by Tamara Leigh
He did not shrink from her, though some might regard the intimacy as unseemly, but patted her hand atop his and gave a fatherly smile. “I am not only the baron’s man but yours, my lady. And, if God should grant me more years, I will also serve your sons and daughters.”
Might that be sooner than later? In a sennight she would know, for that was when her monthly flux came or did not.
Your will be done, Lord. I shall abide as best I can regardless of what Christian believes.
Abruptly, Sir Hector stood and said loud, “I agree, my lady. The books look to be in good order.”
Hopefully, that would satisfy the curiosity of the women at the hearth. “You have been most helpful,” Gaenor said.
He inclined his head and returned to the back of the dais.
She pulled the journal in front of her, but Aimee was not done with her distractions. “Respect,” Gaenor muttered and stood.
As she crossed the hall, she caught the maid’s eye and motioned for her to follow abovestairs. When they returned to the hall a half hour later, Aimee quietly sat down to her mending, the bells having been unstitched from her shoes and attached to the prettiest of Gaenor’s ribbons that they might be worn around the girl’s neck when the occasion warranted.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Empty handed again, and more than once it had made Christian shout to the heavens.
They had been close, and Robert had surely known it, for the camp to which Abel had led Christian had been so hastily dismantled that much had been left behind.
But that was not the worst of it. To compensate for the slower pace required to transport the infirm Aldous Lavonne, Robert had bought time by setting fire to crops as he and his men fled—crops nearly ready for harvest, the loss of which would devastate the villagers.
Abel blamed himself for it, as Christian would have blamed himself had he been the one to follow the healer. It seemed the man who had demanded that Christian want and think only of his enemy’s death was not as stripped of humanity as his lessons taught. In this instance, the loss of his conviction had proved detrimental.
Now, two days since they had been near to ending the scourge, Christian pondered Castle Soaring that rose before him. It had always been impressive, but more so since he had awarded its keeping to the man at his side, Michael D’Arci, husband to Gaenor’s sister.
The deterioration once so evident wherever the eye fell had been arrested. More restoration was needed, but the walls were as impregnable as one could make them. And safe behind them was a woman who would eagerly welcome home the husband who had answered Christian’s call to arms.
Remembering how D’Arci had tried to suppress a smile at the acceptance of his liege’s suggestion that they pass the night here before continuing on to Broehne, Christian felt his jaw tense.
I envy him. I want to have with Gaenor what he has with Beatrix. But how?
As the sun trailed its golden fingers down the sky, Christian and the men of the Lavonne and Wulfrith contingents reined in before the castle to await confirmation of their identity that would cause the drawbridge to be lowered.
If her menses come, still she might have lain with Sir Durand as if what happened between us at Wulfen meant naught. And still that knave will share my bedchamber if I do not myself burn his missive.
The drawbridge’s great chains began to rumble and grind.
Unless I give her reason to burn it herself and set the man aside forever that I might be the one she longs for. Am I capable of that?
Envy gripped him again when they passed from the outer bailey into the inner bailey where Lady Beatrix did, indeed, await her husband.
Christian halted his destrier before the steps and watched as D’Arci lifted his wife off her feet and kissed her there as if he cared not what any thought.
“A good marriage,” a familiar voice came at him from the left, the words stretching well beyond the three used.
Ignoring Abel, Christian swung out of the saddle, passed his destrier into his squire’s care, and strode to where D’Arci and his wife awaited him before the steps.
“My lord”—Beatrix curtsied—“well come.”
She was lovelier than most women, and yet Christian was no more moved by her attractions now than he had been when a head-injured Beatrix had been brought to Broehne six months past. It was Gaenor who moved him, even when a smile was not to be had from her.
“My lady.” He inclined his head, then followed his hosts up the steps to the donjon.
As men had been sent ahead to alert the household of their baron’s visit and his extensive entourage, the hall was set up to receive them.
“Though supper will be delayed,” Beatrix said as they crossed the hall, “Cook assures me there will be v-victuals aplenty.”
Christian caught the word she tripped across, though he did not think he would have had he been unaware of her injury.
“Until then, my lord, if you would like to avail yourself of the solar, it has been readied for you.”
He knew it was his due as baron to be given the bedchamber of the castle’s lord and lady during his visit, but he had yet to become comfortable with the arrangement. Still, he said, “I shall make good use of it, for I cannot recall being more filthy in all my life.” The rain that had turned the ground to mud had seen to that.
“I…could have a bath sent up to you.”
Her hesitation likely had nothing to do with her injury, for to provide a bath when the kitchen fires were better spent on cooking than heating water would cause supper to be further delayed. “A basin and towel will suffice, my lady.”
At the steps that led abovestairs, Beatrix turned to her husband. “There are some matters your steward wishes to discuss with you. I will escort the baron to the solar.”
D’Arci nodded and met Christian’s gaze. “I shall see you at meal.”
When Beatrix stepped ahead of Christian into the bedchamber a short while later, he thought he was prepared for her question, for he had sensed her restraint in not demanding word of her sister, but her candor nearly set him back a stride.
