Enduringly Yours

by Stocum, Olivia

  She untied her apron and tossed it aside. “Thank you.”

  Why would Gilburn pay her such a favor after yesterday? It didn’t make sense. She came upon the maid outside her father’s door and took the tray from her.

  “I will see to him myself,” Zipporah said.

  She pushed open the door, closing it with the toe of her leather shoe. She smiled when she found her father propped on pillows with his eyes open. Her smile dimmed when she realized they were fogged over. He didn’t acknowledge her.

  She swallowed back her disappointment. “Did Sir Gilburn help you to sit up? I have some broth. I know you must be bored with it by now, but it’s good for you.”

  She placed the tray on the nightstand then tucked a napkin under his chin. Dipping the wooden spoon, she tested the broth’s temperature with the tip of her tongue.

  “It’s good.”

  She brought the spoon to his lips. He took the nourishment, but didn’t look at her.

  “’Tis me, Papa. Zipporah.”

  His gaze was fixed straight ahead, unfocused. She dipped the spoon and continued the process, tears stinging her eyes.

  He ate most of the soup and drank a little wine. The physician who came every few days said his heart was failing. Her uncle had suffered a similar condition a few years ago. It had made him weak, and his speech slurred, but at least he’d been able to acknowledge them.

  There was a second goblet on the nightstand. Curious, she smelled it, detecting wine mixed with herbs.

  She knew the physician was giving him herbs, but as far as she was aware, her mother was not administering any extras to him. She spilled it into the soup bowl. There was a layer of sludge stuck to the inside of the goblet. She dipped in her finger and sniffed. She couldn’t place the exact scent. Then again, she could only identify the common herbs.

  Zipporah took the napkin that was under her father’s chin and scooped out the sludge. She folded the cloth and tucked it away in her pouch, planning to show the herbs to her mother later. Gooseflesh pilled her skin. Anxious, she poured the wine back into the goblet. She poured a little more from the fresh goblet, so that it looked precisely as it had when she’d found it, and then she put it back.

  Her father’s eyes were closed. She removed one of the pillows from behind him and arranged the second under his head. She kissed his face. “Rest well.”

  Zipporah took the tray with her, leaving it with a maid, then went outside to find her mother. A dark shadow loomed near the garden wall, creeping out of the sweet briar roses growing in the cracks and crevices in the stone. She jumped.

  Sir Gilburn appeared. “Did he eat?”

  “Aye.” She forced herself to act normally. What had he been doing? Stalking? Like a wild animal?

  “I would like to speak with you for a moment.”

  There was still the little matter of a public kiss with Peter to resolve. She searched for a way to tip the scales in her favor. “I need to speak with you as well.”

  He straightened. “You do?”

  “Aye.”

  He offered his arm and she took it, her fingers on the inside of his elbow. They walked down the path together.

  “My mother is alarmed by the events of yesterday afternoon,” she said, hoping her mother wouldn’t mind if she put words in her mouth.

  He let out a long breath. “Aye, I am aware. I spoke with her last night.”

  Perfect. “I spoke with her as well. She feels that I should not spend any time with you without a chaperone present.”

  “She is wiser than we are. I agree.”

  Well, that part was easy.

  They stopped at a stone bench and he gestured for her to sit. Her mother was within sight, still on her knees in the lavender.

  “We are no longer children,” he said. “More decorum has become necessary.”

  It was needed years ago. “My mother thought I should make it abundantly clear to any of the young men in my company.”

  “Speaking of . . .” He looked at her from under his brow. “I owe you an apology. I should not have walked off the field like I did. I was angry. I should have predicted Sir Peter’s childish actions and remained behind to protect you. Please forgive me for not being there.”

  He was apologizing to her? She had no words. “You are forgiven,” she managed.

  “Thank you.” He lifted his head, seeming relieved. “I also need to ask forgiveness for something else.”

  She thought about the herbs wrapped up in the cloth inside her pouch. When he didn’t continue, she realized he was waiting for her to respond. “Aye?”

  “When I heard that the reward was to be a kiss from you, I knew it to be naught but an industrious falsehood, but I did nothing to stop it. I caused this embarrassment in the first place.”

  Actually, Peter had started it. But it was impossible to be mad at Peter after the way he had made her feel last night in the alcove.

  “I wanted to win the competition,” Gilburn continued. His hands were between his knees, his shoulders bowed. Dark hair hid his face from view. “I was going to take that kiss for myself.”

  “Sir Peter is ruthless,” she said. “I heard he became that way in the Holy Land.” Aye, she heard that much right from his mouth. Right before that mouth came over hers—

  “I had expected him to fight much as he had three years ago,” Gilburn said. “He has changed. I allowed myself to make assumptions, but it will not happen again.” He tensed. “Believe me. I will make sure he never has another chance to shame you.”

  Gilburn would be studying Peter now, preparing for their next encounter. She tried to hide her true feelings, but failed to react soon enough.

  “I have upset you,” Gilburn said. “I swore I would not let you down and already I have.”

