White Lion's Lady

by Tina St. John

  “Have you a scribe here?” he asked the monk with whom he shared the cramped space of the hallway.

  “Of course. Most of our brothers are skilled with letters.”

  “I need to send a message,” Griffin said, deciding then and there what he had to do for Isabel. It was the only thing he could do for her now. “I need to send word to Sebastian, Earl of Montborne. He should know that his betrothed is here … that she is ill and in need of escort home.”

  “Very well.” The monk’s voice was gentle beside him. “Consider it done, my son.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Brother Ronan is a good healer,” the old monk offered, placing his hand on Griffin’s shoulder. “If there is aught to be done for your lady, he will see to it with his herbs and God’s help.”

  “I pray you are right, Father.” Griff released the weight of his thoughts in his heavy, heartsick sigh. “I pray you are right.”

  “Come,” the monk said. “We will pray together, my son.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  It had taken three days. Three days before Isabel gave the first indication that she might survive. Brother Ronan had kept her arm wrapped with a series of herbal pastes and poultices, all of them sickly colored and foul smelling. Griffin asked on several occasions what the nasty concoctions were made of and how they were working, but his questions earned him only a bland smile or a cryptic shrug from the infirmarer monk. Brother Ronan would not tell him how Isabel fared nor how long she might remain asleep, his silence subjecting Griffin to a prolonged and maddening state of ignorance and utter helplessness.

  He had told himself that he would send his message to Montborne, then go, leaving Isabel in the monastery’s care. But his urgent missive was long gone, and he still could not leave. Not without knowing that she would be all right, not without seeing her well with his own eyes.

  And so Griffin had stayed for the duration, holding cold compresses to Isabel’s brow, cleaning soiled bandages, making new ones as Brother Ronan required them, helping in whatever ways he could. He did not eat or sleep, leaving Isabel’s side only when he had to, and returning always with the same hopeful question: “Any change?”

  Finally, around dusk of the third day, her fever broke.

  Griff waited in tense anticipation for Brother Ronan to confirm his suspicions. At last, his hand on Isabel’s brow, the monk turned to Griffin and nodded, the uncustomary width of his smile telling him that the worst was over. But still, Isabel did not wake.

  As dusk dragged on toward midnight with no further sign that Isabel was on the mend, Griffin wondered if this seeming improvement had been but a false omen, the cruel trick of a vengeful God who had every reason to scorn him. Weary, some long hours into another night’s vigil, Griffin let his head drop, resting his forehead on his bent elbow.

  “Gri … Griffin?”

  It was such a quiet sound, the barest thread of a whisper, that Griff thought at first his ears had deceived him. He raised his head, almost afraid to look at her and find her still asleep, still separated from the rest of the living world. But then she stirred slightly. Her pale lips parted and she said his name again, stronger this time as her eyes slowly opened. “Griffin …”

  “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

  He left her side just long enough to go to the door and call for Brother Ronan to come to the room, then returned to the pallet where she lay and hunkered down at her side. Isabel blinked several times, her eyes growing brighter in the dim candlelit room, more alert as she peered up at him, then slowly took in her surroundings. Griffin squeezed her hand, scarcely able to rein in his urge to sweep her into his arms. “You’ve had me so worried, my lady. Thank God you are awake at last. How do you feel?”

  She blinked up at him, then frowned. “Starving.”

  Griff’s answering shout of laughter was thick with joy and deep relief. “Starving,” he chuckled, smoothing the hair from her brow. He turned at the sound of Brother Ronan’s sandals padding softly into the room. “My lady is awake, and she’s hungry,” he told the silent, smiling monk. “Will you fetch her something from the kitchens? Some bread and wine, perhaps a wedge of cheese?”

  “Turnips,” Isabel murmured sleepily. “I should like some boiled turnips, I think.”

  Griffin brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “Anything you want. If there are none in the kitchens, I’ll go to the gardens and dig some up myself.”

