by Tamara Leigh
“Say it, Elianor!” Bayard demanded.
“What?” she spat.
“I want your word that never again will you go near men who are at arms or fists or angry words, whether it is but practice or the purposeful spilling of blood. Say it!”
The onlookers’ voices growing louder, she once more considered them—resented their curious regard, detested the smirks of men who approved of her humiliation.
Narrowing eyes upon her husband, she saw he had followed her gaze. When he returned to her, she hissed, “How dare you speak thus to me!”
His jaw bulged, but he put his face near hers, and this time his voice did not carry. “How dare you nearly get yourself stuck!”
“Had I, would you care?” Immediately, she regretted how childish she sounded—more, that in this there could be no argument. Bayard did not want to care, but he did, as time and again, day in and day out, he proved.
Lord, what a tongue I have loosed, she silently bemoaned. If I am not careful, it will draw more blood than did his sword this day. Grant me calm.
She moistened her lips, but before she could apologize, Bayard drew her from Rollo’s grasp and into his arms. “Too much I care,” he spoke into the hair atop her head. “God knows, too much.”
Vaguely aware of the spectators of whom she had been painfully mindful moments earlier, El mused that this must be how snow felt when the sun came out, causing it to sparkle bright as diamonds while it slowly and beautifully melted and became one with the earth.
“Woman,” Bayard groaned, “you seem determined that I should lose you ere we even begin our lives together.”
Cheek to his neck, slung arm pressed against his abdomen, she breathed him in. His scent was far from pleasant, but she was not repulsed as she had been with Murdoch who, because of the amount of fat carried upon his person, had often caused her gorge to rise. Especially when—
You will not think there whilst you are here, she told herself. And one day, God willing, you will not think there at all.
She dropped her head back to look upon this husband’s face. “Forgive me. When I saw the two of you at swords, I did not think. I but wanted to stop it. I was so afeared.”
“As was I when you near ran yourself onto Verdun’s sword.”
El stared. What did this man who hardly knew her feel for her?
“Still, I will have your word, El.”
El. Not that she minded the affectionate form, but how her heart fluttered when he spoke her name with breath and length as if to keep it long upon his tongue.
She nodded. “My word you have, Husband.”
He looked to her mouth, and she thought he might kiss her as she wished to be kissed—gently, deeply, breathlessly. But as if remembering they were not alone, he looked around. Then he set her back and shouted for the castle folk to go about their duties and the garrison to practice at arms.
When he returned his attention to her, she nodded at his bloodied collarbone. “You are hurt.”
“But scratches, whereas you…” He parted the heavy mantle, considered her sling. “For what are you out of bed, Elianor?”
“My head is much improved, and ’tis just my arm—”
“A broken arm, which could have been your neck.”
His reminder of the death Agatha had planned for her caused the bile in her belly to burn a path up her throat, and she had to swallow hard to keep it from her mouth. “So it could have been, but it was not.”
“By God’s grace.”
Was it? This time, unlike the others before she had become apathetic about calling upon Him, had He been here for her? Or had she simply fallen well?
“You know the witch escaped, aye?” Bayard said.
She nodded.
“I will flush her out of whatever hole she has gone down. Until then…” He looked past her, called, “Rollo, my lady wife is in need of rest. Escort her back to the solar and—”
“Nay.” El said. “I am rested.”
“You are not.”
Anger once more stirring, she stepped nearer him. “I am hardly fragile, Bayard Boursier. If there is one thing you have learned about me, surely ’tis that.”
His eye began to darken, but he closed it and drew a deep breath. When he lifted his lid, his still, blue-green gaze told that he had pulled his emotions back from the edge. “That I do know,” he said, then once more addressed Rollo. “See Lady Elianor back to the keep, and remain near that you might render whatever services she requires.”
For her protection, he would have her believe. And she did believe it, but was it also a means of keeping watch over her as watch was kept over Constance?
It would be easy to be offended, but El determined she would not provide more fodder for any who yet watched. As it was, she had shamed Bayard enough by entering the training field that was no place for a woman, and then to have tried to end the contest between Magnus and him…
Rollo stepped forward and halted alongside El. “But milord,” he rasped low, “milady did shame me—did not allow me to protect her as you did give me to do. I be not worthy.”
“There is none worthier,” Bayard said. “I am to blame for not warning you that my lady wife must needs be watched as closely as my lady sister.” He shifted his gaze to El. “Had I known Lady Elianor would so soon abandon her sickbed, I would have.”
“But she were almost stuck, milord.”
It was said with such misery that El felt more wretched for the shame she had scattered this day.
“Almost,” Bayard said, “but you kept the blade from her as is your duty. There is no shame in that.” He clapped a hand to the man’s shoulder. “Now, I would ask that you do as bid.”
“Aye, milord.” Rollo took his charge’s right arm. “Come, milady.”
As he turned her away, El’s seeking thumb reminded her something was missing. “You have my ring, Bayard?”
His brow grooved. “I do not. I thought you had removed it.”