  Zipporah shook her head, no longer hearing him. She needed to find Peter and warn him. “We all make mistakes,” she said. This was her fault. If she’d only had more control over herself. She never should have kissed Peter like that.

  “Then you forgive me?”

  “What? Of course.”

  “I could ask for no more. I shall see you this evening?”

  “Aye.”

  He stood and walked away. Her mother was still yanking out weeds. She could do it all day. Dark clouds had gathered in the sky and a breeze rippled her mother’s wimple. Soon it would rain, and they would be forced inside.

  Zipporah walked quickly down the path and under the fruit trees, wondering how best to go about her subterfuge without Gilburn finding out. Perhaps she could send Sir Mark to Ravenmore with a letter for John. He would make sure Peter got it, wherever he was.

  “What has you so distressed, my lady?”

  She looked up, smiling. It was Peter’s voice. She couldn’t see him though. “Where are you?” she whispered.

  He slipped out from behind a gnarled apple tree, gesturing for her to follow. She checked both ways and saw no one on the garden path, then went after him. He caught her hand and led her deeper, until they stopped at the garden wall. They were sheltered by mazy branches.

  “What did Gilburn say?” he asked.

  “You were watching me?”

  “Of course.” His smile disarmed her.

  It took her a moment to find her voice. “He is studying you.”

  “I had expected that. What else?”

  He took the news with too much ease for her comfort. “Peter?”

  “I can take care of myself. Now what else did he say?”

  “He blames himself for yesterday. He believes you took advantage of the situation because he was not there to protect me from you.”

  “That’s fine then.”

  “He is quite sure now that you have a childish infatuation with me, and that you do not know how to, well, address it.”

  “Oh, I know how to undress it.”

  “That’s not what I . . .” She let it go, her face warming. “Never mind.”

  His smile widened further. It reached his eyes.
“Does he know how?”

  She propped her shoulder against the wall, playing Peter’s game. “Not like you, I should think.”

  He turned to face her, leaning against the wall in like manner. “And I know exactly how you like it too.”

  “Peter.”

  “I know. I will stop now.”

  “You are the one who left me last night.” She winced. “We really shouldn’t do this.”

  “Aye.” He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. “But I do like to, with you.”

  “Me too,” she whispered. Thunder sounded in the distance. “It’s going to rain. What will you do?”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Sitting out here while I am inside?”

  “I will be inside. There are ways. I will be here until I see the light go out from behind your shutters. Or from outside your door, as the case may be.”

  She wanted to ask him to watch the light go out from inside her door.

  Rain pelted leaves above them.

  “I should go,” she forced past the lump in her throat. She couldn’t do this with Peter. The white marks on her stomach from Katrina should be enough of a deterrent. It might have worked in the darkness of the alcove, where they could not see each other, but it still would have been a risk. Sooner or later he would see her. Nay, there was no sharing her body with him until she had confessed to him about their baby.

  Not that she should be doing that with him anyway.

  She really couldn’t do that with him.

  One night would lead to two, and two would lead to three . . . months . . .

  Fat, cold drops fell on her head and shoulders. Zipporah tucked her arms around herself.

  “I will be near, if you should need me.” He hesitated, then leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Until tomorrow.” He walked away.

  Zipporah stood shivering against the cold wall, warring with her thoughts.

  “Peter?” she called, even though she couldn’t see him. She didn’t expect him to respond.

  “You will make yourself sick, standing in the rain,” he said from next to her.

  She jerked, startled. “How do you do that?”

  He smiled and wrapped his arms around her, folding her into the warmth of his chest. The rain made him smell even better. Musky. Zipporah pressed her cheek against his neck, enjoying the way he fit against her.

  “I want you to go inside,” he said.

  “Just give me a little time.” She tilted her face upward.

  “You really should not look at me like that,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  He kissed her.

  Zipporah looped her arms around his neck and held on. His hands were gripping her waist, burning through to her skin. Tilting his face, he kissed her harder. This was how it had started three and a half years ago. They had both thrown aside the consequences of their actions for the need of the moment.

  He broke their kiss and rested his forehead against hers, his hands squeezing her waist a little too tightly now. His breath was ragged.

  “You really better leave,” he said.

  He lifted his head, gaze smoldering, rain water running in rivulets off his hair. Zipporah grasped the front of his tunic, willing him not to go.

  “It’s enough for today, to know you still want me,” he said.

  She wondered if he was trying to convince himself.

  He kissed her once more, quickly, and then let her go. “Go inside before you get sick.”

  “But . . .”

  “Go.” Said with more force.

  Zipporah stumbled around him, then onto the path. Rain was pouring in sheets and she shielded her eyes as she squished her way back to the castle keep.

  Her mother was just inside. “There you are. I was about to send Sir Mark out to find you. Look at you. You are soaked through.”

  “I am a coward,” she said.

  Lady Havendell took her arm. “I take it you found Peter.”

  “Aye. I found him all right.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Nay!” She cleared her throat. “I mean, I would rather not.” She was leaving behind wet shoe prints. Her braid was dripping.