“Do you make my sister happy, Baron?”
He halted just inside the room and stared at her where she had swung around to face him. He was dirty and tired and disgusted at being thwarted time and again by Robert, but though he had good reason for venting his displeasure, he could not. “Nay, my lady, I do not make Gaenor happy.”
She momentarily closed her eyes. “I am sorry to hear that—forsooth, even angered.”
“It gives me no pleasure to tell it.” He stepped forward. “Now I will see to my ablutions.”
“’Tis the matter of her f-f-fleeing with Sir Durand, is it not?”
Halting before the chest at the foot of the postered bed, Christian considered the high color in her cheeks and allowed, “That knave yet stands between us.” He bent his head to unbuckle his sword belt. “Now, Lady, I intend to unclothe.”
He heard her breath catch, then she hurried from the solar and slammed the door closed.
The meal had been more satisfying than any of which Christian had previously partaken at Castle Soaring. For certain, Beatrix was as accomplished at running a household as Gaenor was proving to be.
“The good of it is that Sir Mark is of value to the brigands,” Michael D’Arci said, “else they would not have kept him alive.”
But for how much longer? Christian wondered as he listened to and observed the exchange between D’Arci, Beatrix, and Abel, which was nearly the extent of his participation this half hour since meal’s end. If Robert did not soon find a use for the Wulfrith knight, the man’s life was forfeit.
“And then, of course, there is the h-healer.” Beatrix raised her eyebrows at her brother where he sat on the opposite side of the table she had ordered placed before the hearth. “Now you know she is not there of her free will and that she did not so easily leave her son.”
The brooding Abel grunted and glanced at Christian. “I wager that Baron La
vonne is thinking that, for all I taught him of arms and warring, it did me no service two days past.”
Christian nearly smiled. “Though I would have had the outcome be different, ‘tis good to know you are as human—and fallible—as I.”
This time when Abel looked to Christian, his gaze settled as if to stay. “My lessons stand, Baron, and you would do well to live by them better than I did.”
As Christian considered a response, Beatrix said, “What do you say, Abel? That the baron trained with you?”
Refusing to feel ashamed at having availed himself of Wulfrith training, Christian said. “I did train with Abel, my lady, and Everard.”
Her lids narrowed. “At Wulfen?”
“Aye.”
A bit more narrowing, and Christian felt a stir of discomfort. “This training…” She leaned toward him. “…it was recent?”
For all of the injury she had sustained, her mind seemed to work well. Thus, with grudging and foreboding, Christian said, “It was.”
Her lids rose, along with a slight smile. “I see.”
She probably did. Her interest went beyond the incongruity of a baron who sought training reserved for the transformation of boys into knights. She knew her sister had also been at Wulfen recently and, from her self-satisfied smile, it was possible Gaenor had spoken of the man Christian had pretended to be. Did that not bode good, though? Had he meant nothing to Gaenor but a means of escape, surely this exchange with Beatrix would not be.
“Well, I do not see.” Abel’s plowed brow made him appear much older.
“Nor do I.” D’Arci laid a hand on his wife’s arm. “Enlighten us.”
She shrugged. “I am but piecing together the man who is not only our liege but my brother-in-law.” She squeezed her husband’s hand. “And now I will take myself abovestairs and write a missive to my sister so that Baron Lavonne may deliver it on the morrow.”
What would it tell? Christian wondered as she rose and bid him good eve.
When she was gone, her brother said, “And now we plot.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was determined that they would wait, that rather than continue to pursue their quarry, they would allow it to come to them, just as it had done when the boy had brought word of the location of the brigands’ camp. Since someone had tried to aid them once and proved reliable, it seemed probable he would try again. But that did not mean Christian would be complacent. There were crops that needed protection if they were to make it to harvest, and that was where he would concentrate his men for the time being, ensuring they kept their eyes and ears turned to any sightings or murmurings of the brigands.
Though the devastation wrought by his brother pressed hard on him, he lightened some when he strode into the hall and found Gaenor waiting for him—not in the inner bailey as Beatrix had done for Michael, but waiting nonetheless.
A multitude of honey-colored plaits draping her shoulders becomingly, hands clasped at her waist, she said, “Is it at an end?”
That had been the hope he had voiced before departing Broehne, but hope was not enough to bring his brother to heel. Just as it was not enough to cause Gaenor to receive him as Beatrix received her husband. He halted before her. “I would that it were.”
Her gaze faltered. “I am sorry.” She moistened her lips, drawing his gaze to the mouth denied him. “We received word yesterday that crops had been destroyed.”
Were they alone, he thought he might chance seeking the welcome from her that he desired. “When we set the brigands to flight, such was their answer.”
She drew a deep breath. “I have sent word to the afflicted villagers that they need not fear that they and their children will hunger this winter—that their liege will see them through the loss of their crops.”
Considering how sharply she watched him, he guessed she was awaiting a reaction with which to measure him against those Lavonnes who had been her family’s enemies.
Measure away, Gaenor. “I am pleased to have you speak for me, Wife.”
