by Tamara Leigh
“What I spoke was not meant to offend, Lady Gaenor, only to encourage.”
She opened her mouth to rebuke him, but his words seemed so sincere that she faltered.
Looking up at him—a rarity for a woman as tall as she—something moved in her chest. He was not as handsome as the one who held her heart, but his face was well-formed. Forgetting they stood so near, she considered his defined chin, generous mouth, broad cheekbones, and long, straight nose. Lastly, she settled on his most intriguing feature—brown eyes flecked with gold, unlike her own eyes that could best be described as muddy.
It took Gaenor some moments to realize the knight scrutinized her as intently, but though she knew she ought to be offended, she felt that movement again. And it disturbed her as she could not remember being disturbed the last time she had been so near a man. Why? And why this pang as if she betrayed the man she would choose to take her to wife—a man who did not want her?
She drew a shuddering breath. “Why are you at Wulfen, Sir Matthew?”
“As you have seen, I am training with your brothers.”
“I have seen, but ‘tis boys and young men who seek training here, not men who have already earned their spurs.”
The knight inclined his head. “On the battlefield, I discovered to my near detriment that my previous training was lacking. Thus, that I might not find my legs or life cut out from under me, I came to Wulfen.”
“I see.” Not entirely, but it was much the same as Everard had told when she had questioned him about Abel’s student. “And have you gained what you sought?”
His gaze drifted to her mouth, and the gold in his eyes seemed to shift amid the brown. “Not all, but methinks soon I shall.”
Gaenor felt herself sway toward the knight. Horrified, she lurched back and he released her. “I thank you for your concern, Sir Knight, but I must return to my chamber.”
He inclined his head. “Good day, my lady.”
At the door, she paused. “When do you depart Wulfen, Sir Matthew?”
“Less than a fortnight.”
For some reason, the prospect that it was not sooner was not displeasing to her. “Should you be present when next I seek the chapel, I but ask that you not delay in making your presence known.”
His eyebrows rose. “I give you my word.”
There was that movement again. Wishing it away, she swept the hood over her head and pulled the door open.
Long after her departure, Christian remained unmoving. Though he could not be certain, he had sensed the lady felt something not unlike the attraction that had surprised him when he had touched her and stood so near. Was it possible she had not truly given her heart to another? That it might yet be claimed?
In the next instant, he rejected such thinking. He did not seek nor require Gaenor Wulfrith’s heart. He wanted an end to the feuding between his family and the Wulfriths. He wanted children and a wife who neither feared nor loathed him. And now that he had met and spoken with his betrothed, it seemed possible he might gain all he sought—providing his deception did not upset everything. But there was time aplenty to reveal himself and make amends. Time during which he would not only continue to better his sword skill, but meet again with Lady Gaenor.
He looked over his shoulder at the slant of light coming through the eastern window. As it was another hour before he and Sir Everard returned to the darkened cellar, he considered remaining here and seeking God as he knew he must do. He wavered and, in the end, silently vowed he would seek God another day.
She did not understand it—did not know why it was no longer mere monotony and curiosity that drew her to her window to watch for Abel and his student. More, she did not understand the sense of loss when, for the second day, they did not appear.
She should not care, should proceed with her unending day the same as she did every day. But something kept her at the window, and she knew what it was. Despite Sir Matthew’s offense of stealing upon her, she was drawn to him.
She recalled his gold-flecked eyes that looked at her as if he truly wished to know who dwelt within; saw those same eyes waver when she flung contempt at him, and in the next instant warm upon her; saw his mouth tighten with impatience, then tuck up as if to smile; heard the ebb and flow of his deep voice that made her skin prick; felt his hand on her that had been firm, yet gentle; felt the pull in the space between them that had made her long to fill it.
She shook her head. She was not attracted to the knight. Could not possibly feel anything for a man she did not know beyond his discomfiting interest in her plight. More, it was another for whom she felt. And though her dream was hopeless, it was surely betrayal to feel anything for another man. Even if only attraction.
Gaenor groaned. She had felt something for Sir Matthew—something familiar, yet unfamiliar. Unfamiliar, for it was as if he had also felt it, unlike…
“Durand,” she whispered the name of the knight who felt naught for her despite what had gone between them.
Awash in shame, she silently vowed she would not return to the chapel until Sir Matthew left Wulfen a fortnight hence. Though she was surely mistaken in thinking he was attracted to her, if it was true, naught could come of it but more pain.
Less than a fortnight ere he departs, she told herself, only to realize she would also be gone from Wulfen. And that hardly bore thinking on, as it was then she would meet her betrothed on the occasion of Beatrix’s wedding.
Resolved to remaining in her chamber and praying for the strength to accept her fate, she pressed her shoulders back, crossed to the bed, and lowered to her knees.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lady Gaenor had not returned. Though three days had passed since they had spoken, she continued to eschew the chapel. Thus, all Christian had to show for these past days were cuts and abrasions delivered by Sir Everard’s sword in the darkness of the cellar. Hardly a loss, for he was beginning to sense sounds and movements that had previously eluded him, but neither was it the gain he had expected.
