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

by Tamara Leigh

  Eyes half-lidded, Catherine’s father stared through the man who had replaced him as Lord of Irondale.

  “He is to remain abed,” the physician said.

  Meaning the old Lord of Irondale would no longer occupy the high seat.

  “I shall prepare draughts to ease his suffering and—”

  The door Tilly had closed behind Collier burst open, and Antony lunged inside and shouldered aside the physician. Clasping Lewis’s limp hand between his, he urged the old man to respond, but his father merely stared.

  Antony looked around, glared at Collier. “You told them!”

  “Told us what?” Lady Lavinia said, her face wet with tears.

  As the accusation in the boy’s eyes turned to disbelief, Collier stepped into the corridor and pulled the door closed.

  In the quiet of the world in which he was trapped, Lewis Algernon contemplated the bits of conversation that slipped into his consciousness. Little made sense, but one thing he knew—Antony had tried to kill Catherine’s husband and failed.

  So why did the boy live? Gilchrist could not have had stronger justification for slaying him. A true Yorkist, even a Lancastrian, would have put a quick end to the threat, especially since the offender was heir to the properties the usurper had taken for himself.

  Catherine’s husband was peculiar indeed. If King Henry’s bid to regain his throne was truly over, was the Yorkist worthy of ruling the people of Irondale? Perhaps, but first he would have to better his knightly skills, which Sir Ennis said were sorely lacking. But the older knight would see to that.

  Lewis’s heart grew heavier for his son. Antony would have to make his own future. Hopefully, the boy would choose well.

  “Why did you not leave him in the wood?”

  Then Antony had confessed. Collier looked up at Catherine where she stood over him wiping the blood from his cheek. “He would have been forced to turn outlaw, and I want him to have a choice.”

  “He sought your death. Why do you care what becomes of him?”

  “He is too young to know better.”

  “He is almost a man.”

  Perhaps in this day and age, but only because medieval society forced adulthood on children even when they were not ready. “Almost,” he said.

  She sighed. “Ever you protect me and mine. Ever I am owing to you.”

  “Your knight in shining armor, hmm?”

  She met his gaze. “Verily not.”

  Before his ego could bruise badly, he recalled that the use of that phrase in the middle ages was often derogatory, implying if one’s armor shone he could not be much of a warrior.

  But then she said, “Certes, you are more a man of letters…”

  Also an insult, one a battling knight tossed at his opponent, insinuating he was little better than a scribe and, thus, unworthy of wielding a sword.

  “…but you have shown more courage than many a knight I have known.” Her lips bowed.

  When she smiled, it was as if a light went on inside her, but he wanted more. He wanted to taste her soft mouth, hear her sweet murmurings, feel her silken skin against his.

  Of a sudden, her smile lowered, and he knew she saw his desire. And reminded herself—as he did when he lay beside her at night—further intimacy was forbidden until he chose her. But though that was the way he leaned, and more so with each passing day, still there was the matter of trust, which was all the more imperative after Antony’s betrayal.

  And then there was the cost of emotions spent on her. He did believe she was capable of loving, but that did not mean she would ever feel more for him than desire and gratitude for the protection he provided her family.

  Not for the first time, he was struck by the irony of his fear of loving another who did not love in return—of becoming Aryn to Catherine’s Collier. It made him feel like the insecure boy his mother had left behind. And angered him, tempting him to trust that in time Catherine would become as deeply committed to him as he was becoming to her.

  “The lord’s high seat is yours now,” she said as she applied ointment to his cheek. “You should sit there this eve.”

  There was something very permanent about that, as if in claiming the seat with her at his side, he would cement his life here. The decision made. Catherine once more in his arms.

  Temptation.

  “What think you?” she asked, turning to stopper the pot of medicine.

  As he stared at her profile, he thought how much lovelier she was than when he had first encountered her at Strivling. She was still too thin, but no longer gaunt from loss of appetite and lack of sleep. The sharp edges of her face were beginning to soften and take on color that made her appear nearer her age. And it was no longer a rare thing to catch something of a smile on lips that made him long to kiss them open.

  Too great a temptation.

  “Not this eve,” he said and stood. “I’ll be back late.”

  She looked around. “Where are you going?”

  “The village of Yew Glen, as was my plan before Antony reminded me I am a Yorkist in the midst of Lancastrians.”

  Alarm flashed in her eyes. “You do not think I had anything to do with the attack, do you?”

  He didn’t, though the cautious side of him warned that made him a fool. “Nay, Catherine, I don’t believe you knew of your brother’s plans.”

  Barely had relief eased her face than it fled. “Pray, do not go out again. The attackers may still be beyond the walls.”

  “If they are, this time they’ll have to brave an armed escort.” What he did not say, though she had to know, was that those accompanying him would be mostly comprised of the men Morrow had sent with him to Irondale to ensure a smooth transition to Yorkist rule. “Since it will be dark when I return, do not wait up for me.”

  Not that she needed to be told, he mused, for most nights she was abed and asleep before him, which was best, making it easier to gain his own rest while she remained forbidden.

