by Tamara Leigh
Gaenor was breathless with surprise, for it was many years since any had lifted her off her feet, so ungainly had she become past her twelfth year. And yet Christian seemed unaffected by her long limbs, striding forth as if she was not much more than a child.
It was a peculiar thing to be carried, and she wondered at the feeling that she was safe within the arms of a man who could never love her as Michael loved his Beatrix.
Chancing a glance at her husband’s face, she was relieved to see no strain there, only determination, surely born of his desire to deliver her as quickly as possible that he might once more put distance between them.
He carried her across the drawbridge into the inner bailey where, hung from an upper window, was the sheet put out this morn, the blood visible for all to see. Christian’s blood. His blood that spared her the humiliation of it being said she had not come to him chaste.
Though she was grateful others would never know of her sin, it hurt that he knew. She did not understand it, but more than what others thought of her, she cared what this man thought. Unfortunately, even when her menses flowed and their marriage was consummated, he would not likely ever believe she had not lain with Sir Durand days before her marriage. Of course, it could be worse had he not rejected her on the night past and she too soon bore a babe, for an innocent child would ever suffer its father’s pronouncement of illegitimacy.
Realizing that, despite the pain of the night past and the days to come, she had much for which to give thanks, Gaenor closed her eyes. Prayer did not come easy, even within the safety of her mind, but she praised the Lord and asked that He continue to watch over her.
When she lifted her lids, Christian had ascended the donjon steps and was passing through the door that the porter opened for him.
Though she expected her husband to unload her once they were inside, he called to Josephine and ordered her to fetch towels and a basin of cool water.
The woman scurried away, while the others who freshened the rushes and cleaned the hearth paused to watch their lord and lady pass through the hall.
When Christian’s long strides delivered them to the stairway, Gaenor ventured another glance at his face. Still no sign of discomfort. In a world comprised of three classes—those who fought, those who prayed, and those who labored—none could dispute that Christian Lavonne seemed born to the first class. Even tonsured and bent over a manuscript, he must have appeared out of place in the monastery. Did he resent the obligation that had ended his life of prayer? Or had the Church been forced on him, making his ascension to the title of baron a blessing?
As much as Gaenor longed to ask that she might know him better, she knew he would not welcome her probing.
Halfway up the stairs, she caught the sound of a struggle. The boy and her brother, she realized when a squeal was answered by a sharp command. If not that it was Abel who attended John in the chamber her brother had been given, Gaenor would have insisted that Christian ensure the child was not being ill-treated. Fortunately, Abel was not of a bent to harm children. Like it or nay, the boy would be scrubbed head to toe. And learn to obey commands.
As Christian ascended to the landing, a crash resounded from behind the closed door on the left. “I fear your brother has set himself a most unpleasant task,” he muttered.
“And, I wager, you are thinking the same of the task you have set yourself,” Gaenor quipped before she could halt the words that sounded self-pitying.
Christian’s step faltered, but he resumed his stride and entered the solar.
“I should not have said what I did,” she offered a semblance of an apology as he lowered her to the edge of the postered bed.
“Why not?” He drew back. “’Tis true.”
Though she knew she had as good as invited him to hurt her, she searched for a fitting rejoinder. However, the ache of knees unaccustomed to the amount of prayer to which she had subjected them made itself felt.
Grudgingly, she acknowledged that to respond in kind would only build the wall higher between them. Her parents had suffered such an unscalable marriage, and her mother had lived to regret her role in making it so. There was a difference, though. Whereas Lady Isobel had never stopped loving the man who had tried to steal her from her betrothed—and who had died for it on the edge of Drogo Wulfrith’s sword—Gaenor did not feel so deeply for Sir Durand that she would love him all the days of her life. He had made sure of that by not loving her in return. It was almost laughable how grateful she now was.
“Something amuses you?” Christian asked.
She had not realized a smile had turned her lips. Humorless though it was, she liked the feel of it, so much that she would not give it up no matter how much her husband wished it. She might be an unwilling participant in the games men played in wielding power over their lessers—King Henry forcing Garr and Christian to unite their warring families, they in turn forcing her to become the means by which the families united—but the worst had to be behind her. Surely that was something to smile about.
“What are you thinking, Gaenor?”
Though her husband’s gaze was narrow where he stood above her, she glimpsed wariness in his eyes. “That I am free.”
The wariness became suspicion. “What do you—?”
“Milord, I brought what you asked.” Standing in the doorway, towels over an arm and a basin hugged to her chest, Josephine looked between her lord and lady.
“Set them there,” Christian said with an impatient swipe of a hand.
She hurried forward, lowered her burden to the bedside table, and turned to Gaenor. “You hurt your leg, my lady?”
“My ankle. I—”
“That is all, Josephine.”
The woman craned her neck to meet Christian’s gaze. “Milord?”
“I will tend my wife.”
Gaenor knew concern for her wellbeing was not behind his pronouncement. Rather, her declaration of freedom had opened a door—one he obviously did not trust her to leave wide indefinitely. Did he think she might flee again?
