by Tamara Leigh
"Aye, after I begged him to. And since then I have affirmed that it was the right thing to do, for I have come to know Sir Liam as a man with years of hurt behind and before him. A man aching to be understood." Thoughtfully, she traced a finger down a pleat of her lustrous skirts. "Tis true he has a temper, Lady
Joslyn, but I beseech you, do not let that shadow the good of him."
Then the queen also believed she need not fear him, Joslyn thought. But how could she not? Even with all she had learned this day, Liam till unsettled her. Lord, never would she forget his ride on Rosemoor Manor. Like the devil he had come to shatter her snug little life, and like the devil the king had this day set him upon her shoulder to darken the rest of her days.
"Of this I am certain," the queen continued, "Sir Liam is as honorable today as he was seven years ago."
"Though angrier," Joslyn pointed out.
Regret settled in the fine grooves of the queen's face. "Aye, angrier. The future promised him has been taken a second time." She shook her head. "'Tis a cruel life he has been dealt."
Made all the more cruel by an innocent little boy who had yet to know of the tumult he had caused simply by being born. "Yet you think he will remain honorable?" Joslyn asked.
Without a moment's pondering, the queen answered, "I know it." Then she stood, smoothed her skirts into place, and started from the chamber. "Ladies," she called, "pull your noses from the door and let us be to dinner."
There was a shuffling behind the closed door of the apartment into which the women had earlier gone to prepare themselves, a calculated moment of silence, and then the door was pulled open. Each looking as innocent as a cat with a feather stuck between its claws, the five women filed out.
What a strange life. An empty life, Joslyn thought.
Would it be the same at Ashlingford? A sudden yearning for Rosemoor filling her belly, she forced her thoughts of Liam aside and followed the queen and her entourage from the apartments.
Let us have music!" King Edward shouted.
The tedious meal over with, and now the ceremony whereby Liam had sworn fealty to the king as the new baron of Thornemede, the minstrels in the galleries positioned their instruments and struck up a merry tune.
The commotion that followed was an opportunity Joslyn could not allow to pass her by. Overwhelmed and in need of fresh air, she rose from the bench she had occupied these past three hours and walked stiffly to the doors standing open to the left of the dais.
The soldier who stood guard there swept his gaze over her but allowed her to pass unhindered.
Stepping out onto the balcony, Joslyn looked across an expanse of lawn bordered by flowers. Even lit by a clouded sky it was lovely, so open and serene in contrast to the hall behind.
A breeze coursed gently over her brow, bringing with it the scent of rain. She sighed. Just a few minutes, she told herself, and then she would return to the hall with its throng of people and suffocating noise. Longing for Rosemoor, she crossed to the railing and leaned her elbows upon it.
"You are thinking of slipping away again, Lady Joslyn?" A voice too soon intruded upon her sanctuary.
Liam. As he had not said a word to her throughout the meal they had shared at the same trencher, it surprised her that he would now seek her out. Keeping her back to him, she said, "Would I dare?" "I think you would."
If there were a chance of succeeding, but there was not. Joslyn looked over her shoulder at where Liam stood in the doorway, his red hair darkened by the gray day. "I love my son very much, Sir Liam," she said, and then hastily substituted his new title. "Lord Fawke."
He considered her a moment. "I know."
Against the backdrop of merriment within the hall, an uncomfortable silence descended between them. Liam strode to the railing.
Though a space separated them, Joslyn found his nearness unsettling—even more so than when they had eaten side by side, ignoring each other. He was ignoring her no longer, though, his green gaze steadfast upon her.
"You are a baron now," Joslyn said, groping for something—anything—to turn back the silence.
Liam inclined his head. "I am," he said, his voice tight.
But not of the barony he wanted.
Although she knew she ought not to care, Joslyn felt for him—ever a bastard to men of noble birth. When she had sat beside Liam during the king's pronouncement that Thornemede would be awarded to him, she had heard murmurs of discontent among those of the nobility who had wanted the barony for themselves. Though Liam had shown no reaction to their resentment, he could not have been oblivious to it.
As if remembering it himself, the emotions he held so near to him came into his eyes—fleeting, but seen by Joslyn in that moment of unguardedness.
She knew it was a mistake the moment she lifted her hand, but she could not help herself. Reaching up, she laid her fingers against Liam's jaw.
