Lady Of Eve

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by Tamara Leigh


  Fingers once more itching to put her hair in order, she curled them into her palms. “Sufficed, but that is all. It would hardly be fitting for them to ride into battle with hunger gnawing at their bellies.”

  When his eyes returned to hers, desire shone from them. “Do you also worry about my hunger?” he asked low.

  Suppressing the urge to cross her arms over her chest, she said, “Only of that in your belly, Gilbert Balmaine.”

  He considered her, then took her arm and pulled her to the left of the doors where the shadows were deepest. Gently, he set her back against the wall and pressed his forehead to hers. “How long do you think to punish me, Graeye? How long will you deny what is between us?”

  She quivered to be so near him, to know his eyes peered across the dark, brief space just as hers did. “You speak of desire,” she whispered.

  “I make no secret that I want you.”

  “And I make no secret that I do not wish to be merely desired.” To herself she added, I wish to be loved and to know the respect that goes with being loved. And that I will not have as your leman.

  “Desire is not a bad thing,” he said.

  “Desire alone is.”

  He sighed. “You know I feel more for you than that.”

  “What, then?” She hated herself for asking, for she knew he would not answer in any way that would give her hope.

  He groaned. “How long, Graeye?”

  “Forever.”

  He lifted his head and, with no small sum of bitterness, said, “Unless I marry you.”

  She drew a deep breath. “That is the bargain we struck. That is the bargain that stands. Should you need to ease your desire, you will have to look elsewhere.” That last surprised her, but she knew whence it came, for she was not blind to the serving girls who liked to look upon him.

  “How do you know I have not?” he said.

  Graeye startled so hard her belly bumped against him. Had he looked elsewhere?

  He muttered something that might have been a curse. “Forgive me. That was a cruel thing to say.”

  Cruel, but true? Feeling her throat tighten and tears at the backs of her eyes, she swallowed hard.

  He laid a hand upon their babe. “I give you my word, Graeye, I have not been with anyone since you.”

  She was afraid to believe him, but she allowed it. “I am glad,” she breathed.

  He turned out of the shadows and, with his back to her, looked out across the bailey.

  Graeye watched him some moments, then stepped toward the doors. “Gather your men,” she said. “The meal is about to be served.”

  “Why do you act the lady of the castle when I have denied you the title?” he asked.

  She faltered. Would he take this from her—that which was all she had to show she was the mother of his heir?

  She changed course and came alongside him. “You do not wish me to?”

  He looked down at her. “It seems much work for little reward, especially now that you are so heavy with child.”

  She sighed. “’Tis not as if I have anything else with which to occupy myself. Besides, ’tis my destiny.”

  “Destiny?”

  She managed a faint smile. “I may never be your wife, Gilbert Balmaine, but I shall always be your child’s mother.” She turned and crossed to the doors.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Something had gone terribly wrong—and not for the first time, Gilbert reminded himself as anger boiled through him.

  Two of the three men he had set to keep watch over the village were dead, and the third had sustained wounds that might see him crippled for life.

  Knowing well the long suffering that lay ahead of his loyal retainer, that for a fighting man the loss of a limb could prove worse than death, it took all of Gilbert’s control not to rage as he urged his destrier forward and surveyed the devastation through eyes that burned amidst the smoke.

  In silence, his men followed him past smoldering ruins and buildings that yet burned. At the center of the deserted village, whose occupants had likely escaped to the wood and were now making for the protection of the castle, Gilbert dismounted with the others. Mantles drawn over the lower halves of their faces to preserve some purity of air, they spread out in search of the wounded and discovered casualties—fortunately, only two.

  Still, it was difficult to be grateful for such a small loss of human life. These were his people, and it had been his responsibility to keep them safe. He had failed, and it grieved him deeply. And fanned the flames of vengeance as he watched the village complete its descent to the ground.

