by Tamara Leigh
“’Tis as I pray.”
He smiled. “Prayer answered.”
Tears stinging her eyes, she came across the space between them, and he settled her against his chest. “I feel so much for you,” she said, “that the thought of losing you is unbearable. That is love, aye?”
“That is love.”
Feeling the beat of his heart strengthen and increase, she said, “Then I feel for you that which gives you reason to stay.” She lifted her mouth to his. “Love well earned, Collier Gilchrist Morrow.”
He kissed her until, out of necessity, he pulled back. Then he spread the fur on the floor, laid her upon it, and loved her.
Lady Matilda Crosley, formerly of the earldom of Sinwell, for years and years known as Tilly, had heard enough to confirm Catherine would not need her much longer. There was sorrow in that, but also joy. And the timing was good since young Antony now stood on the same precipice off which Collier Morrow had coaxed the no-longer legendary Catherine Algernon.
“Legendary,” she muttered. A word too greatly esteemed considering how much sacrifice and heartache was required to attach that title to one’s name—a title to which Antony would succumb did someone not watch over him.
Allowing the couple inside the chamber the sweet privacy of husband and wife, Tilly straightened from alongside the door and moved away without so much as a rustle of skirts. As she passed the room yielded to Edmund Morrow, she smiled and patted back the dark lock of hair that refused to show her age. The little liar.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“An unfinished portrait of Lady Catherine was found in her chamber,” Edmund said as he looked down at his vassal from atop his destrier.
Collier nodded. “I thought it best to leave it behind.”
“You do not wish it, then?”
“Since that Catherine is different from the one who is my wife, I would rather start anew. But what will you do with it?”
Edmund shrugged. “I had it carried to the storeroom.”
“It would be a pity to waste such a fine canvas.”
“Verily. Perhaps it can be used for something else.”
A landscape, though it would not be painted in Edmund’s lifetime.
Edmund looked around. “How did Antony respond when told he was to serve as my squire?”
Collier followed his gaze to the boy who was mounted on the palfrey to which he was reduced. Alongside him stood Catherine, their mother, and Eustace.
“He said he accepts no Yorkist as his lord.” Which was putting it mildly, Antony having raged when told Edmund was taking him for a squire. Knowing it would be useless to try to reason with the boy, Collier had left him to his fit. But though Antony no longer outwardly raged, the fires burned beneath.
“We shall see,” Edmund said.
So they would.
Hugging her arms to her against the crisp morning air, Catherine peered up at Antony astride his horse. In spite of his unkempt golden hair and the anger glittering in his eyes, he was handsome. Very soon he would have many a maid falling at his feet. If he lived long enough.
She glanced at her mother whose eyes were moist and swollen from weeping over news of her son’s departure. As for Eustace, he was controlling himself, his jutting lower lip the only evidence of distress.
Catherine stepped nearer Antony and set a hand over his. “God be with you.”
He snatched free. “Waste not prayers on me. They are far better said for you and your husband.”
Though prepared for such, hurt swept her alongside fear for what was to become of him. “Loathe me, if you must,” she said low, “but do not throw away your life on foolish gestures. Henry’s reign is over.” As soon as she spoke it, she realized they were Collier’s words. She truly believed all he had told.
“Be prepared to answer to King Henry for this day,” Antony warned, then wheeled his horse around and trotted it to where Morrow’s men awaited their lord.
Refusing to allow her shoulders to sag, Catherine told herself to be strong. But not for Hildegard. For Collier and herself.
She looked to where her husband stood alongside Morrow. Dark hair brushed back off his brow and curling over his collar, shoulders broad and straining his tunic’s seams, large hands expressive as he spoke, he looked all the man her betrothed had not been. Though not born to the sword as were many a warrior of this middle age, he was more worthy than any man she had known.
As she watched, Morrow leaned down from his destrier and said something that caused the corners of her husband’s eyes to crinkle and his teeth to flash white. Then, as if feeling her regard, he glanced her way.
What that smile did to her heart and hopes for their future! It was beautiful and thrilling. But also frightening, nothing in life having prepared her to feel what she did for him. It went beyond desire, filling her empty places no one and no thing had ever filled.
Morrow’s shout reminding her of where she was, she looked up as the baron and his men guided their horses out of the bailey onto the drawbridge with Antony trailing.
“You did this! You sent him away!”
Catherine turned to find Eustace with hands clenched at his sides, eyes bright with accusation.
“I hate you!” he spat and ran from the bailey.
“Eustace!” Lavinia cried and followed.
As Catherine ran to intercept her mother, she ached over how much weight Lavinia had lost this past sennight. She looked fragile, as if a breeze might drop her to her knees.
Without much effort, Catherine caught up with her in the inner bailey. “I will go to Eustace,” she said. “You should return to Father.”
“I…” Lavinia’s shoulders dropped.
Taking her mother’s arm, Catherine led her forward, and together they climbed the steps to the keep.
CHAPTER THIRTY
For a moment only, Catherine weighed the chore of sewing against seeking out her husband. She could use some fresh air.
