"Papa, do you have to go?" Cecilia's eyes were wide with sudden sadness as she looked up at him.
Geoffrey reached for her, and Cecilia eagerly latched her hands around his neck. The thrill of holding his daughter hadn't yet left him, and he cradled her against his chest. "Lyssa and I need to talk. Can we do that alone?"
"We do not need to talk," Elyssa protested loudly. "You need to leave Freyne. I will call your men for you." She turned as if to be about this task.
Geoff grabbed her arm. "I think not."
"Leave go!" Her cry was pure panic. Elyssa struggled, but he left her no opportunity to break free of his hold.
"Lyssa," Cecilia cried, sharp fear in her voice. She buried her head against her father's shoulder.
"Elyssa, cease!" Clare snapped. "You are frightening Cecilia."
Elyssa pressed a fist to her forehead in frustration, then relaxed in defeat. She took a step toward him, coming just close enough to lay her hand against Cecilia's back. "I am sorry, poppet," she said softly. "Your father is right, he and I must talk. It’s time for Simon's bath, and you know how Johanna needs your help."
Each time Elyssa set aside her own needs to care for his daughter, the love Geoffrey knew for her grew. This was what he wanted from her. He'd not be content until she added his name to those she held dear.
His daughter relaxed in his arms, then raised her head to look at him. "I must help Johanna," she told him. The seriousness with which she took this responsibility made him smile.
"Then, you must go forthwith," he replied, setting her on the ground.
Cecilia caught Clare's hand, and Elyssa's cousin hurried her from the garden, barely keeping pace with Simon's nurse. "Will you come and watch me, Papa?" his lass called over her shoulder as Clare was shutting the gate. There wasn't time to answer before he and Elyssa were alone.
"You will let me go," Elyssa hissed in that moment. "I am a free woman now, and you have no right to hold me against my will."
"True enough," he replied with a shrug, "but I do not wish to let you go."
As she yanked on her trapped arm, he smiled, overwhelmed by the pleasure her face and form gave him. Her embroidered belt encircled her waist, revealing she'd regained every bit of her slender form over the past months. It was truly a shame she was wimpled. The material clung to her face, disguising the gentle curve of her cheeks and the slim line of her neck.
Despite her glare, he let his gaze trace the full outline of her lips. His attention set warm color in her cheeks, and her face softened from anger to something far more heated. Desire's glint woke in her eyes.
Geoffrey swallowed. Jesu, but she wanted him with the same depth that he desired her. He could feel the power of her need leap across the space between them. Then her face flamed in embarrassment.
"How dare you look at me that way. Cease this instant, for I'll have no more of it, I tell you,” she chided, her voice filled with outrage.
"I was but returning your interest," Geoffrey replied, his brows lifting against his amusement.
"I have no interest in you." Her arm still caught in his hand, she turned her back on him to shield her face from his view.
"Nay?" He fought his need to laugh. "If that’s true, it shouldn't bother you if I stay and visit my daughter. By the by, since it’s my army that guards your gate, I think me you'll be hard-pressed to throw me out."
She glanced over her shoulder at him. Her mouth was tight and her eyes, narrowed. As he had done to her on the road to Crosswell he once more left her without an answer. Then her mouth took a bitter twist. "If you will not go, I'll take my household and leave in your stead.”
"I think not." He made it a soft comment as he pulled her back toward him. Although she dug her heels into the sod, the grass was dry and slick. She slid ever nearer.
"Cease, my lord." She made this a loud demand, as if she thought a hard voice would bring his compliance. "You've no right. I am not your ward anymore, but a free woman."
"So you keep saying." Geoffrey wrapped his arm around her, pulling her nearer until her back rested against his chest. When he leaned his head against hers he heard her sigh. An instant later—as if she realized she'd relaxed into his embrace—she stiffened. Was she fighting off her reaction to him?
"Humor me," he said. "Tell me what troubles you so deeply that you must command me from your hall."
"You trouble me!" she cried. "I cannot bear how you appear without warning. You take my bed, sit in my garden, intrude in my life, until,” she bowed her head as she paused. When she continued, it was in a hurt whisper, "May God curse me, I want you there."
