his wrist. He did not resist when she lifted it from her belly.
“’Tis my child, Gilbert Balmaine. Mine.”
His eyes narrowed. “And the father?”
Refusing to give him the grudging admission he believed she owed him, she said, “Who scattered the seed by which my babe grows is of little consequence. You would do best to—”
He swung her up into his arms, the surprise of it making her cry out, then he was carrying her from the garden.
Though Graeye was sensible enough not to struggle, she loudly demanded, “Know you the sin you commit by taking me against my will? Arlecy is my sanctuary, and there is naught you can do without risking the Church’s wrath.”
He did not falter.
“Nor King Henry’s!”
She felt him tense, but he did not stop, and as he stepped from the garden onto the path leading to the courtyard, the lengthening of his stride made his limp more pronounced.
“Do not do this,” she protested. “God will visit this trespass upon you tenfold.”
“God!” he rasped. “Let Him do His worst. I have endured all He has hurled at me thus far. I will endure what is to come.”
Breathe, Graeye, she silently implored. If there is any hope of reaching him, you must calm yourself.
She dragged a deep breath through her teeth and pressed a hand to his heart. “Though you may deny Him,” she said, “you are not godless, Gilbert. Now release me ere the damage is done.”
At the edge of the courtyard, he halted and looked down at her. “For months I have longed to feel you again as I did that first night. You are a scourge to my soul, and yet I cannot empty you from it no matter how often I remind myself of your deceit. But I intend to try.”
Shocked by his declaration, she could find no words that would lend themselves to a response.
“You are mine, Graeye,” he asserted, “and the babe you carry is mine. Now will you come willingly or have me risk your God’s wrath yet again?”
That he would lay claim to her, as well as their child, sent shivers of uncertainty through her. But what, exactly, was he saying? That he would not abandon her as she had supposed he would once she delivered his child? Dare she hope that what he offered was of a permanent nature rather than an expedient one?
“If I go with you,” she ventured, “will you wed me so the child may be made legitimate?”
“Nay, Graeye. Though I offer you and the child my protection, ‘twould be impossible for me to wed you.”
A dark pall fell over her. “Then you already have a wife.”
“I do not, and ’tis not likely I ever shall. I will have my heir from you, and that will suffice.”
Hope kicked out from under her, she forgot her earlier caution and threw her hands against his chest. “Release me, infidel! I will not become your leman merely to quench your desire. Find another to beget a child upon and leave me be.”
He enfolded her more tightly against his chest and stepped from the path into the vacant courtyard.
Feeling another flutter from her child, reason returned, but though Graeye stilled, she protested more loudly.
In answer, the abbess appeared in Gilbert’s path. “Baron Balmaine,” she said, “it is clear Lady Graeye has chosen to remain at Arlecy. Be so kind as to set her to her feet.”
Gilbert came back to earth with a thud. Previous to this most recent encounter with Graeye, he would not have believed himself foolish enough to seize her from her sanctuary. It was terribly imprudent, especially since there were other avenues yet to be explored.
He lowered Graeye to the uneven stones and stepped back.
Immediately, she hastened around the abbess, placing the woman before her like a human shield.
“Lady Graeye,” Mother Celia said, “return to your room. I will speak with you later.”
When she had gone from sight, the abbess stepped near Gilbert. “Baron, that you dared such a thing is quite beyond me. What could you have been thinking?” She tossed her hands up as if to ask God to deliver her from such stupidity. “Are you so bereft of words that might persuade her to go with you that you must resort to force?”
He held her steely gaze. “My apologies, Abbess. I fear I acted without thought when she refused me. It was, indeed, foolish.”
She considered him, then sighed heavily and waved for him to follow. Shortly, she led him back into the room in which they had first met. “Now that you have seen her again, what are your intentions?” she asked.
He lifted a hand to run fingers through his beard, but his face was bare, having been scraped clean just this morn. “I do not know. Though I would have her and the child with me, I cannot take her to wife, yet neither can I give her to another.”
“You told her this?”
At his nod, the abbess shook her head. “Then I understand why she refused you. ’Tis unseemly what you propose.” She stepped nearer. “Tell me, do you love her?”
Gilbert was so astonished he nearly choked. “Love her! A Charwyck?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Then what will you do, Baron Balmaine?”
“There are other ways.” He began to pace. After several crossings of the room, he returned to her. “I will petition King Henry for charge of my child once ’tis born. I do not think he will deny me my heir.”
Once more, anger flashed in her eyes. “That could take a very long time.”
He shrugged. “Providing it achieves the same end, that is all that matters.”