  Brother Ronan returned a short while later with Isabel’s requested meal. He placed the tray of steaming food on the pallet near her feet and left as quietly as he came, as if he sensed the intimacy of the moment and knew it was not his to share. Griffin helped Isabel sit up, propping the bolsters at her back. He fed her, held her cup while she drank, and when she was finished and too exhausted to stay awake past her last bite, he settled her back under the covers and watched as she slept.

  Griffin was tired beyond measure himself, but he found no solace in that moment, for now that Isabel was whole and hale, he knew that he would soon have to find the words to tell her good-bye.

  Food was foremost on Isabel’s mind the following morning, as well. After allowing her privacy for her morning toilette and a fresh dressing for her arm, Griffin was back at her bedside, pleased to see her sitting up on her own. She whispered her thanks to Brother Ronan as he brought in a steaming bowl of fish stew and a loaf of bread, heartier fare than any of the monks would take to break their fast, but they seemed happy enough to feed their ravenous little stray.

  “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” Griffin said, taking the bowl when she struggled to balance it on her lap.

  She had been given a dark brown habit to wear, a boxy, crudely cut garment that hung off her slim shoulders like a grain sack. But above the plain collar, her cheeks were pink, her eyes clear and bright, and Griffin had never seen a more welcome sight in all his years.

  God, how he wanted to embrace her, tell her how scared he had been that he might never see her thus again. If not for Brother Ronan, collecting his things from the table at Isabel’s bedside, Griffin might have acted on his urge. Instead, he waited, watching as the young monk arranged his jars of herbs and laid out a supply of fresh bandages. Finally, with a nod to both of them, he padded quietly out of the room.

  No sooner did he close the door, than Isabel reached over and scratched at the binding on her arm, trying to dig her fingers under the knots.

  “Let it be,” Griffin chided, grabbing her hand.

  “But it itches.”

  “It’s healing.”

  She peered down at the bandage and wrinkled her nose. “It stinks.”

  “Brother Ronan is no perfumer, but his poultices work. Besides, you’ll grow used to the smell, just as I have these past few days.”

  “Thank you,” she said. At his look of confusion, she offered him a warm smile. “Thank you for staying with me the whole time. Brother Ronan told me how concerned you were.”

  “Brother Ronan told you?” He scowled, letting the spoon fall back into the bowl with an exclaimed bark of disbelief. “Three days in the same room with nothing but each other for company and he never deigned to utter a single word to me. Not even when I was ranting at him in frustration. I swear I took the man for a deaf mute.”

  “Oh, he hears, but he doesn’t speak,” Isabel hastened to correct him. “Not with words, anyway. He has taken a vow of silence. He speaks with his eyes.”

  Griffin grunted, spooning up a bit of broth and holding it out to Isabel. When she didn’t take it, he glanced up and met her gaze.

  “Your eyes are telling me something as well, my lord.”

  “Oh?” he asked, not at all as casual as he tried to sound.

  “Yes, they are. Something is troubling you. What is it?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been worried about you for a good many days. I still am, truth be told. Now why don’t you finish your stew and concentrate on getting well?”

  “You�
��re keeping something from me, Griffin, I can tell. If you’re concerned that Dominic’s men will find us here, you needn’t worry—”

  “That’s not it, Isabel.”

  “—because from what I understand, this monastery has been here in seclusion for nigh on a century. We’re the first outsiders Brother Ronan has ever seen. Why, I expect we could live here until we were old and gray and no one would ever know.”

  “We can’t—” Griff exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “We can’t live here, Isabel.”

  He didn’t say any more than that. In truth, there was no need. She understood. She had a life waiting for her somewhere else, promises she had to keep. He wasn’t going to take that away from her, no matter how it might tear him up to let her go.

  “We can’t stay here,” he said again, needing to convince himself as much as her.

  Isabel’s gaze was soft, knowing; her small smile wistful. “Can we pretend, then?” she asked quietly. “Maybe for a little while?”

