by Tamara Leigh
“Graeye!”
She threw a hand up. “Let me speak. I know you have said ’tis not likely you will wed, but if you should, and you know the king may order it, or if you decide to take another into your bed for pleasure—”
“I will not.”
Something hopeful flickered across her face, and she said softly, “Even if I forever deny you?”
Would she? “Will you, Graeye?”
“’Tis what I aspire to, but…”
That last word set him on edge, and he knew that if she looked near enough upon him, she would see something hopeful on his own face. “What?” he asked, inwardly wincing at how desperate he sounded.
She smiled sadly. “You must know I long for your arms around me, Gilbert, your lips upon mine. For that, I fear I will not be able to forever say ‘nay,’ that one day I will say ‘aye.’”
He nearly quipped that would not be a bad thing, but her eyes filled with tears, and she added, “And the regret I feel now will be tenfold worse. Not only will I have broken the vow I made the Lord to abstain from such sin, but if I swell again with child, all will know I am more of a harlot than already they think me.”
How he hated that word! Even as he told himself to keep his distance, reminding himself he needed more time to reconcile that her name and the blood running through her veins did not a Charwyck make—he stepped forward. Dropping to his knees, he gathered her hands between his. “You are not a harlot, and I do not wish to ever again hear you name yourself one.”
She gave a sharp laugh. “Tell me, who sought you out that night at the waterfall? Graeye Charwyck, a daughter of Eve who did not care whom she lay with so long as her chastity was undone, who behaved a harlot so she would not be made to take holy vows.”
“’Tis in the past,” he said.
“Aye, and that is where I wish it to remain, for I do not think I can bear to go through this again.”
Her words were so pained that, more than ever, he realized how hard these months had been for her despite her determination to make the best of her circumstances.
“Thus,” she continued, “we must needs agree upon what happens when you are done with me.”
He nearly argued it again, but forced himself to wait on whatever she was bent on saying.
“When you take another woman into your bed, whether by marriage or merely out of need, it will be time for me to leave.”
A growl rumbled up out of him, and she frantically shook her head. “Pray, do not think that is a threat. I vow ’tis not. It is simply what must be. And when—should—that time come, I believe you will see it is for the best.”
It would not come. But he once more held his tongue, for he knew there was more that he would like no better. He nodded for her to continue.
Her hands beneath his slid to the crest of her belly that evidenced she was past her seventh month. “This is my child as much as yours, but I know that if it is a boy, and regardless of whether or not he is your heir, he will thrive best with you here at Penforke. Thus, I ask for enough time to wean him ere I return to the abbey so he might ever have that part of me…” A small sob escaped her, but she swallowed and continued. “…and I might ever have memories of him at my breast to sustain me.”
Then she thought it possible he might so soon turn from her to another woman…
“However, if it is a girl”—she looked to their hands upon her belly—“when I leave, I ask that you allow me to take her to be raised at the convent where you may visit her if you so wish.”
There was such tightness in Gilbert’s chest that he thought it must be how one of great age felt when the heart gave up its life’s work. That thought nearly made him scowl, for he was reacting like a lovesick fool. He was not going to lose Graeye, most certainly not over another woman.
“Do you agree?” she asked.
He stared at her, the self-serving side of him demanding that he refuse her, the other side, that which he had not known he possessed before Graeye, loath to do so. To his surprise, it was the latter to which he was inclined to defer. What she asked of him was not unreasonable. Indeed, it was wise. God willing, never would he have to act upon her wisdom.
“Gilbert?” she prodded.
“If I do not wed or take another to bed, you will not try to leave me?” He hated that his voice was so low and gruff.
The corners of her mouth twitched as if toward a smile. “I shall stay and we will raise our child together—providing you do not tempt me beyond what I can withstand.”
That he could lose her over, for he had spoken true in that there was no woman he wanted more than her. But it was not only the thought of losing Graeye to his desire that once more tested the integrity of his heart. It was what she had said she feared it would to her—that she could not bear to go through this again. It was hard enough to witness her tears, but to see her torn apart…
He looked from her eyes that were yet bright with moisture to her mouth and wondered if she could withstand mere kisses, for he could not imagine never touching her again. But if he was to be denied even that, surely she would allow him one last kiss.
He lifted his hands from atop hers, cradled her face between them, then leaned over her belly and lightly touched his mouth to hers.
She caught her breath, and he thought she would pull back, but she did not.
He deepened the kiss, and still she allowed it. “Graeye,” he breathed.
“Gilbert,” she answered, and he reveled in the sweet huskiness of the voice he had been denied that night at the waterfall—only to pull back from that place he could not go with her again.
He lifted his head, and when she opened her eyes, said, “Do not give in to me, Graeye.”
She frowned. “What?”
He drew his hands from her face and stood. “I shall do my best not to tempt either of us past what we can withstand, but…” He sighed. “Know that I do not wish you to yield.”
More tears and a tremulous smile. “You agree?”
“I do.”
A tear slid down her cheek. “Then peace we shall have.”