Not for the first time, he wondered if Lady Gaenor had told her brothers of their meeting, but he again rejected the possibility. Had she spoken of it, the Wulfriths would surely have confronted him.
Accepting that his betrothed would not return to the chapel this day, he looked to the altar that beckoned each time he entered. And nearly turned away.
Setting his jaw, he strode from the shadows and knelt before the cross. He confessed his sins, from the private lusting of his body to the godless thoughts that aspired to his tongue. Every sin that came to mind he laid down, excepting the deception worked on Lady Gaenor. That he stored up for last. And yet, when he could think of no more sins to list, he hesitated. No sooner did he accede to its confession than he heard footfalls in the corridor.
Though tempted to stand that he would not be found kneeling, he remained with his back to the door. It whispered open and Lady Gaenor—it had to be her—entered.
Whether it was surprise at finding him inside that made her footsteps falter, or the unexpectedness of seeing him before the altar, he could not know, but she resumed her stride and knelt beside him.
“Sir Matthew.” She looked at him, the hostility that had previously shone from her eyes no longer in evidence. Still, there was wariness beneath the sweep of her lashes.
“Lady Gaenor.”
She averted her gaze and, for a moment, he thought she might smile. “Now ‘tis I who interrupts your solitude.”
“A welcome reprieve, my lady.”
She clasped her hands and closed her eyes. Unlike when he had watched from the shadows, she did not speak aloud her prayers, the only evidence of her conversation with God a slight movement of her lips.
As it would be unseemly to repent for his deception until he committed to revealing the truth to her, which he was now loath to do, Christian did not bow his head again but used the opportunity to observe her.
He liked the curve of her eyebrows that were darker than her hair, her lashes that threw long shad
ows across her cheeks, the bow of her upper lip that was not as unyielding as first thought, and the slender column of throat that was surely smooth to the touch.
“If I distract you from your prayers, Sir Matthew,” she said, eyes remaining closed, “mayhap I ought to leave.”
It seemed her senses were as keen as Sir Everard’s.
Christian straightened from the altar. “I had only just finished when you entered.” Though he did not wish to withdraw, having waited days to see her again, he said, “‘Tis I who ought to leave.”
She looked up. “It is not necessary. Indeed, if it would be of little imposition, I would have you wait on me.”
This he had not expected. “I shall, my lady.” Once again, he settled on the lone bench. It was not long before she joined him, and this time she left only three feet between them.
When Christian smiled, she looked down. Intrigued by the flush that warmed her cheeks, he said, “I had only just accepted I would not see you again when you entered.”
“I did not intend to return.”
For fear of him. “And yet you came.”
After a long moment, her eyes rose to his. “You and my brother, Abel, no longer practice at swords beyond the castle walls.”
Dare he believe his absence bothered her? “We do not. It is with Sir Everard I now train. He has set me the task of sharpening my senses to the sounds and movements of the dark.”
Her mouth quivered as if tempted to smile. “The cellar.”
“Aye.”
“That would account for…” She touched her cheek and chin to indicate two corresponding cuts on his face. “…your injuries.”
They were not much more than scratches. “Aye, though your brother is not without his own injuries.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Far fewer, I wager.”
Twinged that his man’s pride had caused him to point out that he was not an unworthy opponent, he said, “That wager you win, my lady.”
“Then I have but to name my prize, Sir Knight?” Her playful unguardedness surprised not only him, but her, as evidenced by the startle in her eyes.
Captivated, Christian took a risk he knew he should not and moved nearer. He laid a hand over hers. “Name it, my lady.”
She stared at his fingers covering hers, then made a small, strangled sound and stood. “’Tis time I return to my chamber.”
Silently berating himself for not heeding the voice of caution, Christian stood to watch her go.
Upon reaching the back of the chapel, she looked around, but there was no anger in her eyes. “I should not ask, but I would have you come again on the morrow.”
Once more surprised by this woman who seemed less and less a shrew, Christian said, “I shall be here, my lady.”
When she had gone, the solitude of the chapel closed around Christian, and once again he felt the weight of his deception and knew that the longer he denied his conscience, the harder it would be to tell Gaenor the truth. He would, but not now when he was just beginning to know her. However, it would have to be done before he left Wulfen, else she would be shaken at her sister’s wedding, and that portended ill.
In a sennight, then. Seven days to learn the woman who was to be his wife. Seven days for her to learn the man who was to be her husband.
She should not have gone, should have stayed away as she had vowed she would. But after three days of pacing her chamber, she had ventured to the chapel. And would do so again. Though she had told herself it was the many months of near solitude that had made her seek out Sir Matthew, it was more than that.
On the stairs to her chamber, she halted. What had possessed her to make light with the knight? Despite Beatrix’s attempts to influence her older sister to behave less severely, Lady Gaenor Wulfrith was not one disposed to such absurdity as her sister had sought to pull from her. And yet, with little more than a prompt from Sir Matthew, she had teasingly inquired after her prize. One moment she was appalled by her brazen response, the next shocked when he acted upon it. Remembering the warmth of his hand, she shuddered.