“’Twas loose. Methinks I must have lost it in the fall.”
“Then the passage will be searched.”
She nodded and allowed her escort to guide her from the training field.
“Elianor!”
Rollo halted, and she looked around.
“I will search the passage,” Bayard said. “You are not to venture there again.”
She had not thought to with her injury, but she could not begrudge him the warning. “Aye, my lord.”
Bayard pivoted and strode toward Magnus whose gaze moved between husband and wife.
“Milady.” Rollo urged her forward.
Neither spoke until they began their ascent of the keep’s steps.
“Ye did shame me, milady,” Rollo said, mournfully.
Wondering at the puzzle of him, she said, “I did not mean to. I am sorry.”
A smile rose upon his face. “I am glad you are.” The smile fell. “Hence, I shall forgive you—later.”
El would have laughed if not for fear of offending this brute into whom had been breathed what seemed a good-natured soul. She liked Rollo, and as with each time she compared her experiences with Murdoch to those with Bayard, she found herself in the grip of gratitude. Indeed, in that moment, she wished it were a chapel she entered rather than the hall—a peculiar longing she had not felt in years. If ever she had felt it.
Dear Lord, once again, I am bewitched by a beautiful woman. Once again, I have but to look upon her face and form to know desire that could undo all I have struggled to become—that could return me to all I should not have been.
From where he had halted inside the doors of the great hall, Bayard stared at the one he had not wanted and who had certainly not wanted him.
She should be resting abovestairs. Instead, Elianor of Emberly—
Not of Emberly. She was now and would evermore be of Godsmere, as further evidenced by the role of lady of the castle she appeared to have taken upon herself.
Musing that he preferred her hair out from under
the modesty afforded by the veil she had donned upon her return to the keep, he looked from where she stood upon the dais with the cook on one side and the steward on the other, to where Lady Maeve sat before the hearth. His stepmother’s gaze awaited him, and a bitter smile. She did not like yielding her place to Elianor, just as she had not liked ceding it to Constance all those years ago. But she had stepped back to allow Elianor to step forward.
Judging by the state of the hall that bustled with more activity than usual for late afternoon, it seemed his wife had everything well in hand. Servants tended the fire, spread cloths upon the high table, arranged trestle tables and benches for the evening meal, and picked debris from the rushes. Of odd note, was the ungainly lad who usually kept to the kitchen. Evergreen branches draped over an arm, he moved about the hall, setting and hanging his greenery as should have been done much earlier with Christmas Day a sennight away.
“My lord!” Elianor called and stepped to the edge of the dais where Rollo aided in her descent.
Regretting that he had not made straight for the solar so she would not further suffer the sight and scent of him that had not improved these past hours, Bayard strode forward to meet her. As they neared the center of the hall, he saw the hair visible on either side of her veil was damp.
She had bathed? The thought disturbed him, for it was rooted in the dirt of carnal things.
She halted before him, and Rollo drew up short several feet behind her.
“Your bath has been made ready,” she said.
As he had sent Squire Lucas to arrange an hour past. He glanced down at himself. “As you can see, I am much in need of a long soak and scrub.”
She smiled apologetically. “I hope you do not mind that I asked Hulda to wash my hair in your bath water.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Be assured, I had her use plain soap.”
“I do not mind.” He leaned near and said, “Even were my bath water scented, I would not be bothered, providing my lovely wife waited there for me.”
She caught her breath, and when he straightened, he saw her face was flushed.
It was a pity he could not ask her to tend his bath. Not only would it be difficult for her to do with her injured arm, but the temptation she presented might preclude him from moving slowly with her.
Hoping to alleviate the discomfort provoked by teasing that had surprised him perhaps more than her, he said, “I did not expect you to so soon take to managing the household, but I am pleased you are at ease doing so.”
She inclined her head. “I am not without experience, for I did manage my uncle’s household.”
No mention of managing her first husband’s household. Why? From what he knew of her relationship with Farrow, something told him he would not like the answer.
“And Lady Maeve was most gracious in allowing me to take my place in your household,” she added.
“I am glad.” Catching the scent of his labors made all the more potent by the hall’s warmth, he said, “Now methinks I should remove my filth from your hall.”
“My hall?” It was said so softly, as if with wonder, Bayard was not certain he had heard right, but her face reflected the same.
“Yours, Elianor.” His as well, but as he had the entirety of Godsmere with which to concern himself, the running of the household would be her responsibility. And he did not doubt she would prove quite capable.
“I thank you,” she said.
He inclined his head and crossed the hall.
Abovestairs, Squire Lucas awaited him, but when the young man hastened forward to aid in the removal of his lord’s garments, Bayard waved him away and retrieved a torch to light the hidden passageway.
It took little time to ascertain that El’s ring was not upon the steps down which she had plummeted, nor upon the landing below that bore the stain of her blood.
Bayard was bothered, for it seemed the only explanation for its absence was that Agatha had descended the steps to gloat over what she had believed to be Elianor’s corpse—and then taken the ring from his wife’s hand. The thought of it churned the ale with which he had slaked his thirst before leaving the training field.