His triumph grew. All those evenings he'd spent dying for a single touch had been worth it. "And wanting me in your life troubles you?"
“But of course it does," she snapped, peering over her shoulder at him. "You want me no more. How long, Geoffrey? How long was it before you wiped your brow in relief, thankful that I'd refused your offer?"
At the hurt in her voice, Geoff turned her in his arms, then splayed a hand at her mid-back. Only the slightest pressure brought her against him. His shirt was fine, her gowns, thin. The touch of her breasts against his chest sent a bolt of wondrous feeling through him.
"What makes you think I've rescinded my offer?" He kept his voice low as he moved his other hand down her back to her hip. Jesu, but touching her brought a wild and fiery life to his body.
Elyssa's lips parted once more as a rosy flush crept over her cheeks, the color having more to do with inner heat than the day's warmth. "You do," she said. Her hurt had eased some. "You have not pursued me."
Geoffrey fought his smile with the same diligence he used to tame the lust that lived in him. "Is that what you wanted from me? Pursuit?"
"Wanted?" she repeated in a breathless voice. "Nay, of course not."
She gasped, then caught her lower lip in her teeth as even brighter color stained her cheeks. "Well, aye, mayhap. Mary save me, but I do not know what I want." She buried her head against his shoulder.
In the silence that followed her words, he released her from his embrace and stepped back from her. Elyssa made no protest when he lifted her head and found the pin that held her wimple in place. He tossed the bit aside then ran his finger between her cheek and the modest head covering. It slipped from her head, drifting down to her shoulders onto the grassy turf.
Soft curls of hair had escaped her plaits to rest lightly against her newly bared throat. Geoffrey's pulse lifted to a new beat. He set his lips to the spot just beneath her ear. "I never said I would pursue you," he told her softly.
She shuddered against what he did, her breath escaping in a quick gasp. Laying her hands against his chest, she drew her palms downward in a slow caress. Beneath her touch his skin burned.
His mouth moved to her ear. "That would have been far too dangerous."
"Dangerous?" she murmured, her fingers lifting the hem of his shirt so she could lay her hands against his bare skin. As she did so, she shifted slightly until she stood between his thighs. It was his turn to shudder.
"You might have run to ground, and I'd never have pried you from your hiding place. Nay, it was a siege I planned, willing to sit patiently outside your defenses waiting for you to starve."
Cupping her face in his palms, he let his thumbs follow the sharp peak of her brows then lowered his mouth to hers. He brushed his lips against hers in a light caress, but she caught his mouth with hers. Her lips clung to his, begging him for more than this.
Heat exploded in him, and his kiss grew in passion until they were both gasping. His mouth left hers to press a kiss to her cheek, her jaw, her brow. Then he stepped back from her. "Are you starving yet, my love?"
He caught his breath. Dear God, but she was. Her desire for him made her all the more lovely. Her lips were soft, her eyes sultry with her hunger. When she drew a deep breath, the rise and fall of her breasts made his knees weak.
"You are a devious man, Geoffrey FitzHenry," she told him. "All those e
venings we spent together while I thought you wanted me naught, you were seducing me into needing you."
"I nigh on drowned whilst I did it," he murmured, drawing her close once more. He'd hardly touched his mouth to hers before she was pushing him back again.
"Damn you, but you made me love you!" She sounded chagrined by this.
"Did I?" Geoffrey laughed. "Since I have achieved my objective, will you concede defeat and give me what I came to win?"
There was a sudden wariness in her eyes. "What is that?"
"Wed with me, Elyssa of Freyne."
Panic washed over her face. "You cannot ask that of me, Geoffrey."
"I can and have." He drew her back into his embrace. She offered no resistance this time, but he knew better than to trust that he had her when she'd not yet conceded to the hold he had on her heart.
"You cannot wed with me. Have I not listened to you these past months telling me how Gradinton can take Cecilia should you wed again?"
He shifted easily past her first barricade. "Thus do I seek to foster her. When she is safely in some other house I will cede her properties to her grandsire. Our wedding day will wait for that."
A relieved sigh escaped her at that. "Then, we will never wed. You are unwilling to release Cecilia, refusing every offer even if you must find some absurd reason to do so."