“Is it? What of Lady Graeye? You would take her child from her? Without remorse?”
He smiled ruefully. “I do not believe that will be necessary. Indeed, I am fairly certain she will then come to me of her own accord.”
Her nostrils flared. “It will not only be the ruin of her, but of any possibility of there being peace between you.”
He feared that as well. “I hope you are wrong, but I see no other course.”
This time it was Mother Celia who took up pacing, and when she returned to Gilbert, there was determination in her eyes. “There is one other course.”
He narrowed his gaze upon her. “What course is that?”
“I shall repent for breaking this confidence, Baron Balmaine, but I am told that, following matins, Lady Graeye is wont to sli
p outside the walls. She walks along the river that lies beyond.”
It was no feat to make sense of what she implied. The feat was in believing she had done so.
At his continued silence, which he was certain she interpreted as ignorance of what she was telling him, she added, “Alas, ’tis lamentable, but the Church cannot extend its protection outside the walls.”
He delved her face. “Why do you tell me this?”
“Lady Graeye is not the same young woman who left Arlecy six months past. She is much changed, that soft heart of hers hardened and bound up in sorrow, disillusionment, and anger. Thus, methinks she could more easily forgive you the trespass of carrying her away than of stealing her child by decree of the king.”
Gilbert had only to remember the way Graeye had received him to know the abbess was right. When he had asked if the child was his, she had warned him of how deceitful she was, forcing him to examine the underlying meaning of her words and try to understand the anger emanating from her. He had previously glimpsed that emotion and discovered those sharp claws of her, but this day it had reminded him far too much of his own embittered self. And it had disturbed him to find himself mirrored in her.
Thus, he inclined his head and said, “Tell me, how goes she?”
The abbess smiled thinly. “By way of the postern gate.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Angered at being a party to what he perceived as trickery, Gilbert once more considered his plan of petitioning the king.
For four long, wet days, he and his men had concealed themselves in the wood surrounding the abbey, lying in wait for their prey to venture forth. In all that time, Graeye had not left her refuge.
Gilbert was certain of this, for he was not foolish enough to completely trust the abbess. Hence, he had set men to watch the comings and goings through all the gates of the walled sanctuary lest an attempt was made to spirit Graeye away while he watched for her at the postern gate.
It was well past the hour of matins on that fourth day when he and a handful of his men once more returned to camp empty-handed. Barking off orders, he lent his shoulder to hastening their departure the sooner to reach London.
When they were finally ready to ride, Gilbert’s destrier, sensing anger, shied away from his master.
Forcing himself to a calm he did not feel, Gilbert slid a soothing hand over the animal’s quivering neck and wondered where his squire had wandered off to. As he thought further on it, he did not recall the young man accompanying them back from the river.
Once the destrier calmed sufficiently to be mounted, Gilbert grabbed the saddle’s pommel and put a foot in the stirrup.
“My lord, she comes!” Squire Duncan sprinted out of the trees to the center of the disassembled camp. “She comes!”
Gilbert turned from his destrier, caught hold of the young man’s shoulders. “To the river?”
“Aye, my lord, though she does not venture far out of sight of the abbey.”
Though it would be best to approach Graeye without the clamor of horses, there was no time to waste lest she too soon returned to her sanctuary.
Gilbert slapped Duncan on the back. “Good man. Gain your horse. You shall ride with me.” Smiling for the first time in days, he vaulted into the saddle and motioned three others to follow.
With no regard for the noise they made within the deep of the wood, they sped toward the river. However, as they neared the clearing beyond the dense grouping of trees, and through which the river snaked, Gilbert instructed his men to spread out and proceed with caution.
He guided his horse to the edge of the wood and peered around, but there was nothing that would indicate Graeye’s presence. He glanced at the abbey, thinking she might have started back, but saw only an empty stretch of land laden with recent rainfall.
Then he heard the trill of a bird, one he knew well. Farther up and nearer the river sat Duncan, a smile splitting his youthful face as he gestured to a place hidden from his lord’s view.
Gilbert gave the signal and prodded his destrier out from amid the trees.
Though the noise of their approach no longer mattered since Graeye could not possibly reach the abbey before they were upon her, they kept to a trot lest she was too soon alerted to their presence and took a risk that would harm her or the babe.
Nevertheless, Gilbert’s impatience was great, for he could not remember ever wanting anything as badly as he wanted to once more hold Graeye in his arms.
Hardly had Graeye settled on a large, flat rock alongside the river than she heard the sound of approaching horses.
With dread, she pushed upright and turned. Immediately, her gaze lit upon a handful of riders. And Gilbert was in the lead, so tall and broad in the saddle, hair so deeply black, it could be no other.