When Josephine had gone, Gaenor met Christian’s gaze. His gold-flecked brown eyes searched hers, then he retrieved the basin and towels and went down on a knee.
Though he had told Josephine he would tend the injury, it was a surprise to see him kneel before her, and it was all she could do to draw her next breath.
“Now you will tell me how you are free,” he said as he bent his fair head.
It was not a difficult question, and yet when he lifted the hem of her skirt, there were not words enough to answer him. And they became scarcer when he eased the slipper from her foot and curled his fingers in the top of her hose. As he drew off the woolen garment, his calloused fingers brushed her calf…ankle…arch…
He dropped the hose to the rush-covered floor. “I would know, Gaenor.”
She tried to retrieve her smile so he would not realize how deeply he affected her, but it was gone. And she felt—
These feelings have naught to do with the heart, Gaenor. Not with one as deceitful and cunning as Christian. They are but things felt between men and women to ensure the population of the earth.
Aye, but knowing it did not make it easier to disregard his touch—or to be so near him, their faces inches apart. Though it was a coward’s way out, she lay back on the bed.
Christian did not move for some moments, but then he began to probe her heel and ankle. “The swelling is slight. Do you rest it and keep cool cloths on it today, it will likely serve you fine on the morrow.”
He lowered her foot and she heard the slosh of water in the basin, then its drip as the towel was wrung out. The wet cloth with which he bound her ankle was soothing, and she closed her eyes to savor the relief.
The mattress gave beneath her. Flinging her lids open, she met Christian’s gaze above hers. Arms braced on either side of her, he said, “I am done waiting.”
She held his stare though it felt dangerously intimate, especially in light of the ragged turn her breath had
taken and the heat that ran up her face. “’Tis a bitter reality,” she said, almost wishing she had kept to herself the words that had unsettled him, “but there seems freedom in losing everything. And that I have done—lost everything.”
If a word could have teeth, Christian thought, that last one did, for it was surely another name for her lover—his own bitter reality. “You are right.” He hated that her breath upon his face stirred him. “Sir Durand is lost to you forever. It is good you are reconciled to it.”
She shook her head. “I do not speak of Sir Durand, for he is hardly lost to me.”
Those words had sharper teeth, causing Christian’s hands on either side of her to fold into fists. If he had to put a guard on her night and day, confine her to the donjon, lock her away—
“How can he number among my losses when I never truly had him?” she said.
He searched her eyes and picked from their depths a glint of alarm for the emotions he had let onto his face. “Explain yourself.”
She moistened her lips, and how he wished she would not! “It is my sister Sir Durand loves, and for it, he can never love me. Though I would not have thought it a month past, I find I am now grateful.”
Meaning she would not allow her longing for the knight to forever stand between them? Even if it was possible, there was still something that could come—and stay—between them. “And if you bear him a child?”
Though her smile was weary, it turned her face pretty and reminded him of his time with her at Wulfen Castle. “Again, I tell you, I did not come to you a maiden, but my sin was committed long ere I met you.”
He wanted to believe her, to salvage something of their union, but just as much he wanted not to be more of a fool than already she had made him. “If it was not Sir Durand of whom you spoke when you claimed to have lost everything, then what?”
Her laughter was more weary than her smile. “You must think dreadfully ill of me for that not to be obvious.”
“Tell me.”
“I speak of my virtue, my home, the company and good regard of my family.” She lowered her gaze, and when she looked at him again, her brown eyes were moist. “And I speak of Sir Matthew who is not Sir Matthew.” She lifted an arm, causing the wheat-colored plait on her shoulder to shift across her breast, and laid a hand on his sleeve. “Hence, the parchment has been scraped clean, and I am free to start anew no matter what you believe of me, no matter how ill you use me.”
Christian tensed, not only because of her softly beseeching fingers on him, but from the unspoken things she thought he might do to her. “I would not have you fear me, Gaenor. Upon my word, never will I raise a hand against you.”
Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth—once more drawing his regard to her mouth—she released his sleeve and cautiously set her hand upon his jaw. “I would like to believe you, but I know not whether you are nearer a Lavonne or the knight who came to me in the chapel at Wulfen.”
Feeling her touch through every pore, Christian acknowledged that it had been imprudent to draw so near, but he had known it even before his unanswered question provided the excuse to do so.
Chastising himself for not leaving her in Josephine’s care, for subjecting himself to desire that had gained a foothold while he tended her injury, he lowered his head and turned the surprise that parted her lips into a kiss.
She lay so still it was as if she did not breathe, but slowly she opened to him, hesitantly kissed him back, tentatively drew him down to her. It was as if she was untried in the ways of men and women, had not—
What am I doing? I said I would not, and yet I am ready to forsake the truth of her womb to satisfy the needs of my flesh.
He pulled his mouth from hers, untangled his hand from her thick hair that he had unthinkingly coaxed into giving up much of its plait, and pushed off the mattress.
Standing alongside the bed, breath labored as if he had recently met at swords with her brother, he waited for her to open her eyes.
When she did, her confusion quickly turned to guardedness.