He supposed they could call it that, though it was so obviously an understatement it seemed a lie.
He reached to her, and she slid her fingers over his.
“I have agreed to your terms,” he said as he drew her to her feet, “now I would have you agree to mine.”
She startled.
“Never again refer to yourself as a harlot—of the past, the present, or the future. Agreed?”
She blinked, inclined her head. “Agreed. And?”
“That is all.”
This is not supposed to be the outcome, Graeye thought as she stared up at him. It should be, but it is not supposed to be. She had asked for all, certain he would not grant everything but hoping for something more than what she had. Instead, the man who possessed her heart had beseeched her not to give in to his desire, as if the possibility of losing her mere presence in his life was more distressing than never having her in his bed. Surely that meant he felt more for her than desire, but what?
She searched his eyes, and in that moment thought she saw there what was also in her heart. Was it possible he loved her but could not bring himself to admit it—just as she, herself, dared not? Or was it something else? Fondness? So deep a love for his child that he would not have it denied its mother? Likely that last, and yet…
He does care for me, she told herself. And that is enough. It must be enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
To spend time with Graeye had not been his intent when he stepped from his solar, for he had other tasks that needed tending. However, when she halted her advance down the passageway and smiled wanly as if expecting him to pass her by as he had done often since their agreement a sennight past, he heard himself say, “Would you like to go for a ride, my lady?”
Her lips parted on a sharp breath, and the wan of her smile fled. “Truly?”
She sounded so hopeful that he was stung by guil
t. Though she tended the garden and was allowed the reach of the inner and outer baileys, she had not been outside the castle’s walls since her arrival. It seemed almost cruel, for if there was one thing he ought to know well about this woman, it was that she was drawn to the out of doors, as told by that night at the waterfall when she had arisen from the pool looking every bit an undine. And he must not forget her walks outside the abbey walls that had delivered her into his hands.
Yanking his thoughts back to the present, he said, “Aye, a ride.”
She rushed forward and threw her arms around him with such force he was knocked back a step. Gripping her thickened waist to steady them both, he said on a note of laughter that surprised him, “You forget our child, love.”
That last word surprised him even more—as it surely did her, causing her eyes to further widen a moment before she dropped her chin.
He was not one to hold his breath, but he found himself doing so as he both awaited her response and searched for an explanation that would satisfy her—and himself.
“Forget our child?” she said in a voice pitched higher than normal. “That would be like forgetting to breathe.”
Which he had momentarily done. Relieved she chose not to comment on his slip of the tongue and telling himself it was but a reflection of what he felt for their unborn child, he gently set her back from him. “Fetch your mantle, and I will ask Cook to pack some viands so we might enjoy our midday meal beneath the sky.”
Her chin came up. “That sounds lovely,” she said and hurried down the passageway.
As he stared after her, he wondered what had possessed him to suggest a ride. She was, after all, past her seventh month of pregnancy. The answer was not as elusive as hoped. He had wanted to please her.
They would not go far, he decided. Just to the stream. And they would take an escort since he still did not trust his lands to be free of Charwyck’s brigands.
A half hour later, with the sun edging toward the nooning hour, Gilbert signaled for his men to ease back and guided his destrier into the trees.
“I love the smell of the wood,” Graeye said where she sat before him on the saddle.
As did he, though it did not compare to the scent of the woman he held close as was not otherwise permitted. He smiled, shifted his arm around her waist higher, and wondered why he had not thought of this before. A ride was the perfect means to be so near her without falling under the threat of temptation.
Almost as if to prove him wrong, she slid a hand up the arm he curved around her belly, her light touch making him tenfold more aware of how near they were.
“’Tis good you are such a large man, Gilbert Balmaine.” She curled her hand around his elbow. “‘Twould not be easy to fit your arm around my waist were you not.”
He forced a chuckle. “’Tis better you are such a small woman.”
“Hmm,” she murmured, then stiffened.
“Graeye?”
“I…”
Continuing to guide his destrier toward the sparkling stream in the distance, he waited on her with growing unease.
Finally, she said, “The healer, Lucy, says my labor will be difficult—that I am too narrow.”
Gilbert struggled to keep his body fluid so his own reaction would not add to her worry. The effects of birthing on one so small had not occurred to him. Foolish! Had not his mother, a woman not much larger than Graeye, died after birthing Lizanne?
Fighting the longing to hug Graeye tighter, continuing to move with the horse, he momentarily closed his eyes. It would be beyond difficult to lose her to the convent, but if the bright light she brought into his life was forever snuffed…
The mere thought of her gone from his world subjected him to such vicious claws that he could not imagine how it would feel should thought became reality. And he knew then that what he felt for her went well beyond desire, beyond what he had years ago felt for the woman to whom he had been betrothed. And he had fancied himself in love with Atrice—
Graeye peered over her shoulder. “Did you hear me?”
Feigning calm he did not feel, he inclined his head. “Do not worry. Lucy is a skilled healer and has delivered many babes. You will be fine.”