Vowing he would end the threat of Agatha of Mawbry, he returned to the solar. When he came out from behind the tapestry, he noticed the dressing table and chair set between the shuttered windows, a place that had been absent such furnishings since Constance had left Adderstone. It was there his first wife had seen to her ablutions, combed and braided her hair. And now Elianor would do the same.
Bayard gave himself into Squire Lucas’s hands. Shortly, he lowered himself into the water. And wished it were Elianor who scrubbed his back and neck, whose fingers pushed soap to the roots of his hair.
Slowly, he told himself, and one day she shall do so without fear and trembling.
Lord, he silently beseeched, let me not make the mistakes with Elianor that I made with Constance. Help me to help my wife welcome my touch.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
She had been certain it was safe to enter, that Bayard would be done with his bath. He was not.
Having halted just inside the solar after closing the door on Rollo’s watch outside it, El stared at her husband where he reclined in the tub before the hearth. Head back, he slept. Thus, it was not too late to withdraw and summon his squire to ready him for supper that would be served an hour hence.
The best course, she told herself, and yet she wavered. It stank of fear to beat a retreat from one who had thus far shown he was nowhere near the man Murdoch had been.
Could that one even be called a man, she silently amended. Her first husband had in no way resembled her second despite her fear the latter would prove worse.
She put her shoulders back and stepped toward the hearth whose fire crackled and cast golden light around the tub.
He is unclothed! warned the voice within. Dangerous!
“He is not Murdoch,” she breathed.
Still, he is dangerous!
Aye, but to me?
She halted at the foot of the tub. Though she kept her eyes from all but Bayard’s face, she did not have to look lower to know the bath water was clouded enough by soap that not even the shape of his body would be known to her were she to look close upon it.
She supposed the best way to awaken her husband was to call his name, and she meant to, but his face was so peaceful that not even the black eyepatch could reconcile him with the man she had faced in the underground cell. And so, again, she fell to observing him while he slept.
She liked the thick column of his throat, bit of cleft in his chin, firm, bowed mouth, lightly lined brow. And his hair…
It had been raked back off his brow as if with impatient fingers. Though dark with moisture, firelight showed its auburn cast.
She did not mean to move from observation to imagination, but she went where it led and envisioned pushing her fingers through the damp strands, gripping the back of his head, drawing it down to her, holding his mouth to hers.
I too much like his kiss.
The silent admission pulled her back to reality, and as she shook her head to clear its imaginings, Bayard’s chest rose with a deep breath. Then a smile lifted his mouth.
El sought his gaze, but his lid remained lowered.
“No matter how long you stand there, dear wife,” he drawled, “this fouled water will not reveal that which you have yet to know of your husband.”
She retreated a step. “I was not…I did not…” Her cheeks grew so heated she felt lightheaded. “’Twas your face I looked upon!”
His smile lowered, eye opened. “You find it unsightly?”
His lost eye. The diagonal scar visible above and below the patch. The weight of his question that made an invulnerable man near vulnerable.
Hurting as she would not have believed she could do for one better known as The Boursier, she said, “I do not find it displeasing. Indeed, I…”
His brow began to smooth. “You what, Elian
or?”
Elianor—four notes, as she would have it ever spoken by him. “I find it pleasing,” she said, then turned before he could see how much brighter her face could become.
At the dressing table Rollo had obligingly delivered to the solar, she lowered to the chair. As she one-handedly unpinned the hair veil, she cast her thoughts elsewhere to keep them from wandering to the man behind. They landed on the woman to whom he had once been wed.
Shortly after returning from the training field, El had gone to Constance’s chamber to assure her she was well, for she had not been unaware of her aunt’s appearance outside the solar in those early morning hours. However, the guard who had slipped inside to announce El had told that Constance could not receive her. And that was all. No explanation from the woman who clung to her vow of silence.
The slosh of bath water made El tense with imaginings of Bayard emerging from it.
Lest he think to grow her more accustomed to him in his unclothed state, she said across her shoulder, “You ought to summon your squire. The supper hour is soon upon us.”
His lack of response tempted her to look around. Instead, she set aside her veil and pulled her hair over her shoulder. Trying not to think about the sound of him dragging a towel over his wet limbs, she retrieved the comb—one of several items Lady Maeve had provided until her own could be delivered to Adderstone—and began to work the ivory tines through the lowermost tangles. It was not easy, having only the one hand to accomplish it, and as she tugged and jerked and winced over snapped strands, she wished Hulda were here to assist her.
When Bayard came alongside, she peered sidelong at him. Confirming he was clothed, a robe belted about his waist, she lifted her gaze and thought him most attractive in a hard-bitten way. Indeed, the only thing soft about his face was that which framed it—slightly waved, towel-dried hair that brushed his shoulders.
He raised an eyebrow, then a hand.
She stared at his palm, thinking it could not mean what it seemed, then laid the comb across it.
Bayard lifted her hair from her shoulder to her back, moved behind her, and began to work the comb through the tangles.