  Griffin stared at her, feeling the same ache in his chest now that he felt when she lay unconscious in her bed. The ache of loss, of loneliness without her in his life. As unfair as it was to her, he didn’t want to feel that ache. Not now. Not any sooner than he had to.

  “Eat,” he said, handing her the bowl and giving her cheek a brief caress. “Try to rest. I’ll come back and check on you again a bit later.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Isabel spent the rest of the morning dozing off and on in her small room, listening each time she heard footsteps in the hallway, hoping each time her door opened and Brother Ronan came in to check her dressings that it would be Griffin instead. He had stayed away from her for hours. Indeed, she had not so much as heard his voice since his first visit with her earlier that day, when she had carelessly reminded him of their troubles with Dom, then foolishly asked him to make believe those troubles did not exist.

  Of course he could not pretend they were out of danger. It had been selfish of her to ask. After all, the responsibility of getting her delivered to Montborne rested squarely on his shoulders. It was easy to forget that it was he who had to provide for them, he who risked his neck every moment they spent on the run, he who bore the burden of looking after her and his own well-being, as well.

  It was easy to forget about her own responsibilities, too. To her king, her house, her sister—and to her betrothed. She had made commitments. Promises. Consecrated vows. To put her heart—to put her woman’s longings—before all of those obligations would be the worst sort of dishonor.

  And then, there was Griffin. She could not forget how much he needed Sebastian’s reward for her return. Though he had not made mention of it lately, Isabel knew it was all he had to hold onto—the hope that when this madness was ended, there would be some sort of future waiting for him. It broke her heart to think that future did not include her, but she didn’t see how it could, and she didn’t know how she was going to bear it once he was gone from her life forever.

  She sighed, blinking back the sadness that began to well in her eyes at the very thought, her ear drawn to noises in the hall. Outside in the corridor came the sound of footsteps, the familiar, measured stride much too purposeful to belong to any of the brethren. Her heart gladdening as the door swung open, she met Griffin’s entry with an uncontained, happy smile.

  “You’re awake,” he said, grinning. He held out his hand. “Walk with me.”

  Isabel nodded, tossing aside her coverlet and slinging her legs over the edge of the pallet. She lifted the hem of her borrowed habit and scuffed into the sandals she had been given by the monks, meeting Griffin at the door, her spirits buoyed by his very presence.

  She didn’t ask where they were going, merely let him lead her along one winding passageway and the next, happy just to be with him. He took her hand in his as he turned and walked down a narrow hall, pausing to smile at her over his shoulder as he braced his hand against a dark oak panel and opened the door on a glorious courtyard garden.

  A trellis of roses formed a canopied archway into the Eden-like setting, a hedge-enclosed feast for the senses, awash with color and fragrance and warm autumn sunshine. Isabel stepped past Griffin to enter the garden, tipping her head back to breathe in the mingled scents of juniper, rose, and sweet bay. A bird twittered from a branch of an apple tree ripe with fruit, its song carrying on the gentle, cooling breeze that sifted through the hedges like the soft sigh of an angel.

  “This is heaven,” Isabel whispered, beaming her joy at Griffin.

  “Come,” he said, and led her further within.

  Her hand ensconced in his, he brought her to the heart of the garden, to a private shady alcove where a turf-covered bench sat overlooking a small reflection pool. Nearby, spread upon the grass, was a blanket bearing a tempting assortment of things to eat: a loaf of bread, a wedge of yellow cheese, three bright red apples—even a bowl of boiled turnips.

  “You did this for me?” she asked, laughing as she dropped down onto the blanket and grabbed one of the apples.

  Griffin removed his sword belt and sat himself next to her, resting his elbows on his up-drawn knees. “You’ve been so long in bed, I thought you might enjoy a day outside.”

  “It’s perfect.”

  She bit into the apple and leaned forward to investigate the rest of their food when a queer rumple in the blanket caught her eye. Something was tucked underneath it—a cloth package, square-shaped and about the width of her chest, wrapped in linen and tied with a strand of red ribbon. “What’s this?” she asked, pulling the parcel from its hiding place.