Upon inquiring into Collier’s whereabouts, she was pointed to the training yard outside the castle walls. Thus, she traded fresh air for dust stirred by soldiers practicing at arms. Somewhere amid the haze was Collier.
Noticing Eustace straddled a fence, she crossed to him.
Too intent on the melee to realize he was no longer alone, he startled when she said, “Have you seen my lord husband?”
“I have not.” He returned his attention to the yard. It was over a sennight since Antony had departed, but Eustace’s anger persisted.
Shortly, Catherine picked out Collier. His opponent was a man smaller than he, but more experienced. However, the longer she watched, the more she saw Collier’s skill had developed beyond the ability to defend himself. True, the soldier fought better, but Collier was able to move the man from the offensive to the defensive.
She smiled. She had known her husband was determined to master the sword, but she would not have guessed at his progress. But then, neither would she have believed him capable of climbing a cliff face with naught but hands and feet. For a man not yet born, he was truly remarkable.
“Did you see that?” Eustace exclaimed and pointed to two knights.
The younger one swiped at the back of his tunic that evidenced he had landed in the dirt, while several feet to the right of him lay his sword and, standing over it, Irondale’s senior household knight.
“Sir Laurence vows one day he will better Sir Ennis,” Eustace said, “but he can never get close enough.”
As a child, Catherine had also loved to watch the soldiers at practice, and from time to time they had permitted her to handle their weapons—not that she became proficient, but she had come to understand the power of a honed blade, the point of a spear, and the flight of an arrow. But only after Edward had taken the throne from Henry had she understood the true horror of weapons.
She returned her regard to Eustace, who would too soon don the raiments of war and ply his sword for the gain of another. Just as those who had defended Strivling had done�
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I am forgiven, she reminded herself as it seemed she might ever do. But in light of Collier’s tales of the future that revealed man had yet to learn from the atrocities of the past, mayhap that was good.
“’Tis exciting to watch,” she conceded.
Her brother was too caught up in it to pull his gaze away. “Someday, I will wield arms and smite my enemies.”
“The Yorkists?”
“Of course.”
“’Tis far different from this, Eustace. This is play, not war.”
He looked at her. “Is it true you raised a sword against our enemy?”
“I did, and ’twas foolish.”
“Because you are a woman.”
“Nay, because the battle was already lost. I allowed myself to be guided not by God and reason but by promises that should not have been made.”
“Antony said you have turned your back on King Henry.”
“Only on his war.” As Collier told, there was naught but bloodshed to be gained from it.
Eustace looked away, and when she followed his gaze to Collier, she saw Sir Ennis now stood before her husband.
“Antony says ’tis the Yorkist who turned you traitor,” her brother said.
Antony who talked too much and hated deeply.
“He says ’tis by the bed Gilchrist holds you.”
Catherine gasped. “Do you believe everything your brother tells you?”
“He is the only one who tells me anything. And now he is gone.”
The sorrow in his voice calmed her. He was lonely—at that awkward age when he was no longer a child, yet many years from manhood. And though Lewis Algernon still clung to life, he was unable to offer the encouragement and reassurance his youngest son needed. Verily, Eustace was fatherless.
Hurting for him, she looked back at the yard and was surprised to find both Collier and Sir Ennis held quarterstaffs—rods spanning six-and-a-half-feet and weighted at both ends.
Did Sir Ennis intend to instruct Collier? Unwaveringly loyal to Lewis, the knight was Lancastrian. So why the interest in Collier? Did he hope to humiliate him?
Collier also wondered at the knight’s purpose. Few words had passed between them since the man had offered advice on swordplay weeks ago. So why his offer to show how a fight was fought?
“Grasp it in the middle.” The knight demonstrated. “Place your other hand a quarter of the way from the end.” He assumed a half-crouched stance and beckoned. “Now come.”
When their staffs crossed, the knight thrust Collier back, rotated his staff, and countered with a blow that forced Collier to retreat another step. Then he thrust again. “The trick”—he met Collier’s gaze between the angle of their joined staffs—“is to spin the staff…” He did so and slammed it against Collier’s. “…each time shifting your grip quarter-to-quarter.”
He pressed Collier back, moving so rapidly it was all Collier could do to block the jabs and thrusts.
“Look for the opening,” Sir Ennis said and stabbed the weighted end of his staff toward Collier.
Collier swung his staff down, blocking the blow that would have knocked his legs out from under him.
Immediately, Sir Ennis engaged him again. “While your opponent is recovering from one blow, deliver another.” He did so. “Do not allow him to rest.” He swung high, narrowly missing Collier’s upper hand on the staff. “Then you will have him.” He lunged, slid his left hand down the staff, joined it with his right, and swung like a batter to a baseball. Right into Collier’s gut. “And that is how ’tis done.”
Maintaining his hold on the staff, Collier fought his way past the pain and grimly mused that was, indeed, how it was done.
“Position!” Sir Ennis warned.
Collier sucked a breath and raised his staff.
Around the yard they fought, each step and blow watched by the soldiers in the yard and those on the walls.
They were taking bets, Collier realized when he saw them digging in their purses. Unfortunately, that glimpse made him vulnerable. A moment later, shoulder aching fiercely, he resumed his position.