Betrayal, a voice warned. Your woman’s heart cannot be two places at once, especially not with a man of whom you know so little. But neither could it be with a man whose heart lay so distant from hers—at least, it should not be, she reminded herself as she had often done since her arrival at Wulfen.
She remembered her first month here. For those few weeks, there had been hope of deliverance from marriage to Baron Lavonne, even though it would have been by scandalous means, but she could have borne the taint and shame had it meant the baron would reject her—and he surely would have, regardless of the king’s decree. However, God had denied her as he denied her almost everything for which she prayed, including relief from the unexpected turmoil that had arisen from her first meeting with Sir Matthew.
What did God want from her? As her marriage to Lavonne was inevitable, why did He place another man in her path? To test her? She, who had been tested more than she cared to acknowledge?
She gripped her forehead. If only He would clear her mind of the knight in the chapel that she might ready herself for her meeting with Christian Lavonne. Instead, He cruelly allowed her a glimpse of yet one more thing forbidden her. And perhaps forbidden in another way as well, for it was possible Sir Matthew was betrothed. Or wed.
“Gaenor?”
She pulled her hand from her face and found Everard four steps above, brow furrowed. Though he could not know with whom she had been minutes earlier, she felt the heat of guilt.
“You are well, Sister?”
She smoothed her hands down her skirts. “I was…thinking.” She winced at how feeble her words sounded. “You wish to speak with me?”
He inclined his head. “I did not expect to find you absent from your chamber.”
She knew she should not take offense, but her words were chill. “As I am permitted the chapel, one of the few places I am allowed outside of my chamber, I sought prayer there.”
Regret replaced the concern on his brow. “Of course.”
“Of what do you wish to speak to me?”
When he gestured for her to precede him, she stepped past him into her chamber and turned.
Everard settled in the doorway. “I received word from Garr late last eve. He will arrive three days hence to escort you to Stern Castle for Beatrix’s wedding.”
Three days. “For what purpose when our sister’s vows are not to be spoken for more than a sennight?”
“That you might have time with her and our mother ere—”
“I am sacrificed.” How she hated the self-pity that dripped from her voice, but it would not be contained. “That I might celebrate my sister’s good fortune in wedding a man of her choice. An honorable man. A man she loves.”
Everard stepped forward and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Gaenor, you know what happened at Beatrix’s trial, that Christian Lavonne—”
“I know. Thus, I do not need to hear again that the baron is unlike his father or brother. He is honorable. He will make a good husband. All these things I know.”
He dropped his hand from her. “You do not know, but if ever you have trusted me, do so again. Upon my word, the match with Baron Lavonne is a good one. Indeed, ‘tis fair possible you will come to care for him, mayhap even love him as Beatrix loves Michael D’Arci.”
She wanted to believe him. “You say all this, and yet you know him no better than I.”
He looked away. To compose an anger to which he was unaccustomed? Had she pushed him so far? “I trust Garr’s judgment.” He returned his gaze to her. “I but ask that you do so as well.”
“If not that there is a motive for this marriage, I might, but one must not forget how highly peace is valued by the Wulfriths. Thus, peace they will have, no matter the price.”
A muscle in his jaw worked. “You are wrong. These past months, we did not risk all by defying the king that we might surrender you up to a beast, Gaenor. I tell you, Lavonne has proved himself.”
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Like Garr, he had set his mind to the union of Wulfrith and Lavonne. He might be the most contemplative of her three brothers, and, on matters of import, his opinion was often sought, but there was no comfort in his assurance.
Gaenor crossed to the window. A glance at the meadow before the wood showed it was empty. Wishing Abel and Sir Matthew practiced at swords amid dewed grass that sparkled in the light of the new day’s sun, she sighed.
“Is there anything you require, Gaenor?”
“Apart from the obvious? Nay.”
“Then I shall send word to our brother that you will be prepared to depart Wulfen three days hence.”
“The messenger has not returned to Stern?”
“Nay, he leaves within the hour.”
She turned back to Everard. “There is something I require.”
As if pleased that he might provide her with some small pleasure, he smiled. “What would you have me deliver you?”
“A sennight. Send word to Garr that you will escort me to Stern Castle a sennight hence.”
Gaenor did not think she had ever glimpsed such confusion on his face. An instant later, it was reduced to a frown. “I thought you would be eager to return home.”
“Eager if it were yet my home, but ‘tis a temporary stay. Will you grant me this, Everard?”
“I shall.” His uncharacteristic lack of contemplation surprised her. “Garr will have word this day.”
And be displeased, as would be her mother and Beatrix. “I thank you.”
Once more left her to her solitude, Gaenor sank onto the chest at the foot of her bed. A sennight she had bargained for and been granted. A sennight in which to salve her terrible loneliness in the company of a man who did not look upon her with mere tolerance, who could not compare her to her beautiful sister and find her wanting.
Though naught could come of their short time together, Sir Matthew was hers. And perhaps in the dark days as Christian Lavonne’s wife, memories of the knight’s attentiveness would be a salve to her discontent.