  Griffin snatched it back from her and held it behind him. “You’ll find out later.”

  “What is it?” she asked, her curiosity piqued. “Is it a package of tarts? Sweetmeats?”

  “Not quite,” he said with a chuckle. His eyes were smiling still, but his expression grew serious as he brought the bundle around and handed it to her. “It’s for you.”

  Isabel tossed aside her half-eaten apple and took this new prize, her heart suddenly fluttering in her chest. She brought the soft, wrapped parcel onto her lap and frowned up at him in hesitation. “For me?” At his nod, she carefully untied the ribbon that held the package closed, unfolding the linen wrapping to unveil what it contained.

  What she saw stole her breath away.

  Inside was a creamy linen chainse and a gown of the finest sky-blue silk, cut to the height of fashion, its sleeves dropping down to elongated points, its bodice fitted and yoked above yards of diaphanous skirts. But if the gown was exquisite for its design, it fell nothing short of extraordinary for the delicate needlework that adorned it. For embroidered at the neckline and hem was a chain of tiny, beautifully rendered butterflies in every color of the rainbow, their jewel-toned hues picking up the sun’s rays and reflecting them back like diamonds. A pair of matching silk slippers tumbled out as she held the dress up to look at it more closely. Isabel had never seen anything so amazing, so extraordinary, in all her life.

  “I told you I’d have you arriving at Montborne looking like a queen,” Griffin said when she could manage no reply. His smile was wistful, his eyes watching her as if he thought he might be looking on her for the last time. “Mayhap you’ll let me see it on you later.”

  “Of course,” she exclaimed, still awestruck by its beauty. “But how did you—where did you get it?”

  “I found it at a shop in Derbyshire. The tailor had made it for a noblewoman in town but my price was fair and he was willing to sell it to me.”

  “Is that where you were all morning?” Isabel gasped, astonished that he would go to the trouble—and the risk—for her. In fact, the longer she considered the notion, the more upset she became. “Griffin, you should not have done this. What if Dominic’s men had spied you in town? What if they’d captured you?”

  His answering grin was sardonic, reckless. “Obviously, they didn’t.”

  “And this dress is so beautiful—” She picked it up again, marve
ling at its loveliness. “Griffin, it must have cost a fortune.”

  He shrugged off her disbelief, leaning back on the blanket to watch her in enigmatic silence. She stared at his self-satisfied expression, his lazy smile, her gaze drifting over the long, athletic lines of his body … and she suddenly realized that his coin purse was missing. The purse that held everything he owned, the months’ worth of wages he had been saving at Droghallow to help him start his new life. He had spent it all.

  “It was worth it,” he said, answering her question before she could summon her own voice to ask it. “You are worth it.”

  For a long moment, she could only stare at the gown, wondering how she would ever be able to wear it without thinking of Griffin, without reflecting on everything he meant to her and always would. “Thank you,” she said at last, feeble words, her voice sounding so very small, shaky with emotion. She set his amazing gift aside and leaned forward to press a kiss to Griffin’s mouth.

  She had meant it to be a chaste meeting of their lips, a kiss bestowed in thanks on a cherished friend, but when she opened her eyes Griffin was holding himself so still, staring at her, his gaze hooded, smoldering. Filled with the same heat, the same need, she felt swelling to life in her.

  “I’m going to miss you,” she whispered breathlessly, confessing her thoughts without thinking, without caring if it was right or wrong. “Oh, Griffin … how will I ever live without you?”

  Griffin’s eyes fell to her mouth as she said it; his jaw clenched, breath rasping out of him. And then he was kissing her. A growl curled low and deep within him as their lips crushed together in a desperate joining. He brought his hands up to frame her face, his strong fingers trembling, wading into her hair to clench possessively at the base of her neck, pulling her close. He shifted to bend himself over her, easing her down onto the blanket as if he could not help himself, kissing her with a savageness that nearly made her want to weep.