  “It will be harder now that you are kissing him again.”

  “I am not . . .” She frowned. “Oh, never mind.” There was no point in arguing with her mother.

  “Let’s get you dried off.”

  They went to Zipporah’s chamber, where her mother helped her out of her wet clothes. She slipped into a fresh shift, thinking about Peter sneaking around like a common thief, and how unfair it was.

  “I will remain here in my chamber for the rest of the day,” Zipporah said, pulling a woolen shawl over her shoulders. Sitting by the fire, she stretched out her fingers. “I have no desire to leave.”

  “Very well. I will tell Gilburn that you are waiting for the rumors to die down before you show yourself at supper.”

  “I wish we could be more honest.”

  “And what would you have me tell him? The truth?”

  The fire popped and Zipporah cringed. “Nay, tell him what you need to.”

  “I thought as much. I will have wine brought to you.”

  Her mother left. Zipporah took note of her leather pouch drying near the fire. Bolting the door, she took it up, wanting to make certain Peter’s letter had not gotten soaked. She untied the leather drawstring and reached her hand in, glad to find that it was not wet. She ran her fingers over the broken wax seal, smiling.

  Tucked at the bottom of her pouch, beneath a satchel of sage and rosehips, was the handkerchief with herbs from her father’s cup. She pulled it out, staring at it.

  No one here would harm her father. They were probably just medicinal herbs. Her mother might have given them to him, for all she knew. Gilburn wasn’t her favorite person, and he obviously hated Peter, but surely he’d had many opportunities over the years to betray her father, and never had. She hesitated, then tossed the handkerchief into the fire, watching it flare up, and then burn.

  There was no reason to look for trouble.

  She had enough as it was.

  Chapter Ten

  “Not a successful day for you, brother?” John asked.

  Peter thumped into a chair by the fire at Ravenmore.

  “I would take that as a nay.”

  “A siege would be easier than this.” It wasn’t the ride out to Havendell every day that was getting to Peter, or having to humor Zipporah by hiding from Gilburn—as annoying as that was—it was his needs. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t push Zipporah into anything she was ready for. Like marriage. He’d also promised himself he wouldn’t bed her until he’d wed her. Dallying with her was not an option. It was going to be all or nothing this time.

  “Just say the word.” John grinned, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “And siege it is.”

  “You just wait. One day you will come to realize that there is more to life than your sword.”

  John sank into the chair next to him. “There is?”

  “For starters, your sword will not win you your lady.”

  John stroked the brown and gold leather wrapped hilt of said weapon. The ruby set in the crosspiece winked in the firelight. “I have no lady, but if I did, she would be very impressed with my sword.”

  “I meant the one that you are caressing.”

  “So did I.” John shrugged. “If such a woman does not exist, then I shall depend on you and Zipporah having many sons, so that I may grant the land unto one of them.”

  “I would not hold your breath waiting for that to happen.” Peter arched his brows. “How tired are you? I need a distraction.”

  “Need you ask?”

  John stood and drew his sword with a zip of steel. Peter was slower; tired and sore. His shoulder was stiff, but not as bad as the day before. Peter’s sword was similar to John’s, only he had an emerald in his. John’s sword had been a gift from their father, given to him when he had earned h
is Knight’s Spurs. Their father had died later that year. When Peter became a knight, their mother had John’s sword duplicated and an emerald that had belonged to their father set into the crosspiece.

  “Did you and your lady disagree?” John asked.

  Their swords clashed and echoed in the large rectangular shaped room. “Nay.”

  “Some other frustration, perchance?” John nodded, his expression thoughtful as he peered at Peter from over his sword. “She clearly wants to be with you. When I found her in the garden after the Mêlée, she was very upset, not because of your public display, but because she thought she had gotten you into an even worse situation with Gilburn.”

  Peter pulled back, his sword at his side. “Was she crying when you found her?”

  “Aye. And it was passing uncomfortable. I tried patting her back but she only pushed me away.” John rested the tip of his sword on the floor. “I was sitting next to her during your duel against Gilburn. She definitely took note of your . . . sword.”

  Peter shook his head and John laughed.

  “I’m worried about her,” Peter said. “She pities Gilburn. She said she wished she had a sister for him to marry. He has always had feelings for her. I do not deny that. But he does not know her at all. If he knew the real lady, as opposed to one he’s fantasized about in his head, there would be trouble. I do not believe him capable of accepting any woman as a living, breathing person.”

  “Unlike you?”

  “No one knows her better than I.”

  It was a bold statement, but Peter knew it to be true. They had shared too much of themselves by now.

  “Get some sleep, if you can.” John sheathed his sword. “There will be another competition soon. Sir Thornton’s page heard from Gilburn’s page that a scribe was called upon to produce formal invitations.”

  “The joys of sharing a boundary line,” Peter muttered.

  “They are accustomed to free interchange.”

  “Aye, and have you considered how that might affect a siege?”

  “I have. But our men are loyal to us first and foremost.”

  “Many of our men have close ties to Gilburn’s. Ever try to take the life of a man you so recently called your friend?”