LADY EVER AFTER: A Medieval Time Travel Romance (Beyond Time Book 2)

by Tamara Leigh

  “I trust you.”

  In this. Though it pleased her there was no hesitation in his response, she longed for more. “As for your hair…” She pulled perspiration-dampened strands through her fingers. “…I can put order to it as well.”

  “It is getting long.”

  She gestured to the stool before her dressing table. “Sit, and I will summon a servant to gather the necessaries.”

  A quarter hour later, having wielded her scissors on the back and sides of his hair, she stepped in front of him and, seeing his eyes were closed, was pleased he was so at ease.

  Surely he would stay with her. After all, he who seemed more certain of his faith than she, had vowed before God to remain with her until death.

  He opened his eyes and peered up at her where she stood between his thighs. “Should I fear the mirror?”

  She laughed. “A fine job I have done. All that is left is the hair at your crown.” That said, she made quick work of shortening it. “And now for your shave.”

  With the sharp blade scraping at his jaw and neck, he was not as much at ease. Thus, hoping to distract him, she decided to share what she had pondered whilst cutting his hair.

  “I have discovered something.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I am quite capable of loving.”

  He tensed as if fearing she meant to declare that was what she felt for him, then asked, “What made you think you were not?”

  “Hildegard.”

  “Ah, the root of all…”

  “All?” she prompted.

  When he did not answer, she continued, “She said that to every person a woman loves, she gives a piece of herself. And the more she loves, the more she portions out herself until she has not a sliver left for herself.” She turned to her dressing table, set the razor on it, and dipped a towel in a basin of warm water. “Thus, belonging entirely to others, she allows those who hold close their pieces of her to direct her life—often more to their detriment than hers.”

  “But surely Hildegard wanted you to love her son?” Collier said as she drew the moistened towel over his jaw, wiping away shorn bristles the razor left behind.

  She shook her head. “She believed love would make it more difficult for him to be led as is required of the weak.”

  “How was he weak?”

  “Naive, nervous, uncertain, and like his sire, ever deferring to his mother, and eventually to me.”

  Collier raised his eyebrows. “Considering what I’ve learned of Hildegard, I’d guess she was responsible for her son’s—and possibly her husband’s—disposition.”

  Catherine nearly protested, but realizing it would likely be in defense of one who was guilty, she said, “You may be right.”

  He touched her arm. “You need to let go of Hildegard.”

  It was not easy, but she was trying. “I do.” She retrieved the razor. “So now that I know I am capable of loving, the question is—am I capable of being loved?”

  “Of course you are.” This was said almost reluctantly, as if he feared it was his love she sought.

  She told herself it was not, but she knew a lie when she felt one.

  “Your mother and father love you, don’t they?” he said.

  “Before returning to Irondale, I did not believe it, but they do feel such for me.”

  “Then?”

  She raised his chin, scraped several times from the base of his neck to his chin, and dropped the razor on the dressing table. “Are not sons and daughters in the enviable position of being loved regardless of faults and peculiarities?” she said and wet the towel again.

  “Most, I would guess.” Something in his voice told he was not among the majority.

  “Regardless”—she bent near to wipe away errant bristles—“the love of one’s parents is not earned love. ’Tis found love.”

  “You are probably right, though I believe there is much earned there as well, especially once the child is no longer a child.”

  She met his gaze near hers. “Hence, I should not take for granted what is found—must seek to add to it what is earned. But there is the real question. Am I capable of earning love the same as this Aryn earned yours and you earned hers?”

  Collier stared at the one he had been about to kiss, she who looked so much like Aryn, though until that moment he had seen only Catherine. It was true Aryn had earned his love, but her love for him had been far more found than earned. He had not deserved it. Was it possible the day he had learned of her death and pleaded for another chance with her, his prayer had been answered, though not as he believed was best for him? Had he instead been given another chance at love? Simply love?

  If so, was that what he felt for Catherine?

  No. Were it possible to love again, this was too soon—so soon it was not only a betrayal of Aryn but would cheapen what he felt for Catherine who might want him to stay but didn’t necessarily return his feelings.

  He tried to smile. “I believe you are capable not only of giving love, but of earning it. And now if you are done making me presentable…”

  Abruptly, she straightened. “I am glad to have been of service,” she said and turned to busy herself at the dressing table.

  Knowing he had handled that poorly, he was tempted to pull her around, but she would end up in his arms where she didn’t belong until he committed to stay.

  He crossed to the trunk, drew a fresh tunic from it, and donned it as he exited the chamber.

  “I have a message for you, Sister.”

  Catherine had not seen the figure amid the shadows. Hoping Collier would not soon retire for the night, she turned from their chamber she had been about to enter.

  “The message?” she said as Antony stepped into the light.

  He leaned a shoulder against the wall. “King Henry lives.”

  The same as the missive delivered to her at Strivling, and this one likely dispatched by the same person. But was it Walther as Collier believed?

  “Whom do you stand with?” Antony asked.

  She raised her chin. She had been through more pain and suffering, more bloodshed, and more death than he could imagine. Thus, she would not be intimidated by a whelp who only thought himself a man. “Who wishes to know?”