“Aye, start anew, Wife,” Christian said, “but do not include me in your plans until after your menses flow.”
Guardedness turning to indignation, she sat up, her blushing lips and the mess of hair about her face and shoulders in agreement with the sheet hanging outside the window. “If I think to include you at all, Husband.”
As was becoming habit where she was concerned, Christian rebuked himself. Why had he said it? Though she had been willing and consummation could prove of benefit to her nine months hence, he knew that just as the seduction had ended with him, so it had begun. And yet he struck out at her when his effort would be better spent picking up where he had left off when he had knelt in the chapel at Wulfen Castle.
“Do not leave the solar,” he said. “Until your ankle can support your weight, Aimee will bring your meals abovestairs.” He turned, crossed the room, and closed the door on her chill stare.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Gaenor had known it would not be easy to establish herself as lady of the castle, but the past two days had pushed her patience very near the edge. The castle folk did not like answering to a woman, and that she was a Wulfrith made it less appealing since all had surely suffered from the warring between their liege and her family.
Weary, though the afternoon had yet to wane, she left the cook to his grumbling over her changes to his menu and quit the kitchens. As Christian had predicted, her ankle had recovered sufficiently to support her weight the day following its injury. And one more day had seen it back to near normal. Still, she favored the other foot as she started across the hall.
“My lady, come see!” Aimee broke from two servants who carried a chest toward the stairs and ran forward. “Your clothes have arrived.” She halted before Gaenor.
It was good to see the girl smile, for she was more inclined to scowl. Gaenor returned the favor. “See them abovestairs. I shall be up shortly.” For, surely, the delivery of her clothes was accompanied by a missive from her family. As Aimee turned away, Gaenor picked out the Wulfrith knight where he stood inside the great doors.
“Sir Mark,” she called as she advanced on him.
“Lady Gaenor.” His gaze swept her head to toe, and she knew that, besides delivering her possessions, he was tasked with reporting on her appearance—a small thing considering Abel remained at Broehne.
Glad she no longer limped, she stopped before him. “I trust your journey was uneventful.”
His gaze returned to hers, and she was grateful there seemed nothing more in his eyes than there had ever been—no judgment or condemnation for her flight from Stern Castle. “We encountered no hindrances, my lady.”
She was relieved, though she knew it could not last. The search for the brigands that had caused Christian and her brother to depart Broehne the day after her wedding and seen them returned but two hours ago, had yielded little according to Abel who had come to the donjon to see how she had fared in his absence. As for Christian, he had yet to appear, and she dreaded when he did, for they had last been face-to-face when his kiss would have led to consummation had he not pulled back.
Trying not to relive his words that had fairly accused her of seducing him to legitimize a child that might be born of her and Sir Durand’s union, she asked the knight, “You have seen my brother, Abel?”
“Aye, and delivered him word from Baron Wulfrith.”
“Have you word for me?”
Sir Mark drew forth a rolled parchment. “Your mother asked that I deliver this.”
She curled her fingers around it. “I thank you, Sir Mark. Of course, you will take supper with us and pass the night at Broehne.”
He gave a curt shake of his head. “Many thanks, my lady, but my men and I are to continue on to Wulfen Castle. Sir Everard expects us this eve.”
As much as she longed to discourage him from riding into the darkening of day that might see him set upon, she knew he would not heed her. “Godspeed, then.�
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A smile tucked up the corners of his mouth. “I have faith He shall.”
Gaenor watched him go before turning her regard on the half-dozen servants who were intent on the tasks she had set them, though not so intent she would feel comfortable reading her mother’s missive here—and less so in the presence of Sir Hector, the aged knight whom Christian had surely set to watch over her.
Minding her ankle, she crossed to the stairs and stepped aside to allow the men who had carried her chest abovestairs to continue their descent.
When she entered the solar, Aimee was on her knees before the chest. “Oh, my lady, such fine garments! And look, be this ivory?” She held up a comb, its spine worked with beautifully carved flowers.
Gaenor considered sending her away but decided she could read her mother’s missive before the brazier while the girl familiarized herself with the garments and accoutrements that it would be her responsibility to keep in order. “Aye, ‘tis ivory, a gift from my eldest brother.”
“Most kind he must be, my lady.”
That Gaenor could not argue. She crossed to the chair situated before the warming brazier, lowered to it, and broke the missive’s wax seal. While Aimee continued to chatter about her discoveries, Gaenor unrolled the parchment and felt her heart convulse over the familiar handwriting.
Beloved Daughter,
There are not words enough to tell you how sorry I am that you felt it necessary to flee Stern. I have wanted only your happiness, and it pains me that the king demanded such a sacrifice of you. I pray you will take comfort in knowing your family is most grateful and proud of you.
Gaenor closed her eyes. Proud? Did her mother know of her sin? That she had not come to her marriage chaste? She could not, for there was no gain in Garr telling her. It would only worry her more.
“And this hand mirror!” Aimee exclaimed. “It is so clear. Why, I did not think myself so pretty.”
Though Gaenor’s emotions were bound to her mother’s words, she could not help but smile over the girl’s excitement.