  Further convinced there was another traitor among his men, he methodically analyzed the events that had led to this atrocity. When word of the discovery of Charwyck’s camp had come yestermorn, he had been anxious to get his hands on the old man. But, ever cautious, he had sent men to verify the information. Once confirmed, he had gathered his army, leaving only a handful of men at each village to continue the watch he had set them months earlier.

  Somehow, though, Charwyck had been warned of their coming. The remains of his camp had revealed an almost leisurely departure, and the old man had left a message—stringing up the man-at-arms who had remained behind to keep watch over the brigands’ camp until Gilbert’s arrival.

  In a blur, they had progressed through the countryside in pursuit of the brigands, passing villages mercifully untouched by Charwyck’s evil hand.

  Gilbert had just begun to feel relief that no others had suffered ill when smoke rising to the north had turned them toward this village.

  Now, clenching his hands, he looked at the men who awaited his next order from atop their mounts. He considered each. Most had been in his household for years, and never had he been given cause to question their loyalty. He was almost ashamed he did so now, but this tragedy was no happenstance.

  As Sir Michael was partially hidden behind another knight, Gilbert almost overlooked him. Though he nearly dismissed the possibility the young man could be a traitor, he recalled Sir Lancelyn’s remark of months earlier. On the morning Gilbert had readied to depart Medland, believing he could leave Graeye behind, his vassal had warned of Sir Michael’s reaction to the news it was Gilbert’s child she carried.

  Gilbert had not bothered to learn the specifics, for he had been too annoyed by the idle talk that had led to the conclusion, accurate though it was. Now, he realized, he should have given Lancelyn’s warning its due, for Sir Michael had the greatest motive for betrayal. Had he not made clear his desire to have Graeye for himself? And then to discover his new lord had himself claimed her and gotten her with child…

  Berating himself, Gilbert swung into the saddle and looked to the young knight. “Sir Michael, come forth!”

  The man’s gaze skittered away, and he turned his horse aside. But he was not quick enough. The others, surely sensing something was amiss, closed ranks around him. Thus, he had but one path of retreat—that which would carry him near his lord.

  “Come forth, man,” Gilbert repeated. “I must speak with you on a matter of great import.”

  The knight looked to the trees beyond the one to whom he had given his oath of fealty.

  Gilbert guided his horse nearer, watched for the moment his enemy would attempt to charge past him. “Will you not enlighten us as to how the man you once served knew of our coming?” he pressed.

  Sir Michael shifted his gaze back to Gilbert, then to the wood again.

  “Did he promise you Lady Graeye in return for that information?”

  The young knight shouted, drove his heels into his destrier, and set a course to the right.

  Gilbert turned his horse in that direction, forcing Sir Michael to veer opposite and take the less desirable course that led through the obstacle-strewn village.

  Determined he would not get that far, Gilbert gave chase and shortly drew alongside the other man. Releasing the reins, he launched himself sideways and slammed into the knight, sending them both crashing to the ground
.

  It seemed they equally took the brunt of the fall, but it was Gilbert who recovered first. Ignoring the pain that shot up his injured leg, he thrust to the side and threw his greater weight atop Sir Michael.

  “She should have been mine!” the young man cried as he fumbled for the dagger on his belt. “You ruined her, took your pleasure with her as if she were a common trollop.”

  “You know naught!” Gilbert seized the weapon the other man sought and pitched it to the side, then pinned Sir Michael’s arms to his sides.

  “I know naught?” the knight growled. “You are mistaken, Baron. I know much. I know Charwyck will see you dead and your misbegotten whelp sliced from his daughter’s belly.”

  The threat against Graeye and their unborn child closed a fierce hand around Gilbert’s heart. “How long have you betrayed me?” he demanded. “Since giving your oath of fealty?”

  “Nay, I meant those words. But when I discovered you had taken Lady Graeye for yourself, I knew you were not worthy of my allegiance.”

  “Your attack on William—”

  “’Twas convincing, was it not?” He snorted. “You are a fool, Balmaine.”