“Dear Lord,” she breathed.
These past days, she had kept to the safety of the abbey, knowing that if she were caught outside its walls, the Church could do little to aid her. But this morn, restless and thinking to take advantage of the break in the rain, she had decided the risk was past.
But he had lain in wait all this time.
She gauged the distance to the abbey and, with sinking heart, acknowledged it was too far, especially in her condition. Still, she hauled up her skirts and hurried toward it along the river’s bank, determined that this lamb to slaughter would at least make it difficult to lead her to the altar.
As she traversed the undulating ground, keeping her eyes lowered to ensure a secure footing, she heard the riders draw nearer and resented that they continued to advance at an almost leisurely pace that bespoke confidence in her capture.
Sparing a glance over her shoulder, she saw Gilbert’s men were moving outward on either side of her. Soon, they would enclose her.
And so she had reached the altar on her own.
Out of breath and warmed by the spurt of exertion, she turned, gathered her mantle around her, and curved an arm over her belly.
Gilbert arrived too soon, affording her little time in which to compose herself.
Though unnerved by his gaze, she stared back. “You are a more patient man than I would have thought, Gilbert Balmaine.”
“And you are very stubborn.”
“You expected otherwise?”
“Nay, but I would have preferred your willingness to this.”
“This,” she repeated and looked to the abbey. “It was Mother Celia, was it not? She who betrayed me?”
He raised his eyebrows. “What makes you think she would care to aid me?”
Graeye smiled tightly. “She brought you to the abbey.”
He shifted in the saddle. “She did.”
“Then it follows that, in her eagerness to see me gone from Arlecy, she would stop at nothing to achieve that end.”
Gilbert shook his head. “You judge her wrongly, Graeye. If it was not this way, it would have been a far less desirable means by which I laid claim to my child. Truly, she has done you no disservice. You should be grateful for her wisdom.”
At that moment, she could see nothing good coming of the betrayal, nor did she believe she ever would. Well-intentioned or not, it injured her and stole the future, albeit uncertain, that she had begun to plan for herself and her child.
Would she never be free of the domination of others?
Though she longed to scream at the injustice, she looked to Gilbert’s mounted knights and gave a short, harsh laugh. “What warrants my pursuit by so many? Am I truly such a dangerous beast that all this is necessary?”
“I take no chances with that which belongs to me,” Gilbert said.
She narrowed her lids. “I do not belong to you.”
“That could be argued, but what cannot is that the child belongs to me. And I will not be denied its upbringing.”
“What of when he is born?” Pain jabbed her heart. “Will you take him from my breast and cast me aside?”
“He?” Gilbert leaned forward in the saddle. “How know you ’tis a boy you carry
?”
Though she sensed it was a son growing in her, she would not admit it. “I speak in general terms. It may just as well be a girl.”
He looked unconvinced, but he held out a hand. “Come, Graeye. Your rebellion is at an end.”
She took a step back. “You have not yet revealed your intentions toward me.”
“We will speak of it later.” He motioned her forward.
She shook her head. “We will speak of it now.”
His gaze shot heavenward, and then he threw a leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. “Otherwise?” he said as he advanced on her.
She looked more closely upon the men flanking her, and her eyes lit upon the familiar visage of one positioned directly in her path to the abbey. Though he was distant enough that his features were indistinct, she knew it was Sir Michael. Disconcerted, she looked back at Gilbert. “Otherwise, I will resist you no matter the odds,” she bluffed.
A corner of his mouth rose. “Why do I not believe you, Graeye?”
“Because you do not know me. ’Tis simple enough for you to take me from here, but I will not make the journey to Medland easy for you.” As he neared, she took another step back and another.
Gilbert halted, and was grateful when she did as well, for he did not think she realized she was near the edge of the bank. Though the river was not overly deep in this spot, it would be chill and even a short fall could injure her or the babe.
He drew a deep breath. “I have told you, Graeye, I will not marry you.”
“And I have told you I will not be your leman.”
As much as he longed to know her again, it was not in his nature to force himself on any woman. Thus, if it was assurances she sought, she would have them. However, they would be on his own terms, for he saw no reason to hold himself from her should her resolve weaken.
“So be it,” he said. “You will serve as mother of my child, naught else.”
“I do not believe you.”
He ground his teeth. “I give you my word. You will suffer no unwanted attentions.”
When her eyes continued to reflect distrust, he drew his sword and lowered its tip to the marshy ground. Gripping the hilt tightly, he recaptured her gaze. “I give my word, Lady Graeye. I will not force myself upon you. May God take note.”