Roses. The delicate scent flooded Liam's senses and went straight to the heart of him. He fought it, iried to explain it away as mere fleshly need, but it was a losing battle. There was something about Joslyn. Something . . .
Leaving the tenderness of her eyes, he looked lower, and beneath his gaze her lips parted softly. Only vaguely aware of what he did, he bent his head.
"Liam?" she breathed, uncertain.
Why uncertain? As if arising from a dream, he blinked. Then, focusing on her mouth that was only a moment away, jerked back. God's rood! What possessed him? He did not want his brother's wife. Certainly not. The witch was pulling him in, like a spider to a fly. Damned roses!
Though, in fact, more angry with himself than Joslyn, Liam growled, "There is an answer to your need, Lady, but I am not it."
Her brilliant eyes widened with surprise a moment before outrage flared from their depths. "I assure you 'tis not need that made me do so foolish a thing," she napped, fisting the hand that had touched him. "And were it, I most certainly would not turn to one such as you."
"A bastard."
"You know that is not what I mean!" she exclaimed. "Do I not?"
"Nay, you do not. 'Twas not want that I felt for you, Lord Fawke, but . . . but something you do not understand."
"Pity?"
As if groping for a reply, she opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. "As I said, you do not understand. Tis not in you to understand."
"Nay, it is not," he agreed, "but neither is it in you to understand me, Lady Joslyn. So do not attempt it."
And what was she to say to that? Joslyn wondered. That she had no intention of trying to fathom the man beneath the fury? Nay, it would only be a lie, for already she battled a strong desire to learn more about Liam Fawke—to understand his hurt and pain, and perhaps help him. . . .
Lord, she was only getting herself deeper into this mess. The best possible thing for her to do would be simply to ignore this man. But how was that possible when he would be so often at Ashlingford?
"We will be missed," Liam said. He turned on his heel and strode from the balcony as the first drops of rain began to fall.
Telling herself that what had nearly happened did not matter—that she was eternally grateful Liam had not put his mouth upon hers—Joslyn followed.
10
With anxious eyes, Josyln searched the crowd approaching the tower for the pixie-faced child she had lost so much sleep over. It being the first time she and Oliver had been parted overnight, she had tossed and turned on her wonderfully plump pallet, catching only snatches of rest between the hours of worry. Soon, though, they would be reunited—if only to begin a journey that boded no good for either of them.
With that thought, Joslyn glanced at the man mounted on the horse beside hers. Neither she nor Liam had spoken a word to each other since being brought together again a half hour past. As each understood what was between them, enough having been made clear on the balcony yesterday, conversation was unnecessary. They would avoid each other as much as possible, speak as few words as was feasible, and live their lives as separately as was practica
l. Still, Joslyn wished there were some way to make peace with him.
However, there was no more time to ponder her situation, for suddenly Father Ivo and the knight Liam had set to watch over Oliver appeared behind a procession of hay wains. But where was . . . ?
There. Humphrey Reynard rode behind the two men, and in his arms was a wonder-struck Oliver. Riding on the front of his grandfather's saddle, the little boy did not at first notice his mother ahead of him, so in awe was he of the magnificently walled tower.
Joslyn urged her mount forward. To her immense relief, Liam and his men did not follow, and Father Ivo and the knight continued past her. It would be difficult enough to bid her father farewell without having any of them watching over her shoulder.
"Mama, does a giant live there?" was the first thing out of Oliver's mouth when finally he noticed her. Not "Why didn't you come back yesterday?" or "I was frightened," as she expected. He seemed to have taken her absence in stride, as if it were an everyday occurrence. Of course, it must have been a comfort for him to have had his grandfather arrive at the monastery, but she realized he was also growing up. Perhaps she needed him more than he needed her.
Still, Joslyn could not have been more grateful that Oliver appeared untouched and unworried by the promise she had been unable to keep. "A giant?" she mused, guiding her palfrey alongside her father's. "'Tis true a mighty man lives there, Oliver, but he is not quite a giant."
"But nearly, huh?" He pleaded for her to feed his childish imagination.
Her arms aching to hold him, she smiled. "Very nearly."
As she reached to accept him from his grandfather, Oliver asked, "An' a dragon? He lives there too?"