Do not let him rest, the knight had said. Thus, rather than attempt to better Ennis, Collier studied his opponent’s moves while wearing him down.
When the opportunity to move from defensive to offensive finally presented, he took it. Slow to recover from a meeting with Collier’s staff, the knight left his belly open and Collier found his mark. By design, he suspected as Sir Ennis heavily seated himself in the dirt.
A groan arose from the onlookers, evidencing they had favored the older knight. Unfortunately for their purses, Sir Ennis had tossed Collier a bone much the same as one who allows a child to win a game, hoping to encourage him to press onward.
A hand to his belly, the knight looked up. And grinned. “You learn quickly, my lord. I must needs remember that.”
Collier reached a hand to him, and Sir Ennis grabbed his wrist and heaved upright. “You will do, Lord Gilchrist.”
Will I? Collier wondered. If—rather, when—the need arose, would he be able to defend Irondale?
Sir Ennis jutted his chin toward a place beyond Collier. “Tomorrow, the quintain.”
Then the knight would himself ensure Irondale’s lord was worthy. “Tomorrow,” Collier agreed.
Without further word, Sir Ennis strode from the yard.
“You fought well, Husband.”
Wondering how long Catherine had watched, Collier turned.
“’Twas quite the display.” She halted before him. “Methinks the garrison shall soon accept you.”
“That’s what I work toward.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You need a bath.”
Unfortunately, as with all baths since his arrival in the fifteenth century, it would be accomplished with a basin of tepid water and a hand towel. What he wouldn’t give for a stinging hot shower followed by a long soak in a tub.
“Come.” She laid a hand on his arm. “I will order a bath drawn for you.”
“A real bath?”
“Aye.”
“In a tub?”
“We do have one at Irondale. You thought we did not?”
As he had not seen one, he had assumed Catherine also bathed with a basin and towel. “I was beginning to wonder.”
She laughed. “Irondale is not as backward as you think. Why, we even have a pulley to hoist water abovestairs.”
A pulley. Not at all backward.
“How do you do it in your time?” she asked.
“First the bath.”
“Then the tale?”
“Then the tale.”
However, it was not twenty-first century baths Catherine broached once her husband was settled in the wooden tub. Admiring him where he sat with his head back against the tub’s edge, she leaned forward and set her mouth on his.
He opened his eyes.
“I…” How did a wife tell her husband she wished to make love? Surely it was not proper.
He grinned. “You would like to join me?”
She frowned. Even were there enough room, a bath was not what she wanted.
“I am thinking…” She lifted a shoulder. “…perhaps you might like to come out sooner rather than later.”
He shifted his legs beneath the water. “I would prefer you come in.”
His voice and gaze telling her it was more than a bath he suggested, she stared.
“Of course, it would be best if you removed your clothes.”
He did intend to make love to her in the bath! The thought causing her pulse to quicken and heat to suffuse her face, she said low, “I did not know such was done.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Should I help you out of your gown?”
“Ah nay, I…” She gave a little laugh and began unfastening it. Though beneath his stare, her hands were clumsy, finally the last of the buttons gave way. As she dropped the gown to the floor, Collier reached to her.
She folded her fingers into his and stepped into the tub. And as
the water rose toward the rim, he proved such was done, even if only heretofore in the world he had left to be with her.
Feeling as if she were a leaf drifting to earth, Catherine lay with her husband in the bed where he had carried her after they emerged from the tub. She listened to his breathing, drew in his scent as his chest rose and fell against her back, and reveled in the feel of his arms around her.
“We will have to bathe together more often,” he murmured.
She peered over her shoulder into his half-lidded eyes. “I would like that.”
He grinned, turned her, and trailed a hand down her back.
“’Tis time to tell me another tale,” she said, remembering the night past when he had delighted her with talk of things called automobiles that roamed the roads without horses to pull them, planes that carried people across the sky like birds on the wind, and radio and tell-a-vision that sent voices and moving pictures across the world into people’s homes. All unimaginable, but he said it was so.
“Start with how water is carried to a bath.”
And so he told her, though the tale was not as fantastic as hoped. However, his talk of something called a computer and the activity of surfing the net was thrilling.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The dream feathered her brow, whispering of life, bright and new as the morn. Innocent eyes. Sweet laughter. Skin as soft as down. And the scent…like sunshine. Then it flew away.
When she opened her eyes, Catherine was surprised to find Collier asleep beside her. As he arose before dawn, it was the first time she had awakened with him abed. But then, neither had slept until dark gave way to light.
Remembering the things he had made her feel, the places he had taken her to, and the words he had spoken, she smiled. Never would she have believed anyone could love her as he loved her.
She slid a hand down his chest, but he hardly stirred.
The night they had shared was not the only cause of his exhaustion. He was overworked. With no news of the rebels and Antony gone from Irondale nearly three weeks, life was moving toward as normal a pace as could be expected for what had been visited on these lands. There were disputes to be settled, rents to be collected, supplies to be bought, and a multitude of other responsibilities Collier took upon himself. Though it meant she saw less of him, his efforts were slowly gaining him acceptance.
