Mary Reed McCall

by Secret Vows

  Catherine stood up straight and ran her hand down her leg, smoothing her palm over the fabric. Strange or not, ’twas part of her life now. Her training would commence today. And with it, she’d cross another new threshold.

  Raising her arms, she combed her fingers through her unruly hair and began to plait it, thanking Jesu that time, at least, was still hers to command. For a little while, anyway. As for the rest? She’d leave it to God to help direct her to the path she should take in saving her children from Eduard’s evil…

  And in coming to some lasting decision about the unusual, powerful man she was bound to, body and soul.

  Gray almost sank to his knees when his wife came striding into the clearing beyond the castle’s outer wall just before noon. She’d done exactly as his message requested, he noted, his mouth going bone dry. He reached for his water-skin, making a mental note to take care that no one else saw her like this. Adding to the allure of her form-fitting garments, she’d pulled her hair into a single braid that hung down her back. It swung in provocative rhythm over the curve of her buttocks, enticing all sorts of thoughts into his imagination.

  Swallowing hard, he cursed himself for his bright ideas. That they’d need to prolong consummating their union indefinitely had become more than apparent last night, when she’d dissolved into tears in their bed. He’d resolved himself to wait, planning to be patient and give her time to adjust. To let the destructive memories of Eduard fade a little.

  But now, seeing her dressed in the garments he’d left for her, he suspected that maintaining his physical distance from her was going to be even more difficult than he’d anticipated.

  He shifted the sword he’d chosen for her use from his right hand to his left before balancing it against a tree stump. He’d trained more than his share of squires in the arts of war, but none of them had possessed a voluptuous shape and legs as long and graceful as a doe’s. His wife’s breeches encased every subtle curve, right to where his sight was halted by her tunic at the tops of her thighs.

  Gray swallowed again, dragging his gaze from that spot and subduing the heated image that sprang into his mind, suddenly, of those long legs wrapped around his waist in the throes of passion. He looked in desperation to her face, seeing the uncertainty clear in her eyes. Her heightened color told him that she experienced uneasiness about her unorthodox clothing as well, though he doubted that her thoughts traveled the same, heated paths as his.

  He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should begin.” Gesturing toward the sword, Gray indicated that she should take it up. He’d chosen it as one that would be best suited for her training, since it was light, and its hilt flowed in leaner lines, making it a better fit for a woman’s smaller hand.

  As she approached, he added, “Once you’re used to the feel of the sword in your grip, we’ll master some of the common strokes and then practice the training skills used daily by the men.”

  She nodded, lips tight, as she reached out to grasp the hilt. “’Tis heavy,” she murmured, almost to herself, as she balanced the handle’s weight in her palm, though still without lifting it.

  “Aye, but a light blade compared to many. ’Tis the size used most oft by a squire, though I warrant it feels more ponderous to you than it would to a well-muscled lad of sixteen. You’ll grow accustomed to it as the training brings strength to your arms.”

  She glanced to Gray, hesitant.

  “Go ahead,” he tried to reassure her. “’Twill take time, but you’ll learn to handle the blade. You must become one with your weapon before you can use it effectively. And you must learn to respect its power.” He nodded again. “Lift it up, that I may judge how best to proceed with your training.”

  Feeling awkward and silly, Catherine hefted the sword with both hands, gripping it by the metal hilt. By the Saints, but it was heavier than she guessed! Somehow, she managed to lift it waist high. Staggering for balance, she tensed her arms, fighting to keep the blade aloft even as the tip began to veer earthward; she lurched forward as it slammed home, its point digging into the soft ground near her feet.

  Her breath came out in a rush, and she felt more than saw Gray frown from his position behind her. But when she turned to catch his expression, he altered it to one of concentration and continued to watch her, arms crossed in front of his chest.

  Heat flooded her face, and she looked back at her metal opponent. This was proving to be more difficult than she’d imagined. But Gray had told her that she was suited to this kind of training, even though she was female. She recalled the rush of pleasure she’d felt at his words. It had been the only time in her life that she could remember feeling anything but shame about her unnatural size.