Her lips parted, and though he did not hear the breath pass from them, he saw her shoulders ease. “As I am pleased to do, Husband.”
He inclined his head. “I would hear more of what has gone in my absence, but I am much in need of a bath.”
The corners of her mouth turned into a small smile that made him yearn to see her smile as large as the ones she had shown him when she had called him Sir Matthew. “’Tis being made ready now,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows. “How is that?”
“When I was told of your arrival, I set the kitchen to boiling water and the servants to delivering the bath to the solar.” She moved to step past him and, in doing so, wafted the scent of cloves in which her hair had surely been washed. “Now I shall send word to your squire to make haste so that he might tend your bath.”
Christian turned a hand around her arm. “You could tend it.”
Shoulder to shoulder with him, she lifted her chin. “Surely you know that idea is ill met.”
It was, especially considering how she stirred him, but he liked the color that bloomed in her cheeks. “Tend me.”
The disbelief in her eyes waxing larger, she leaned near. “My flux has not come and, if it should, ‘twill not for more than a sennight.”
He held her gaze and slowly moved his thumb up the inside of her arm. “I have determined I will be the one to first believe.”
She blinked. “Why?” The word was more breath than voice.
Though his accursed pride balked at her uneasy acceptance of his gesture, he said, “Because I first deceived. Had I revealed myself at Wulfen, what happened would not have.”
She stared at him. “You believe what I have told of Sir Durand?”
He did not mean to hesitate and hated that he did. “I am determined to.”
Pressing her lips inward, she looked down.
“Gaenor”—he removed his hand from her arm and urged her chin up. “This is not the place to speak of such things. Will you tend me or nay?”
She nodded.
Shortly after they entered the solar, the final buckets of steaming water were poured into the tub that had displaced the chair before the brazier.
When the door closed behind the servants, Christian strode to where his wife stood with her back to him before an unshuttered window, reached into his tunic, and thrust the missive in front of her. “Your sister asked me to deliver this.”
She closed a hand around the rolled parchment and swung around to face him. “You were at Soaring?”
“We passed last eve there.”
“My sister is well?”
“Quite.”
Heart fluttering, Gaenor considered the unbroken wax seal that showed Christian had not trespassed and gave in to the smile that sought to claim her face. “I thank you.”
“I am glad its receipt gives you pleasure.”
Pleasure that, unfortunately, would have to be suspended until after his bath. She stepped past him and reached the missive toward the bedside table on which her psalter lay.
“You will not read it now?”
She peered over her shoulder. “You are in need of a bath.”
“I am, but I would not keep you from your sister. Read, if you wish. I shall see to my ablutions until you are finished.”
Though she rejoiced in his generosity, suspicion threw a long shadow. Was he now questioning the wisdom of having her attend his bath? Not quite ready to first believe as told? No matter. It truly was best that temptation be allayed until her menses were upon her. “Thank you.”
He turned from her and began unfastening his belt.
Knowing he would soon be shed of his clothes, Gaenor lowered to the mattress, bent her head to the missive, and broke the seal.
Beloved Sister,
I hope my words find you in fine health and of good courage. I am well, as is my husband and those of our household. Like Broehne, Castle Soaring has long been without a lady, but with the passing
of each day, I settle more comfortably into my new home. I pray you shall soon be as content as I.
As the water was noisily displaced to receive Christian, Gaenor whispered, “She knows I am not.” It saddened her that Beatrix worried, and yet she was grateful her sister did not pretend to be unaware that Gaenor’s circumstances were far different from her own.
Though Christian’s long sigh tempted Gaenor’s gaze, she dragged her attention back to the missive.
In advance, I ask for your forgiveness, for where your sister next goes you may not wish her. This day I was most bold with your husband in asking if he makes you happy. I near wish he had lied, but he did not spare me, though he told the truth in as few words as possible.
It was bold of Beatrix to ask. The surprise, however, was that Christian had deigned to answer, for though Beatrix was his sister through marriage, she and her husband were first his vassals and such a personal question was unseemly.
Then this eve I was privy to a conversation in which it was told that the baron had recently trained with Abel and Everard. It is a grand rarity for any but pages and squires to train at Wulfen, so grand I have heard of it only once before. During my wedding celebration, you told that you had met a knight in training during your stay at Wulfen. More, you spoke of him with longing. Now I shall be bolder yet and venture that the knight you met at Wulfen and Baron Lavonne are the same. I can make no sense of it but to conclude there was deception afoot and you did not know the knight for whom you felt was also your betrothed. Had you, I am certain you would not have fled with Sir Durand.
Gaenor momentarily closed her eyes and thanked the Lord that, despite her sister’s head injury, she was as clever as ever.
And so a wall of discord is between you and your husband, but I tell you, the stones of it can be pulled down and crushed to dust as Michael and I have proved.
It was what Gaenor wanted and, it seemed, what Christian wanted, but whereas Beatrix had been shown to be innocent of the murder of Michael’s brother, there was no innocence in the virtue Gaenor had given to Sir Durand. She was guilty and could not prove when her sin had been sown.