  “One who is concerned about you.”

  “About me? Or a cause without hope?” There. She had said it.

  Antony’s eyes narrowed. “What has happened to you? You held Striving against Montagu—wielded a sword against the enemy when they tried to take the winch room. And now—”

  “Morrow told you that?”

  “One of his men. The knave thought it amusing, but I…” He looked down.

  “What?”

  “I admired you.” He straightened from the wall. “Imagine that—a man revering a woman.”

  She was surprised he admitted it. “I did what I could, and there is naught else to be done. After all the bloodshed and needless loss of life, Edward is still king and stronger than ever. The war is over.” Just as Collier had said.

  Color suffusing his face, Antony spat, “’Twill not be over until the Yorkists are dead, including that one you to take to your bed like a—”

  She slapped him, and when he returned his seething gaze to her, said, “Hate me if you must, but I am your lady, and you will show me respect.”

  The imprint of her fingers rising on his cheek, he said, “Irondale is mine. Stand by Gilchrist. Die by him.” He turned, stalked to the chamber shared with Eustace, and slammed the door.

  Catherine closed her eyes. Regardless of the crude words her brother had meant to sling, she should not have struck him. She should have been more understanding. After all, she had also known such anger.

  Consoling herself that at least she had her mother and father back and Eustace was young enough he might yet be reachable, she entered her chamber.

  When she slid beneath the bedclothes a quarter hour later, a faint masculine scent stirred her senses, and she touched the place where Collier would l
ie this night and imagined seeking his side, pressing her curves to him, drawing a bare leg up his.

  She sighed. Until he trusted her…until he decided to stay, she must put such thoughts from her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Catherine slept. Auburn hair spread across the pillow, lashes dark against her cheeks, lips parted, she made him long to make love to her.

  Not since their wedding night three weeks ago had they been intimate. They shared a bed, and that was all. As her relationship with her father, mother, and Eustace strengthened, it seemed the bonds between Collier and her weakened. Just as feared.

  So would she betray him? Was Irondale’s Lancastrian sentiment reawakening her own?

  His thoughts moved to Antony. He had hoped to win him over, but the likelihood diminished with each passing day, and neither would the boy have anything to do with his sister. For that, Collier was grateful. Otherwise, his influence might see Catherine returned to the hard-hearted woman who had yielded the lives of others, as well as her own, in the name of a man unfit to rule.

  Collier looked one last time at her, then retrieved the sword that had become as essential to his daily wear as a tie had once been. He belted it on, grabbed his mantle, and strode to the door.

  Dawn was reaching fingers of light through the windows when he entered the hall. Most who slept there had already arisen, and those still curled on benches and pallets were beginning to awaken.

  The old man sat in his chair. Every morning when Collier descended, Lewis was there and quick to fix his gaze on the new Lord of Irondale. But though obvious he did not like the man his daughter had wed, the hate felt the day of their arrival seemed to have lessened.

  Or perhaps, Collier mused, I have simply adjusted to it.

  As he passed near Lewis, he noted this morning was different. Lewis slept, his chest and abdomen slowly rising and falling.

  Guessing he’d had a rough night, Collier stepped outside. The air was crisp, but soon his mantle would not be needed. Another warm day was in the making—perfect for visiting the outlying villages. Thinking of the report he would prepare for Edmund, wishing it could be typed and sent to Strivling with the press a button, he crossed the drawbridge into the outer bailey.

  His horse was saddled and waiting outside the stables. Dalton, the young man who had been Lewis’s squire and was now Collier’s, stood alongside the animal.

  “’Tis a fine day, my lord.” He offered the reins.

  “Where is your mount?”

  Puzzlement pleated the boy’s brow. “Sire?”

  Before Collier could make sense of his confusion, Antony exited the stables astride a horse that looked to be a handful.

  Obviously, he had dismissed Dalton from accompanying his lord, causing the squire to believe he had Collier’s consent. Interesting.

  “Never mind, Dalton,” Collier said.

  When the reins of Antony’s horse had to be wrenched hard to halt the animal, Collier was tempted to suggest the boy choose something tamer, but he knew it would only make him more determined to ride this one.

  “I am ready when you are,” Antony said.

  “Then you will show me where the village of Yew Glen lies.” Collier mounted and urged his horse toward the drawbridge.

  What was Antony up to? he pondered as they rode over the gently swelling land. Though every day since Collier had arrived at Irondale, he and the boy had engaged in swordplay, that was the extent of their interaction. It met Antony’s need to defeat the one who had taken his birthright, and Collier’s to better his swordsmanship. So why Antony’s sudden show of interest?

  It was like dealing with James, Collier thought wryly, and turned his thoughts to what his brother would be doing now. If the days in the future paralleled those in the past, James would know something—whatever it was—had happened to his rival. But did he care? Did he feel any of the regret Collier felt that things had not been better between them? Unless Collier returned to the twenty-first century, they wouldn’t see each other again—would never have the opportunity to heal what their father had wrought.

  Collier glanced at Antony. Was James the reason he was determined to win over the boy? To find redemption in this youth who was now his brother through Catherine?