  Catherine narrowed her eyes, glaring at the deadly weapon dangling from her grip. Gritting her teeth, she dragged it upward again, straining and holding her breath until she managed to balance it at chest height. It wobbled there for a moment or two, and she threw Gray a small grin of triumph. But then suddenly the blade shifted in her hand.

  It crashed to earth again, and an exasperated cry burst from her. Defeat balled in her throat, and she gouged the dirt with the sword’s tip, wanting to fling the cursed weapon away as far as she could. Only the knowledge that her puny show of strength would undoubtedly embarrass her further stayed her hand.

  Just as she was trying to muster enough energy to attempt hoisting it again, she realized that Gray had moved in behind her. Surprise blossomed to shock when she felt him press against her back to enfold her in his arms.

  When he slid his hands down from her shoulders, placing them over hers where they gripped the hilt, jolts of sensation surged through her. Her eyes drifted shut of their own accord. She felt his palms, warm and hard, caressing her hands; she sensed his strength behind her, supporting her, protecting her, guiding her. And then he whispered in her ear…

  “Save your anger for your enemies, wife. It serves no purpose to direct it at your weapon.”

  Catherine’s eyes flew open, and she twisted to look at him, her mood sparking to ire again at the thinly veiled amusement in his damnably green gaze.

  “Aye, well, my enemies will have a fine laugh at my fumbling, my lord. I’ll nary find means to lift this weapon, and they’ll lop my head off for me.”

  She felt his entire body tighten—all but for his hands, which stroked the tops of hers more gently round the hilt. The warmth of his breath wafted soft against her cheek. “Nay, lady. By the time I finish with you, I warrant you’ll be able to keep even me at bay. ’Twill take hard work to get there, but we will make it happen together, I promise you.”

  Together. That word sent a strange thrill of longing coursing through Catherine, until it settled deep in her heart. But she had little time to nurture the feeling; he lifted her arms, her hands still gripped by his to her sword. Then he took a few practice strokes, and she felt the swish of the blade, reveled in the tantalizing play of his chest muscles along her back.

  “Spread your legs wider.”

  His soft command made a warm blossom of heat unfurl in her belly, and she was appalled for one sinking moment when she thought that he’d heard the catch in her breathing. He paused before continuing with the movements of their arms, but other than that he didn’t seem to have noticed. Yet it was all she could do to concentrate on the strokes and arcs he guided her through in the next minutes.

  She couldn’t seem to focus. All she could feel was the warmth of his body behind hers, his arms circling her with their strength, the powerful muscles of his legs pressed into the backs of her thighs from his own wide stance…the delicious sensation of his breath tickling her ear on each exhalation.

  Her muscles felt like butter and her belly a fluttering swirl of sweet, hot liquid, when he finally released her a few minutes later and stepped away. Though she’d exerted herself but little in the exercise, her breath came as fast and hard as if she’d raced up a hill.

  When the reason struck her, ’twas with stunning force. What had happened last
night was but a taste of this unbelievable feeling. This was raw, full-blown desire, and it took her so much by surprise that she crumpled to her knees where she stood.

  “Are you unwell, Elise?” In one swift motion, Gray knelt next to her, taking her hand to chafe at her wrist. “Here.” He reached for a water skin, untied it, and held it to her mouth. “Take a drink.”

  She tried to protest that she was fine, but he pushed on until she took a quick swallow. It was probably for the best, anyway. Certainly better than telling him the true reason behind her moment of weakness.

  “I feel much better now,” she said, rising to stand.

  “Don’t move so quickly.”

  “I’m fine,” Catherine protested, dusting off her knees with her hands. “’Tis just the heat. The sun shines bright today.”

  Gray shielded his eyes and glanced up. “Aye. ’Tis near midday. We began our training too late. You’ll need some refreshment before we continue.” He gestured to the shade of a nearby tree. “Come and sit you down where ’tis cooler, while I fetch the basket.”