"I have not. Every reason I give is valid," he protested, then paused. He did resent having to give Cecilia up to reclaim his own life, the same life that Gradinton's daughter Maud had stolen from him.
Then Geoffrey shook his head. "You're right, I have stalled and that's a dangerous thing when Gradinton has been quiet so long." Sibyl had entered a convent. Somehow, Geoffrey doubted Baldwin would leave Cecilia alone through the seven years wait required of Baldwin before he was free to remarry.
“Lyssa, however loathe I am to give up Cecilia, I must for her own safety. I am taking a lesson from you. See how you have survived releasing Jocelyn, while your son thrives in his new environment? So will Cecilia do. I have two fine houses offering for her right now. She'll be fostered within the month. Wed with me."
Elyssa's eyes widened in fright. "Nay."
"Wed with me." He touched his mouth to the curve of her throat.
"Nay," she breathed, and leaned against him. At his continuing caress, she tilted her head to one side and freed a quiet sound of pleasure. Rising on her toes, she pressed herself against the part of him least likely to refuse her. Her hands slid down his chest until her fingers found a home between the drawstring of his chausses and his skin. It took every bit of strength he owned to catch her hands in his.
"You may not," he chided, his voice husky with longing. "Until you've given me your vow I'll have none of you."
Elyssa struggled to free her hands from his, groaning softly in frustration. At her show of passion for him Geoffrey almost gave way. But to do so would dishonor them both. "Wed with me," he demanded softly.
"Will you not take me without vows?" Elyssa's face was filled with longing and grief, as if their marriage were truly impossible.
A touch of anger filled him and was gone. "You and your insults," he murmured. "I want you as my wife, not my whore."
"I would rather be your whore," she cried then what terrified her broke past her lips. "If I were but your whore, I would still own my freedom. I can leave you once you hurt me."
Geoffrey relaxed in relief. "Ah, so here at last is what troubles you. Lyssa, there are many ways I can hurt you, but I vow to you now, none of them will be intentional."
"True enough," she scoffed. "You are a man, you cannot help yourself. The day will surely come when I open our bedchamber door and find you in another woman's arms." Her voice faltered suddenly, and she looked up at him. He saw it in her face. It was as if she were already experiencing the pain of his future betrayal. "I couldn't bear it, Geoff, not from you," she whispered. "It would be my death."
The corner of his mouth lifted as she revealed her soul to him. He twined their fingers. "Give to me that freedom you so prize and, along with my heart, I will give to you ownership of my body. But know you, this is an easy vow for me to make."
When Elyssa sent him a confused look, he only quirked his brows. "I've no taste for whores or a quick tumble under a blanket with someone else's wife. I never have. My brothers often teased me for this habit, calling me more monk than man. Say your vow to me, and it will be only you in my bed for your life's time."
***
Every bit of logic in Elyssa warred with her heart's need and her body's desire. She stared at him as if his face might tell her whether he spoke true or lied. Even if she could tell it was a futile attempt. He was still a man like any other. What he meant today would be different on the morrow.
She caught herself mid-thought. But he wasn't like all the others. Never had she known a man like Geoffrey. Yet here she was, persisting in judging him by others' standards. How was this any different from what she’d done to Jocelyn by clinging to fears long after they'd ceased to be valid? The memory of Geoffrey holding Simon high above him returned. Although Johanna had cried in fright, Elyssa hadn't known a moment's worry. If she trusted Geoffrey with her son, whom she loved more than her own life, then she could trust him with herself.
As if he sensed her change, Geoffrey reached for her. Elyssa came gratefully into his arms.
Geoffrey would not betray her. She lay her head against his shoulder.
"Lyssa, I love you. Wed with me," he repeated.
"Aye, I will wed you," she replied, then wrapped her arms around him. "But only on one condition."
Laughter rumbled quietly in his chest. "You'll not give her up." His words were but an amused breath.
"Nay. She's mine. Find another way to satisfy Gradinton."
Geoffrey eased back from her, then crooked a finger beneath her chin to lift her face to his. His smile was glorious, his love for her radiating from him. It took her breath away.