She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “The baby—”
“Will come into this world hale and bawling for its mother’s breast.”
She looked unconvinced. “Gilbert, should anything happen to me—”
He lowered his head and covered her mouth with his. It was a brief kiss, but it achieved its objective. Graeye spoke no more of the birthing.
Heart beating wildly, Graeye turned forward again and determinedly set aside Lucy’s warning that so troubled—and frightened—her.
Gilbert had chosen a lovely spot, she thought as they neared the stream. Though the water would be deep enough only to dip one’s feet in, it ran clean and crisp beneath a sun that had settled at the top of the sky.
Dismounting first, Gilbert held up his arms, and she went into them.
“Still like a feather,” he said as he set her to her feet.
She made a face. “You jest, my lord.”
“Mayhap a little.” He smiled crookedly, then took her hand and led her to a grassy mound beneath a tree whose massive girth could not have been encircled by the spread arms of three large men. There, he laid out his mantle, eased her down to sitting, and lowered beside her. “I am ravenous.” He eyed the sack she held.
She settled her back to the tree, picked loose the string that held the sack closed, and peeled the cloth away to reveal a selection of bread, cheese, and fruit. “Perhaps your men should join us.” She looked around at where they had taken up positions around the perimeter. “There is much here.”
Gilbert paused in carrying a square of cheese to his mouth. “I had hoped you preferred my company to theirs.”
She had not intended to imply otherwise. Peering up at him, she glimpsed vulnerability in his face before he masked it with a lift of his eyebrows. “That I do,” she allowed. “It just seems a waste—”
“I will eat whatever you cannot. Now feed our son.”
“Or daughter,” she said, though she remained certain it was a boy.
Gilbert shrugged, popped the cheese in his mouth, and followed it with a swallow of wine from the skin he had removed from his belt.
A comfortable silence fell over them until Graeye asked, “You will be disappointed if ’tis not a son?”
He sliced off a wedge of apple and held it out to her. When she took it, he said, “Though I would like a son, if you gift me with a daughter, I will love her the same.”
Gift. Love. His belief that he could feel so deeply for their child warmed Graeye. And she warmed further remembering he had called her “love” not even an hour ago. She knew she should not think too much of it, but that one word had lodged within her.
She leaned her head back against the tree, closed her eyes, and heard his voice speak it again. It was possible that one day—
The more you think it, Graeye, the more it will hurt if you think wrong.
But it was possible, as so many things with God were. After all, was there not peace between them that had seemed unattainable seven months past? Had he not agreed to what he previously would not have consented to?
“Are you well, Graeye?” Concern edged his voice.
She lifted her lids, and her heart fluttered nearly as vigorously as their babe when she saw how near Gilbert leaned. “I am fine. May I ask you something?”
“Ask.”
“Have you ever loved a woman?”
His lids narrowed, but before she could too deeply regret asking it, he sighed and sat back. Settling his shoulder against hers, he said, “’Tis a fanciful notion to which I did yield many years ago.”
Graeye felt a stab of jealousy. “Who was she?”
He looked sidelong at her. “My betrothed, Lady Atrice—a beautiful woman inside and out.”
“What happened?”
“Sho
rtly before we were to wed, she fell from her horse. She lingered a few days before her suffering came to an end.”
Graeye’s jealousy slipped away as quickly as it had stolen upon her. It was replaced by sorrow, not only for the woman who had died and Gilbert for his loss, but for herself. Here was yet another obstacle between them. To do battle with the hate he harbored against her family was a weighty challenge, to compete with the memory of one he had loved and lost seemed nearly insurmountable.
“And now I would ask something of you,” he said.
If ever she had loved? She averted her gaze. Dear Lord, if only I had not asked him! I cannot admit I have loved and that I still do, and yet I cannot lie. What do I say? How do I—?
“Are you or are you not going to eat that piece of apple?” Gilbert asked lightly.
Relief flying through her, she blinked at him, then considered the yellowing slice he had cut for her. “I forgot,” she breathed and bit into its sweetness.
As she chewed, he hooked a tress that had escaped her braid and pulled it through his fingers. “Surely, only God’s angels have hair as lovely as yours.”
Disturbed by the gesture, more by his words, she quipped, “Surely not. As well you know, I am no angel.” Instantly, she regretted not thinking before speaking, for this time with him was too lovely to cast a shadow over it with reminders of her sin. But then she nearly laughed, for was he not reminded of it each time he looked upon the growing evidence of their one night together?
“I would not have you be,” he surprised her, then tucked the tress behind her ear.
Gripped by mischief, Graeye raised her eyebrows. “Pray, tell, who is this man before me? Surely not the mighty Baron Balmaine.”
He smiled. “’Tis selfish, I know, but I find I like you here on earth with me.”
So much was told in so few words that she thought she might melt, but still she feared assigning too much meaning to what he revealed. And so she embraced the game and said, “Then perhaps I shall deign to stay.”
His smile broadened, and the dimple she had suspected would be there if he ever genuinely smiled appeared.