  Catherine frowned. Basket? She’d thought they’d be going back to the castle to eat with the others. But she had to admit that she was hungry. Her stomach rumbled as she sat beneath the tree, reminding her that she’d yet to take any food or drink today. And Gray was right about one thing. It was much cooler here, and it did feel good to sit.

  She watched him return from his stallion with a woven basket. The lid was attached to the ragged sides with a frayed strip of willow, and she raised her brow as he sat beside her with it.

  “That basket looks as if it could use some mending.”

  His mouth quirked up on one side. “Aye, I suppose it could. I’ve had it for years. ’Twas with me on Crusade.”

  “I amend my remark, then. ’Tis in better shape than I guessed if it survived the war in Egypt.”

  “Yet it has seen better days.” He caught her gaze as he unwound the tattered silk that held the lid on tight. “At our wedding feast you talked of searching for willow swamps. Do you possess skill enough in weaving to repair the basket for me?”

  Now it was Catherine’s turn to smile, though she hid it in the act of smoothing the ground for their meal cloth. Of course he couldn’t know that she’d been weaving willow of much finer texture than his basket since she was a seven years child.

  “I think I might be able to manage it, my lord, provided we find an ample supply of withies to harvest in the next weeks.”

  He handed her the cloth, and she spread it in front of them, adding some smaller folded linens for wiping their fingers and mouths later. As he busied himself with pouring wine into her cup and cider into his own, she stole another glance at him. “You must have had many adventures while Crusading for the Holy Cause. Sir Alban talked of the battles you fought together while in Egypt, and he swore that you’d saved his life.”

  Gray laughed. “Alban tends to exaggerate. I didn’t actually save his life. And ’twas hardly heroic.”

  “Nay? Alban made it sound so, though he suggested that you tell the story better than he does.”

  “He did, did he?”

  “I would like to hear it.”

  He ran his hand through his hair. “’Tis of no matter, really. Nothing you’d find of interest, I think.”

  Catherine looked down at her lap. “If you don’t wish to tell me, I understand. ’Tis just that I so rarely heard news of the Holy Crusade, and I had hoped to learn more about it.”

  Gray remained silent for a moment, and she felt his gaze on her. Finally he looked away. “I only hesitated to tell you, Elise, because this particular story is less than savory. I don’t object to your hearing of it if it is what you wish.”

  She nodded. “Aye, please.”

  “Very well. Alban and I were on our way home, passing through Turkey. We stayed for a while in a village not far from the border, thinking to give ourselves some rest before undertaking the rest of the journey home. Instead, we found trouble. A local man charged Alban with raping one of their women and getting her with child. Alban was arrested and brought to trial under Turkish law, which meant that he faced almost certain execution.”

  “How terrible! What did you do?”

  “’Twas a difficult case. Alban had never even seen the woman, and yet no matter what either of us said, the man who’d charged him refused to be dissuaded.” Gray took a swallow from his cup and shrugged. “So I made some inquiries, discovered the truth, and took care of it.”

  Catherine waited for him to explain, but he remained silent. “Well?” she finally burst out. “What happened? How did you save Alban from execution?”

  “Once I knew the truth I just tracked the—” Gray paused. Then he shook his head. “Nay, perhaps I’d better not say more. I fear the rest of the details are not fit for delicate ears.”

  Catherine raised her brow. “We’re here because you’re training me to wield a sword—hardly a delicate pastime. I think ’tis safe to say that I can endure the full telling of your story.”

  A beat of silence passed. Still without comment, Gray reached into the basket and took out a leg of roasted fowl and a hunk of bread. He handed them to her, his generous mouth flirting with a smile. “I concede your point. But before I’ll go further, you must eat something. I’ll say no more until you do.” He gestured to the food, adding a plump yellow apple to the mound.

  Seeing that it was hopeless unless she cooperated, Catherine picked up the chicken and took a bite. She chewed deliberately, tempted to glare at him for making her wait to hear the rest of his story. But after swallowing the first mouthful, she forgot her ire. The roasted bird was delicious. Perfectly seasoned and moist. Her stomach growled again, almost as if in thanks.