He ran a finger down the curve of her cheek. "I knew you would say that. As soon as Michaelmas court is done, we'll set our heads together and see what we can devise."
Jesu, but it was hot for early September. Reginald, his tunic off and his head bared to the sun, let his steed plod along the narrow trail leading from the village behind him to the main highway.
With more luck than he was due, he'd found himself a temporary position as steward for Durham Abbey. The man who'd served that wealthy house yet languished in an illness contracted not too long after Durham lost its bishop. While the holy brothers prayed for the steward's recovery, Reginald offered somewhat hesitant pleas that the man would give way to what consumed him.
His reluctance sprang from a sort of general dislike for the position. Although the recompense was adequate and the monks congenial for their sort, the abbey's properties were far-flung. All this traveling left him saddle sore and irritable. On top of that, the villages he managed were a disappointment. Taken altogether, their yields did not meet that which grew in Freyne's rich soil. But the greatest part of his dislike rose from Durham itself.
The landscape here was nothing like Freyne's, which lay in England's far more civilized south. Homesickness ached in him, the need to return to the place of his birth twisting in his belly. He'd been wrong to do Clare's will. A man who let a woman rule him was no man at all.
The distant beat of hooves against the hard-packed earth woke him from his thoughts. Judging from the sound, it was a goodly number of men who came toward them, moving at a canter. He peered ahead, but the oncoming party was yet hidden in the valley below them. Behind him, his four stirred from their lethargy. Common soldiers all, they reached for their leather vests and loosened their bows.
"We'll not hurry to meet them," he said, snatching on his sweat-stained tunic. His hauberk, resting on the saddle behind him, was the same boiled leather his common companions wore; he'd been unwilling to fry in his mail this day. He yanked it on over his shoulders, leaving it untied as he thrust his hands into h
is gloves. While he loosened his sword, he also damned himself for storing his helmet in his saddle pack. An hour ago, it had seemed an intolerable nuisance, rattling on his saddle as he rode.
With a steady jangling of harnesses and squeak of leather, the first man, a knight in full mail, crested the hill. Reginald caught his breath in surprise when he recognized him. Baldwin de Gradinton, his head bared and his face red against the heat, rode toward him at the head of his troop. Reginald's stomach gave a bounce at the impossibility of coming across the nobleman at this distant corner of the world. Gradinton had no properties this far north.
"Well met, my lord Gradinton."
The baron called his troop to a halt, letting his mount walk forward as he greeted the brother of his dead friend. "Well now, Reginald of Freyne. How is it I find you here in the hinterlands of England?" Exaggerated surprise filled the man's voice.
"I might ask the same of you, my lord," Reginald replied.
"You might at that," the baron said with a lift of his brows and a smile. The movement of his mouth clearly said this meeting was at his design. "My men and horses crave a rest. Bide a bit with me, and we'll share our tales, my friend."
Caution woke in Reginald, and the urge to refuse the man was strong. Ah, but it wouldn't do to insult one as powerful as Gradinton. "We'll rest with them," he told his small party, and dismounted.
His men gratefully left their steeds, drifting toward the others of their kind. Skins appeared, and men quenched their thirsts and those of their steeds. Gradinton dismounted and led his mount up the road with Reginald following quietly.
When they were far from earshot of their English servants, the Norman baron stopped. Reginald stripped off his hastily donned bits of armor as the nobleman offered his steed water. A new confidence grew in him. Gradinton had sought him out; the baron's need made them equals.
Reginald broke the silence between them. "I find it marvelous that our paths should cross so, my lord."
Gradinton's mouth twisted into a harsh smile as he wiped his hands on his surcoat. "Aye, it’s a righteous miracle, of that there's no doubt. Shall I rush us through your news? Imagine my surprise at discovering you are the temporary steward for Durham Abbey. My outrage is surely great as I listen to your tale of woe, hearing how that devious bastard, Coudray, threw you from your rightful place at Freyne. Yet seething at the hurt done to your pride, I announce that I am presently in need of a commander at Gradinton. This is a special position indeed, incredibly well suited to your talents." He fell silent, waiting for Reginald's reaction.
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