  He started to move away, but she stepped in front of him. “I shall await your return,” she said and leaned up and into him.

  Though he knew her words were not a promise of further intimacy when he returned to Irondale, he looked forward to finding her waiting. Deciding there was no harm in accepting what she offered in this moment, he kissed her lips open.

  His body stirred uncomfortably, but before he could command himself to exercise restraint, she drew back.

  “I thank you,” she whispered.

  Gratitude. No further restraint needed.

  They awaited him. He should go.

  Instead, Antony stared at the flicker of light from deep within the wood below Irondale. Did they think him a traitor the same as his sister? Likely.

  Choose, Gilchrist had demanded, and Antony had taken the Yorkist’s hand and fled. But did that mean he had deserted King Henry? That he was now on the usurper’s side?

  Never. If not for the Yorkists, his father would not be near death, and one day Irondale would have been his.

  Antony cursed himself for not remaining in the wood this morn—for not joining the rebels. Why had he not?

  Gilchrist.

  “Curse you,” he hissed. He wanted to hate the man with all the hate his sister had once had for the enemy. However, Gilchrist was nothing like those who had taken Bamburgh Castle—who had humiliated Antony and the others who defended the fortress in the name of their king.

  Though Gilchrist wore his stolen title lightly, he already had the respect of many of the castle folk. He was not rash, seemed fair in settling disputes, praised Antony’s swordsmanship, and took none of the opportunities given him to belittle the displaced heir of Irondale.

  Then this morn, he had wasted precious time to give Antony a choice, one that could have cost Gilchrist his life. And afterwards, he had not carried tale to any of what had transpired.

  Antony recalled the horror on his mother’s face when he confessed what he had done. Catherine’s had reflected fear, then anger, Eustace’s chil
dish awe, and his father’s… Naught.

  He returned his attention to the fire in the distance. What was he to do? And what would they do to him? Fear heightening, he latched on to the Lancastrian pride his mother had angrily denounced. He must not forget what he stood for. Regardless of the rebels’ plans, he must go to them.

  Antony turned from the window.

  “Catherine says King Henry’s reign is over,” Eustace spoke from the bed.

  Antony faltered, having believed his brother asleep. “She is a traitor. Do not forget that.”

  “She seems kind.”

  “Is that how you will explain your betrayal to King Henry when he has her drawn and quartered—and you with her?”

  The boy fell silent.

  “Go to sleep, Eustace.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Someone knocked.

  Lifting her chin from her chest, Catherine peered across the fire-lit chamber at the door standing between her and whoever wanted in. Had Collier returned from Yew Glen, he would not knock before entering. Tilly, then?

  She turned back the blanket she had taken with her to the chair to await her husband’s return, padded across the floor, and opened the door to a wide-eyed Eustace. “What is it?”

  “Antony.” He shifted his weight. “He…”

  “What?”

  “He has gone.”

  She was not surprised, and yet her heart jumped as if it had not been privy to that very fear. “To the rebels?”

  “I believe so.”

  She closed her eyes. She had prayed Antony’s decision to return to Irondale following the attack on Collier meant he would come around, but it seemed not. “Then he goes the way of the Lancasters.”

  “Can you not stop him?”

  “’Tis for him to decide.”

  Tears brightened Eustace’s eyes. “If you do naught and ill befalls him…” He sniffed. “I know you can turn our brother back.”

  Though she doubted she held such sway over Antony, the trust her younger brother placed in her made her long to try.

  “Please, Catherine.”

  For a moment she wished Collier were here, in the next was relieved he was not. Since Antony had so terribly betrayed him, it would be asking too much of her husband to give her brother another chance.

  “I shall try, but I make no promise. How long ago did he depart?”

  “Right before I came to you.”

  Quickly, she donned her mantle over her chemise and pushed her feet into slippers.

  “Godspeed,” Eustace said as she stepped past him.

  Careful not to disturb those sleeping in the hall, she slipped out of the keep by way of the kitchen. Staying to the shadows, she traversed the inner and outer baileys, and catching no sight of Antony, nearly turned back. But for Eustace she continued to the postern gate. Blessedly, it was unguarded, the bar that secured it pushed aside—doubtless, by Antony.

  She drew her hood over her head and stepped through the gate. Outside the walls, she paused to study the land sloping away from Irondale and glimpsed a figure heading toward the wood. As Antony had a good lead on her, she ran.

  The moonlight from a cloudless sky was both a blessing and a curse. Whereas it allowed her to keep her brother in sight, it threatened to reveal her to the castle guard.

  Ahead, Antony neared the wood. Though she longed to call to him, she feared her voice would carry to the castle walls, and so she forced her legs to reach farther.

  At first, she thought it was blood pounding in her head, but as the reverberation grew louder, she realized the sound came from outside herself and looked to the left. Riders approached—black against an indigo sky.

  Her heart convulsed. Was it Collier returning from the village or Lancastrians? Either way, it boded ill. If her husband, Antony’s betrayal would be revealed. If the rebels, she faced capture and punishment.

  Breathing heavily, legs aching, she groped for the strength and speed required to reach the trees ere the riders were upon her. And prayed.