  She took several bites of the bread and a few more of the chicken, interspersed with swallows of her wine, noticing that Gray polished off his portion as well.

  When she’d finished the last bite of apple, she sighed and leaned back against the tree, patting the unusual fullness of her stomach. Contentment flowed through her like an elixir, enticing her to close her eyes for just a moment. Ah, if only she were a cat right now, free to nap in the warm caress of the sun…

  With a groan, she forced herself to sit up and open her eyes. If she napped, she’d never hear the rest of the tale. She tidied the cloth that had served as their table, wiped her cup clean, placed it back into the frayed basket, and then faced Gray with an expectant look.

  He’d tipped his head back to drink his cider, and he paused in mid-swallow, catching her stare from the corner of his eye. When his playful gaze met her far more stern one, he jerked the cup down and wiped a drop that trickled onto his chin. Then he coughed as if he were choking, but the effort was so feeble that she knew it was a performance for her benefit, and a weak one at that.

  “Is something wrong?” He asked in a raspy, exaggerated voice.

  Oh, but he was maddening. “Aye. You promised to finish the story about Alban once I ate something. I’ve done as you asked, and now I’m waiting to hear the rest.”

  “Ah, yes. The tale.” He took his time using his small square of linen to wipe his fingers and his mouth, before swabbing his cup dry and tossing it and the soiled cloth back into the basket. Then he looked at her again. “I can’t remember where I left off.”

  She almost rolled her eyes. “You were going to tell me how you freed Alban.”

  “Well, I didn’t free him, exactly. That took care of itself, once I exposed the liar whose sin had brought evil down on Alban’s head.”

  Liar. Sin. Evil. The words sent a jolt through Catherine. She stiffened, but he continued to talk, seemingly unaware of her agitation. “I told you that Alban was imprisoned, awaiting trial, and that he was certain to be convicted.” He paused. “This is where the story turns indelicate. Are you sure that you want to hear the rest?”

  She managed to nod, not trusting that her voice wouldn’t give away her own guilt.

  “As you wish.” He picke
d up a twig, twisting it in his fingers as he talked. “In many cases of deception, I’ve found that he who protests most loudly often bears the most fault. ’Tis a quirk of human nature. And this man who’d charged Alban was most vocal about the damage done to the young woman. Naturally, my search for the truth began with him.”

  Catherine fiddled with the edge of the cloth. “How did you get him to admit his guilt?”

  “I didn’t. I learned where he kept his liaisons with her, arranged for the village justices to come with me one night to the spot, and then quite literally, exposed the man with his braies down.” Gray frowned with the memory. “’Twas not pleasant, especially when the council sought justice against him. He was punished not only for defiling the woman, but for swearing to a falsehood on top of it.”

  “He was executed?” Again, her voice seemed to come out in little more than a squeak.

  “Nay,” he shook his head. “He was the child’s father, and so they let him live to provide for it. But they ensured that he’d never father another child again.”

  She swallowed hard. “Oh.”

  “Alban was released with reparations, and we continued on our journey home.” Gray tossed the twig aside and looked straight at her. “And so you see, lady, ’twas the truth and not I that freed Alban. ’Tis a much more powerful force than mere man.”

  Catherine’s stomach rolled, and her meal suddenly felt very close to reappearing in a most unpleasant way. She lurched to her feet, reaching out a hand to steady herself against the trunk. “I see. Thank you for telling me the whole tale. But now I—I feel the need to move around a bit. Perhaps we could continue our training.”

  Gray rose to stand next to her, and again she was overwhelmed by his sheer size, by the rippling muscle across every inch of him. “’Tis a good sign, your willingness to press on,” he said, shaking out the blanket, then folding it and placing it back in the basket with the remains of their food.

  When he faced her again, encouragement and pride lit his eyes, making her want to wither to the ground with shame. “And I have a few more strokes I’d like to teach you, only this time with a child’s wooden sword. ’Twill allow you to practice on your own between our meetings.”