  Gilbert surged back and upright, dragging Sir Michael with him. “Will you die a knight?” he snarled as he thrust the man away from him. “Or a coward?”

  Sir Michael regained his balance, narrowed his gaze on his opponent.

  Gilbert swept his sword from its scabbard. “Draw your weapon, or I shall disembowel you where you stand and save myself the ceremony of chivalry.”

  The knight’s gaze flicked past him to where the others sat astride their mounts, faces hardened against the betrayer. He had to know all was lost, that for a taste of revenge he had forsaken all.

  “’Twill not be necessary,” he said, then unsheathed his sword and angled it to the ground. He stared down its silvered length some moments before raising its tip heavenward, placing the flat of the blade to his lips, and lifting his eyes as if in prayer. Then, before Gilbert understood his intent, he grasped the honed edges with both hands and plunged the sword into his vitals.

  As blood sprang from the mortal wound, he met Gilbert’s stare. “All for a woman,” he choked. “One you want only so she might warm your bed.” He slumped to the ground, convulsed, and drew his last, wheezing breaths.

  Gilbert lowered his sword. Grimacing at the ache in his leg, he crossed to the knight and knelt beside him. As he peered into eyes fixed upon the heavens, he murmured, “You are wrong, my poor misguided enemy, I want more from her than that.”

  Graeye meant to close her eyes for only a moment—to give them rest from the stitching that, with a bit more effort, would see the fine chemise finished before it was time to withdraw to her chamber for the night. Leaning her head back against the chair, she was vaguely aware of her hand losing its grip on the material and hardly noticed when it stole from her fingers and slid off her lap onto the floor.

  The warmth of the fire wooed her toward sleep, something she’d had too little of lately. Giving herself over to its comfort, she curved a hand around her belly and went adrift.

  It was how Gilbert found her an hour later, that great mangy dog of hers stretched alongside the chair that nearly swallowed her small frame. At his approach, the animal raised its head and gave a rumble of warning.

  Gilbert scowled. If not for the possibility an altercation would ensue that would awaken Graeye, he would send the animal from the hall, but it was not worth the chance.

  Breaking eye contact with Groan, he turned his attention to the one he had come to see and halted before her chair.

  A fierce possessiveness stole over him as he considered Graeye—the bloom of color that enhanced the loveliness of her face, the lustrous sweep of golden hair that fell over her shoulder, the burgeoning evidence of her motherhood, and the way her hand rested thereon. In the sweet innocence of sleep, she was even more beautiful.

  Though it had been less than a sennight since he had left her to pursue Charwyck, he felt as if it had been longer.

  And still the old man eluded him, he grudgingly acknowledged. As there had been no more raids nor a single sighting since the fire upon the village, the only thing to conclude was that the brigands had left his demesne. For now.

  Shaking off anger before it could once more take hold of him, he refocused on the woman whom it was no longer easy to believe was of any relation to the man he burned to put a blade through. He leaned down and lifted a tress of her hair, touched it to his lips, let it slide through his fingers.

  As he straightened, Sir Lancelyn, who had three days past joined him in the search for Charwyck, entered the hall. Gilbert waved him away, and immediately he retreated.

  With his back to the fire, Gilbert kneaded his pained leg as he continued to watch Graeye. Her lids flickered from time to time as if she might awaken, but she only sighed softly and caressed her abdomen before resuming her deep breathing.

  It was the child disturbing her, he realized. Though he was tempted to lay a hand upon her to feel its movements again, he suppressed the urge for fear of awakening her.

  He guessed he had been standing there a quarter hour, beneath the glare of Groan, when Graeye narrowly opened her eyes. Frowning, she slid her gaze up him.

  “Gilbert?” She blinked as if to test whether he was made of imagination or reality.

  “’Tis I.” He bent near.

  “It is,” she murmured thickly. “Your eyes are not quite so blue in my dreams.”

