by Tamara Leigh
Mellie harrumphed, then eyed Graeye’s face amid her disarrayed hair. “Have ye a wimple?”
Graeye stiffened. “I do not wear one.”
Mellie peered more closely. “Properly fit, it would cover the mark. And ‘twould save us the worry of yer hair. I am not very good with hair, ye know. Lady Lizanne hardly ever allowed me to practice—”
“I will not be needing a wimple.”
Mellie glowered. “As ye like, milady.”
Graeye turned her back on the maid and began pulling on the thick hose laid out for her.
Aye, she thought, Gilbert is right. I do have claws.
Two leagues. That was all the ground they covered before Gilbert reigned in. “Curse all!” he shouted, surprising his men. Without further word, he wheeled his destrier around.
Curse her angry eyes, her witching mouth, her dainty nose, he silently cited. Curse the curve of her neck, the silk of her golden hair, the small of her back. Curse her naiveté, her deceit…
Graeye Charwyck had woven a powerful spell around him that had not lessened following her rejection of him on the night past. Indeed, it had made him want her more. Thus, in the dark of the first hours of morn, he had found himself in her chamber again.
He had been surprised to find her shoulders bare above the sheet drawn over her, the moonlight spilling in through the window allowing a glimpse of her new curves beneath the covering that molded itself to her lightly perspiring body.
It had been bold of him, but he had been unable to overcome the longing to rest his hand upon her belly. She had stirred at his touch but not awakened. He had held his hand to her and marveled at the fluttering movements of their child until, too soon, dawn arrived and ushered him from her room.
Nay, he could not leave her behind. Could not return to Penforke without her.
Having been alerted to the approach of riders, Lancelyn met Gilbert at the drawbridge.
“Say naught!” Gilbert ground out as he urged his destrier forward.
With a barely suppressed smile, his vassal nodded and followed his liege inside the walls. At the donjon, Gilbert dismounted and took the steps to the hall two at a time.
Minutes later, he exited the donjon and found Lancelyn scraping dirt from beneath his nails where he stood alongside his lord’s destrier.
“Where is she?” Gilbert demanded. “By my troth, if you have allowed her to escape—”
“She is in the chapel, my lord.” Lancelyn grinned and, when his liege roared his name, threw his palms up. “I but obeyed your directive that I say naught, my lord.”
“As you are so well versed in obeying,” Gilbert growled as he descended the steps, “obey this—wipe that smile off your face.” He strode past the man.
Not since the day Gilbert had first cornered Graeye had he been inside the chapel. Swept with vivid memories of that confrontation, he paused before entering.
Lord, I was cruel! he silently admitted and dragged a hand down his face. But he could not wipe away memories that nicked at him, rapier-sharp. If only he could right some of the wrongs of that day…
Inside, she knelt at the altar, the same as that first day he had come within, but this time she was not clothed in the stark white nun’s habit.
Preferring the light to shadows, he did not close the door behind him. Why a chapel should be so morose, he did not understand. Were not the heavens said to be bright and open?
Feeling his limp, he strode down the aisle and, as he neared, heard the softly spoken prayers she recited in Latin.
Why did she not turn around? She must know she was no longer alone. But even when he halted alongside her, her prayers did not cease.
Reluctantly, he lowered to the kneeler. As his leg brushed hers, he looked down upon her bowed head and wondered at the strange words that continued to spill from her.
He did not consider himself a patient man, but he waited on her rather than intrude.
When she finally crossed herself and turned to him, surprise flew across her face. Then her color drained and she swayed toward him.
Gilbert slid an arm around her and drew her against his side. “Graeye—”
“You came back,” she whispered.
“Are you well? Something is wrong?”
“You came back,” she repeated, and he was heartened when color began to return to her cheeks and a smile lifted her lovely mouth.
He pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Aye, I came back. For you.”
“Why?”
“I am taking you to Penforke.”
Her smile slipped. “I do not understand.”
He wanted that smile back. He curved a hand around her chin and lifted it. “You belong there.”
Graeye waited, silently prayed he would speak the words she needed to hear—words that had resounded through her heart and mind when she had first found him kneeling beside her. Fight it though she did, she loved him. Loved this giant who rarely had a kind word for her.
“As your wife?” she ventured.
He drew back. “I want my son born there.”
She felt as if struck. He had not come back for her, but for the child she carried. How foolish she was to hope he would ever feel anything beyond hate for a Charwyck. Would he be able to forget their child had half that blood in his veins?
Remarkably, it was not anger that worked its way toward her surface, but sorrow. “Will you pray with me?” she asked.
He dropped his arm from around her and stood. “I shall await you outside.”
She turned on the kneeler and followed his progress down the aisle. “Gilbert,” she called when he reached the doorway.
He turned, the daylight streaming in behind him rendering his face unreadable. “Aye?”
“I will go with you, but until you bring honor to this child, I will not share your bed.”
“I have not asked you to,” he said gruffly.