  A half hour later, Antony veered toward the wood and shouted, “Let us refresh ourselves and our horses at the stream.”

  More fodder for suspicion. Collier considered the trees. Did someone lie in wait? He slid a hand over the hilts of sword and dagger, wished he had eyes in the back of his head.

  They slowed as they neared the wood, and he listened. Birds overhead. Small animals skittering over fallen leaves. The silence of trees unmoved by a breeze. Just like a wood ought to sound. Deceptively so?

  Antony led the way, and when the stream came into view, dismounted and guided his horse forward.

  Collier followed and joined him beside the water. As he knelt, splashing water over his face and quenching his thirst, he felt Antony’s gaze. And when he looked around, those eyes were as hard on him as Catherine’s had been when Collier had first arrived at Strivling.

  “Eventually, you will have to accept Yorkist rule, Antony.”

  The boy put his head to the side. “Like my sister? She is weak.”

  “You think so?” Collier stood. “She is the strongest woman I have known.”

  Antony rose beside him. “Strong is not among the words I would use to describe her.”

  “Then you don’t know Catherine.”

  “I know she is a traitor. That in wedding you, she turned from King Henry.”

  “Do you know why she wed me?”

  He snorted. “No doubt, you know well how to please her.”

  Collier grabbed him by the neck of his tunic and dragged him onto his toes. “She married me to save you and your family—that you would not be attainted as Montagu threatened if she refused.”

  Antony’s eyes widened further. “I…did not know.”

  Collier released him, and in that instant heard the low chirp of a bird that stood out from the others. Just like in the movies.

  Antony’s startled gaze swept the wood.

  “Expecting someone?” Collier said low.

  His answer was the whistle of an arrow. Though it was surely meant for the new Lord of Irondale, it skimmed Collier’s shoulder and narrowly missed Antony.

  Collier snatched hold of the boy and ran toward the horses. But the shouts rising from the trees caused the skittish horse to bolt.

  With the enemy converging, Collier sprang onto his own mount and reached to Antony. “Come on!”

  The boy glanced over his shoulder.

  Another arrow meant for Collier missed, but the next grazed his cheek. “Choose!”

  Antony slapped a hand into his brother-in-law’s, and Collier heaved him up behind.

  To avoid the arrows of a half dozen pursuers, Collier wove his horse in and out of the trees until they were on open ground. Trickier. With Antony holding tight, Collier spurred the animal toward the castle.

  What chance had they? Without the added weight of Antony, escape was possible, but with him?

  Collier peered over his shoulder. Though those with whom the boy had conspired weren’t gaining, neither were they falling back.

  As with everything worth doing well, focus was the key to doing it best. Bending low in the saddle, Collier pushed the horse to its limits.

  The land sped by. The hills rose and fell. The sun crept higher. And finally, Irondale.

  “They have turned!” Antony cried.

  Shortly, Collier sped his horse over the drawbridge, “Lower the portcullis!” he shouted.

  Immediately, the gate began its descent, proving Irondale’s men-at-arms were not lax in their duties. They had seen what transpired and were prepared.

  Collier halted his mount in the outer bailey and jerked around.

  Had Antony a good deal less pride, he probably would have been reduced to tears. However, the defender of King
Henry braved the gaze of the one he had conspired to see reduced to a smear on the floor of the wood.

  Collier thrust him off the horse but felt little satisfaction when Antony landed so hard he cried out.

  “The next time you think to kill me,” he snarled, “do not inconvenience me with having to save your neck.” Beneath the gaze of those in the bailey and on the walls, Collier urged his horse toward the stables.

  Dalton was waiting. “You…had a good ride, my lord?”

  A more foolish question could not be asked, Collier thought as he looked into eyes that held enough fear for both Antony and him. Had he known what the other boy intended? No, of that Collier was fairly certain.

  Leaving the squire’s question unanswered, he dismounted and, drawing a hand across the horse’s neck to its jaw, murmured, “I am indebted.”

  Dalton came alongside, and Collier passed the reins to him. “Rub him down and see he gets extra feed,” he said, then stalked toward the keep.

  The hall was unusually quiet—no fire to warm the chill from the room, no servants, and no Lewis Algernon.

  His mind jumped back to when he had earlier traversed the great room and thought the old man was sleeping. Had he thought wrong?

  He took the stairs two at a time, and when he bounded onto the landing, nearly trampled a maid. Steadying her, he asked, “What has happened?”

  “’Tis Lord Algernon,” the woman said and caught her breath as if realizing the mistake made in referring to the old man as Irondale’s lord.

  Collier released her and continued past a gathering of hand-wringing servants. But as he reached to the solar’s door, Tilly opened it and said, “He is quite ill, my lord.”

  Lewis Algernon lay propped against pillows in the middle of the bed, the physician leaning over him. On the opposite side sat Lady Lavinia in a chair drawn near, on her left Sir Ennis, on her right Eustace and Catherine.

  When Collier halted at the center of the room, his wife looked around, and he saw sorrow as well as acceptance in her eyes before they widened.

  He’d forgotten about the arrow that had bloodied his face.

  “There is naught to do but wait,” the physician pronounced. “It could be a day, perhaps a sennight.”