  She dreamt of him? The admission stirred him, and the thought struck him that at least in this way he was in her bed. Might she not mind that this night he would, in truth, be in that same bed?

  “It is late,” he said and slid an arm behind her back and one beneath her legs. “I will carry you abovestairs.”

  Groan sprang to life, thrust his great head between his mistress and the man who meant to take her away, and showed his teeth.

  Before Gilbert could bare his own teeth, Graeye said, “’Tis all right, Groan. He will not harm me. Go lie down.”

  Slowly, the dog backed away and lowered to his haunches.

  Gilbert lifted Graeye high against his chest. Though it still took little effort to bear her, he noticed the difference in her weight, for she had not allowed him so near her these past months.

  She yawned, nestled her head against his shoulder, and slid a hand up around his neck.

  As he carried her toward the stairs, he did so with more of a limp than usual, his leg having yet to fully recover from his encounter with Sir Michael.

  He was as surprised as Mellie when the two of them came face-to-face on the landing above.

  “Milord!” she squealed. “I-I was not told of your coming.”

  Gilbert noted her rumpled garments, tousled hair, flushed lips. “That is obvious. What has kept you from tending to your mistress’s needs?”

  Graeye raised her head, looked around. “Mellie.”

  “Aye, milady?” There was a note of desperation in the girl’s voice.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “What?” Mellie said, slow to catch hold of the line her mistress threw her. “Oh! Aye, some.”

  “Good.” Graeye resettled her cheek against Gilbert’s shoulder. “See that you get plenty of rest tonight.”

  Gilbert kept his mouth closed as he edged past Mellie toward Graeye’s chamber. There would be time aplenty to reprimand the girl.

  To his surprise, the room was in readiness, but only tolerably so. The fire in the brazier was weak, barely keeping the chill from the room. Only a single candle had been lit where there ought to be several. The wash basin on a nearby table was missing a hand towel, and he did not doubt the water had grown cold. As for the bedclothes, they were turned back from a bed that had been poorly made.

  Nay, he would not go easy on Mellie. Were he not so bone-weary, he would seek her out as soon as Graeye was settled. He shouldered the door closed against intruders—specifically, that drooling beast�
�and crossed to the bed and seated Graeye upon the cool mattress.

  She rubbed her eyes, dropped her hands in her lap, and drew a deep breath that foretold what she would ask. “Did you find him?”

  “I did not.” He turned and went to stir the brazier’s coal. “He has disappeared again.”

  Graeye stared at his back, aching for the weariness that sat his shoulders like an iron mantle. As befuddled as she had been coming up out of sleep, she had seen the dark circles beneath reddened eyes, the hollow look of a jaw covered in several days’ growth of beard, and when he had carried her from the hall, his gait had told that his leg bothered him more than usual.

  “Do you think he will return?” she asked.

  “He will.”

  She lowered her gaze to her hands. Since word had first come of the discovery of Edward’s camp, she had lived with a mixture of fear, dread, and relief. Following the burning of the village, Gilbert had returned briefly to gather supplies to pursue the brigands—so briefly she had not had the chance to speak with him before he and his men set off again. This past sennight had been difficult.

  She stood, crossed to the washbasin, and dipped her hands in the cool water. Only after splashing it over her face did she discover there was no towel at hand and inwardly sighed. She was not uninformed as to Mellie’s trysts with a particular knight. In fact, viewing it as an avenue by which to gain privacy for herself, she encouraged it by feigning ignorance. Though they never spoke of it, they seemed to have come to an understanding.

  Settling upon her bliaut to wipe away the moisture, she lifted her skirt.

  Gilbert’s hand came around and dangled the covering from the small table across the room.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, stealing a sidelong glance at him as she wiped her hands and face.

  When she set the linen aside, he turned her to face him. “I have missed you, Graeye.”

  She swallowed the ball of nervousness that rose up her throat. “Me?”

 

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