She nodded. “So long as you do not.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was whitewashed and clean, rising gracefully into a sky beset by the coming of night. Seated before Gilbert on his white destrier, Graeye was glad he could not see the wonder she knew shone from her face. Penforke was no Medland. Indeed, it made that other castle look more like a hovel than the residence of a baron.
She grimaced. How appalled Gilbert must have been at his first sight of her home. It was a wonder he had not let it burn to the ground those many months past.
“What do you think of your new home?” he asked, his breath in her ear sending tremors of awareness up her sides.
Refusing to look around, she said, “It looks to be satisfactory.”
“That is all?”
His disappointment at her lack of response nearly made her smile. Undoubtedly, he was proud of Penforke. “What else would you have me say?”
After a long moment, he said, “It is far more habitable than Medland. You will be comfortable here.”
“Then I was not comfortable before?”
Suddenly, he laughed, a rumbling sound that rose from the depths of his chest. “You are trifling with me, Graeye Charwyck.”
Abandoning her resolve to deny him her gaze, she twisted around. “Trifling with you?”
“Aye, the same as Lizanne. You are of a gentler temperament than my sister—though I have not seen evidence of that in some time—but you are also very like her.”
It was not only the comparison to that other woman that rankled Graeye, but the sudden change in Gilbert’s disposition. How was she to do battle with a man whose unexpected laughter warmed her and whose eyes reflected something other than contempt?
“I would thank you not to compare me to the coward who put an arrow through my brother’s back,” she said and turned forward again.
Though she should have been pleased, Graeye found no satisfaction in Gilbert’s response—a stiffening that created a space between their bodies where there had been none. She knew she had pushed him too far, but it was too late to do anything abou
t it now.
Determinedly, she fixed her attention on the castle. During the long ride, she had anticipated her arrival at Gilbert’s home with dread, but now she was nearly eager to discover what lay within those walls.
When they entered the bailey, she felt none of the disappointment she had experienced upon returning to Medland. Indeed, it seemed a thriving community dwelled here.
Upon reaching the donjon, Gilbert reined in, dismounted, and lifted her down beside him. Then he turned to the dozens of castle folk who had converged upon the inner bailey to greet him.
Though Graeye felt a frisson of panic as she was drawn forward, she firmly took herself in hand. If this was to be her home and the place where her child grew into adulthood, it would bode ill for her to reveal any vulnerability to these people.
Blessedly, the introductions were brief, then Gilbert passed her into Mellie’s care.
“See Lady Graeye is made comfortable in Lady Lizanne’s chamber,” he instructed and stalked away before Graeye—or the maid—could protest.
Grumbling beneath her breath, Mellie led her new mistress inside.
Though the many windows in the great hall were set high as added protection should an attack upon the fortress reach the inner bailey, there was so much of the setting sun’s light inside that Graeye had to stop and look better at her surroundings.
“Something is amiss, milady?” Mellie asked.
Graeye shook her head. “Nay.”
The chamber in which Mellie deposited her was not large, but it was well furnished and the light was plentiful.
Seeking the warmth of the window embrasure, Graeye slipped into it and drew her knees as near her chest as her belly would allow.
“’Tis also where Lady Lizanne preferred to sit,” Mellie said.
Graeye met the woman’s gaze. “Here?”
“Aye. Never a chair, as is fittin’ fer a lady.”
There was no mistaking the rancor in Mellie’s voice, but Graeye decided to ignore it. “I would like a bath. Would you see to it?”
“There is not much time ere the supper hour, milady. Mayhap afterward.”
Graeye nearly acquiesced, but she would not allow the maid to dictate what she could and could not do. “I would like a bath. Now.”
Mellie might have argued further, but a tap at the door heralded the arrival of the chest containing Graeye’s few belongings. The tub and water for the bath arrived shortly thereafter.
Fully dressed, hair neatly—though not artfully—arranged by Mellie, Graeye stood over the chest that had belonged to her mother. She shifted her gaze from the bridal habit that lay atop the lid to the pieces of linen in her hand.
Not once had she regretted discarding the wimple. It had been the beginning for her.
The door opened without benefit of a knock. Mellie again.
“I will be ready shortly,” Graeye murmured as she fingered the yellowing chin strap.
There was no answer, but a moment later she was struck by a presence at her back that was too deeply felt to belong to the maid. Before she could react, Gilbert reached around and took the wimple from her.
“I will not have you wearing this,” he said.
She turned to him. “I assure you”—she reached to regain possession of the item—“I have no intention of doing so.”
He eyed her, then yielded the linen. “That pleases me.”
Though he did not touch her, she felt as if caressed from head to toe, and as she stared up at him, she once more experienced the attraction she had first felt at the waterfall.
Why, now, did he allow glimpses of the man he had been then? Why could he not continue to be the blackguard against whom she had built her defenses? Did he truly desire her so much that he would set aside his dislike to have her in his bed?
Feeling her resolve weaken, she turned and crossed to the brazier. “’Tis not you I seek to please,” she said as she set the linen atop the charred remains of the fire that had warmed her during her bath. “I seek to please myself.”