  He would stay, Collier confirmed what he had decided shortly after departing Yew Glen, meaning he would entrust Catherine with his secret. So now the question of how best to tell her.

  As the silhouette of Irondale appeared in the distance, he searched for the words, but no matter how he arranged them in his mind, they were unbelievable. But then, even he still had moments of questioning the reality of traveling five hundred years into the past.

  “My lord!” Sir Ennis shouted.

  Collier looked to where the knight pointed and saw what had caught the man’s attention. It was too dark to identify who stole to the wood, but Antony came first to mind. And if not the boy, a rebel. Could he know for certain it was Catherine’s brother, he would let the fool go.

  Veering left, he and those who had accompanied him to Yew Glen converged on the man as he neared the wood.

  “Show yourself!” Collier commanded as they surrounded him.

  The figure whirled around. “Collier! I feared ’twas the rebels after me.”

  Not a man at all.

  A murmur of surprise rose from the others as Collier stared at the cloaked figure of Catherine, to whom he had intended to disclose his dangerous secret. Catherine, who had no business being outside the walls, especially at night. At least, no good business.

  Warmed by anger, he urged his mount forward, reached down, and tossed back her hood. “Hello, Wife.”

  Moonlight on her upturned face showed an uncertain smile that quickly dissolved. “I know what this looks like, but—”

  “Leave us!” Collier ordered.

  Sir Ennis and the others turned toward Irondale.

  “It seems I’ve inconvenienced you, my lady.”

  She gripped his knee. “You do not understand. I—”

  “I completely understand.”

  She shook her head. “Pray, Collier, allow me to explain.”

  “You mean lie. Nay, I don’t care to hear it.”

  The outrage transforming her face was as genuine as any he had seen. But then, she had fooled him into believing he could confide in her—which could have seen him burned at the stake.

  He reached a hand to her. “If you are ready to return to Irondale…”

  She jumped back. “Still you do not trust me! Though I have trusted you—shared with you what I have shared with no others—what do you give in return? Indecision!”

  It was true, but he had no intention of blindly walking into a Lancastrian trap.

  She threw open her mantle to reveal the thin chemise that was all she wore beneath. “What do you think of my attire, Husband? Is it not perfect for a late-night rendezvous with your enemy?”

  He frowned in remembrance of the day she had gone down into the underground garbed in the clothes of a man. But if she was not stealing away to meet the rebels, what explanation could she offer for her flight into the wood—rather, would she have offered had he allowed her?

  Dear Lord, he silently beseeched, have I wronged her?

  He hoped he had, though he would be in dire need of forgiveness. But truly, what cause other than betrayal could have brought her outside the walls, especially at night?

  Catherine dropped the mantle closed and, turning away, called over her shoulder, “Believe what you will. I care not.”

  He followed and drew alongside. “Come onto my horse.”

  “I will not. I far prefer to walk.”

  Though tempted to turn alpha male and sweep her up in front of him, he tamped down the desire and quietly rode beside her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  He wearied of the silence. Back to back they had lain awake until dawn. Then taking that great, ugly silence with them, they had risen and dressed, attended mass, and now ate the morning meal.

  Collier looked up from the plate of cheese and bread Catherine and he shared. “How is your father?” he asked, knowing she had checked on him and her mother following the church service.

  She turned cool eyes on him
. “The same as on the day past.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Faring as well as she can.”

  Collier shifted in the chair he occupied beside the lord’s high seat and looked past her to where her younger brother picked at his food. “Antony is not coming down, Eustace?”

  As the boy’s gaze flew to him and as quickly flew away, Collier felt a surfeit of air between himself and Catherine as if she had stopped breathing. But he kept his gaze on Eustace. “He is abed?”

  Eustace popped a chunk of bread in his mouth, slowly chewed.

  “Where is your brother?”

  The boy reached for a piece of cheese.

  Collier stood, and when the others in the hall started to rise, motioned them back to their seats. “Eustace, where is Antony?”

  “Likely practicing at swords,” the boy muttered.

  Certain he was doing no such thing, Collier glanced at Catherine who stared at her hands, then descended the dais.

  No one in the inner or outer bailey had seen Antony, and the training yard was empty. Meaning Catherine’s brother had likely gone over to the rebels. But it was more than the boy’s betrayal that stung. It was its bearing on Catherine’s flight to the wood. Had she tried to stop Antony? Was that the explanation he had refused her? It would certainly account for her poor choice of clothing.

  Fearing he had made a terrible mistake—though better that than what he had believed of her—he turned back toward the keep. As he did so, movement beyond the half-opened door of the stables caught his eye. Likely only a boy tending the horses, but he altered his course. As he entered the stables, the sound of trickling water drew his gaze to a figure bent over the water trough.

  It was Antony, his bared back revealing the reason he bathed in the stables. Torso and arms covered in bruises and abrasions, he wanted none to see what could not be explained away—punishment for returning to Irondale following the attack on his brother-in-law. But last night Antony had changed his mind, only to be sent back by the rebels, doubtless to spy on his Yorkist lord.