She was a changed woman, Gilbert reflected as he watched the wimple smolder, then catch flame. Though part of him was proud of her embittered strength, another part mourned her loss of innocence. He—and Edward Charwyck—had done that to her. Just as the malevolence of Philip Charwcyk had changed Lizanne overnight from a carefree child to an angry woman, Graeye had also transformed.
Suddenly weary, he closed his eyes. It seemed each time he touched something wonderful, it came apart in his hands. If only—
“Truly, you are not bothered by the mark I bear?” she asked as she turned back to him.
“I am not.” He beckoned her forward. “Come hither and I will show you something.”
Though suspicion rose in her eyes, she moved to stand before him. “What is it?”
He turned his back to her. “Lift my tunic.”
“I will not.” She retreated a step.
He peered over his shoulder. “’Tis not seduction I have planned, Graeye.”
She put her head to the side. “Then what?”
Doing his best to hold onto patience, he said, “Do you lift my tunic, you shall see.”
She hesitated a moment longer, then raised the hem high.
“To the right,” he said. Not that she needed to be told, for the mark just below his shoulder blade was palm-sized.
A few moments later, he felt the brush of her fingers as she traced the mark. He had not expected that, and it was all he could do not to react to the sensations roused by her touch—sensations that drew him back to the waterfall and the stars in the night. Knowing that if he did not distance himself, he might once more be the recipient of her indignation, he stepped away from her.
“You see”—he turned to her—“I, too, bear a mark. And that is all it is.”
She was tense, movement amid her skirts drawing his gaze to her right hand that gripped and released and gripped again the fabric as if to wipe the feel of his skin from hers.
“Think you I am a spawn of the devil?” he prompted.
She blinked as if surprised to find herself in his presence—as if she had also come back from that other time and place. Then unexpected mischief leapt into her eyes. “Mayhap not a direct descendant, but…” She smiled.
It was nearly Gilbert’s undoing. He returned her smile and held out his arm. “Supper awaits, my lady.”
She stepped forward and took his arm, and it seemed as if they had both crossed a very shaky bridge and made it to the other side.
Surprisingly, it was not the curiosity of the castle folk that made the meal an ordeal for Graeye, but the stares of Sir William and Sir Michael. Though unreadable, they exuded a menace that disturbed her to the pit of her stomach.
She was no fool. Not anymore. She understood why each man was angered by her presence. Sir William because of his natural dislike for her, and Sir Michael because thrice she had refused him. The young man’s pride must be sorely wounded to see her now seated next to his baron and burgeoning with that man’s child. That Gilbert placed trust in either of them, especially Sir William, made her wonder at his wisdom.
In spite of her unease, she held herself erect throughout the meal, conversed with Gilbert when he addressed her, and managed to consume a healthy serving of the wonderfully prepared viands.
When she finally asked Gilbert about the two Charwyck knights he had taken into his service, his face reflected displeasure. However, he told her that Sir Michael had become a member of his household knights, and Sir William had been allowed to remain castellan of Sulle.
Curious as to the reason the latter was at Penforke, Graeye pressed him further, but Gilbert turned tight-lipped and distant.
Contenting herself with what he had revealed, she retired to her chamber shortly thereafter and found peace in the sleep that quickly claimed her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Curses—loud, angry words that wound up the stairs and slipped beneath Graeye’s door—awoke her hours later.
&
nbsp; Snatching up the robe Mellie had left at the foot of the bed, Graeye ventured out into the corridor. There, the voices were louder, and as she traversed the darkened stairs, she caught the sound of a struggle.
She hurried into the hall and halted at the sight of a dozen knights crowded around something on the floor.
“What has happened?” she asked as she peered between two of them.
Though none answered her, she saw Gilbert wrench Sir Michael from atop Sir William.
“I will fight my own battles,” Gilbert snarled as he pushed the young knight behind him so he might himself confront the one amid the rushes.
Graeye winced at the sight Sir William presented as he struggled to his feet, his bloodied mouth having given up several teeth to what must have been Sir Michael’s fist.
“Knave!” the man spat, spraying Gilbert with blood. “I will see you dead for this!”
“Then come now and let us put a quick end to it.” Gilbert drew his sword and nodded at the one at William’s side.
Though William reached for his hilt, something stayed his hand. Smiling darkly, he shook his head. “There will come another time, Baron Balmaine. You and I will meet again.”
“Now is as good as any.”
William continued to bare his bloody smile. “Soon,” he said, then turned his back on Gilbert and raked his gaze over the knights before him. “Step aside!”
The men looked questioningly at their lord. To Graeye’s amazement, he nodded for them to allow William to pass.
As Gilbert watched the knight exit the hall, he acknowledged they would, indeed, meet again. And soon.
“Gilbert!”
He whipped his head around.
Seemingly unaware of the startled looks she received from the others who had surely been as unaware of her presence as he had been, Graeye slipped between two knights and stepped toward him.