Folding him in her arms, Joslyn nodded against his golden head. "Oh, most certainly, Oliver." She savored the feel of her little boy in her arms for as long as he would allow it; it was not long enough. Growing restless, he pulled back, grasped the ties of her mantle, and pensively drew them through his hands.
"We goin' to Ashaford now?" he asked. "A-papa said we were."
A-papa. His child's familiar for "grandfather." She smiled. Aye, he was growing up, but he could be called her little boy for many years yet. Smoothing a hand over his round head, she said, "Aye, we go to Ashlingford. 'Twill be a great journey—an adventure. Are you excited?"
He shrugged a shoulder. "A-papa say he not goin' with us," he mumbled, his lower lip beginning to jut.
She looked across at her father. "But he will come visit us soon, won't you, Father?"
"Of course I will," he said, his voice more jovial than the mood reflected in his eyes.
He would be a lonely man at Rosemoor with both of them gone, Joslyn knew. Lonelier than he had been these past years since his son had left the manor.
Oliver eyed him. "You will?" Reaching across, Humphrey tapped his grandson's nose. "Aye, my boy." Oliver grinned.
"We must be on our way," Joslyn said. Turning Oliver around, she settled him on the fore of her saddle. "Tis a long ride to Ashlingford." She looked up and met her father's gaze.
"I will . . . miss you," he said, blinking against a moisture that had come into his eyes.
Her heart swelling for the words so clearly drawn from deep inside him, Joslyn reached across and put her hand over his. "As we will miss you," she said.
He tried to smile, then gave it up and laid his other hand over their two. "I am going to find your brother, Jossie," he said. Then, seeing the surprised look on her face, he added, "It is time."
Then some good would come of her and Oliver leaving Rosemoor. Faced with the prospect of being utterly alone, her father would relinquish his pride and bring Richard home—providing her brother agreed. Though Humphrey Reynard could not be said to be a cruel man, when his beloved wife died he had begun drinking heavily to ease his loneliness. The first two years following her death he had often drunk himself into fits of rage, but not once had he turned his grieving upon his daughter.
It was his son who had gotten in his way and been given punishment that was not his due. Thus, Richard Reynard had taken to the road, which had finally jolted Humphrey out of his reckless behavior. Though he still drank more than was good for him, not since the night his son left had he lost control of himself.
"I am pleased," Joslyn said, her throat constricting. He gave a crooked smile. "I only hope I shall be. Richard is more stubborn than even I."
That was true, but they had to begin somewhere if ever they were to mend what had been broken. "You will send news when he is home again?" she asked.
He nodded, then looked beyond her.
Joslyn followed his gaze.
Liam Fawke and his men were advancing. Knowing it was time to part, Joslyn started to withdraw her hand from her father's. However, he clasped it tighter.
"I do not think I like that priest," he said.
"I will be cautious," she assured him.
He nodded. "As for the bastard, methinks he may not be the man Maynard led us to believe."
What had transpired between her father and Liam when they rode to the monastery yesterday? she wondered, then abruptly set aside her pondering. There was no time to discuss it. "Perhaps," she said, pulling her hand free. "In time we will know."
With a sigh, her father shifted around and removed the bundle tied to the back of his saddle. "Your belongings," he said. Leaning sideways, he secured it to Joslyn's saddle. "I collected them first thing this morn."
"I had nearly forgotten," she said, grateful that she could later change into the comfort of her own garments.
Humphrey Reynard straightened. "God be with you, daughter," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. Then he turned his horse back toward the city.
"Love you, A-papa," Oliver called after him. He hesitated, but a moment later looked over his shoulder.
Joslyn saw the struggle on his face—the yearning
to profess his own feelings for Oliver—but in the end he only winked and lifted a hand in farewell. Oliver did the same.
Out of the wood they came, thundering like an angry storm across a clear sky.
There was no time to think—and hardly time to react. Tightening her arm around Oliver, who instantly jolted awake, Joslyn dragged on the reins to jerk her palfrey's head right. It lurched forward but carried her less than two strides before faltering and pulling left.
There was nowhere to go, Joslyn realized. They were all around and among them now. Their voices loud, their weapons catching sun on silvered blades, twenty or more brigands set themselves upon the Ashlingford knights. And soon they would be upon her and Oliver.
Her heart slamming so loudly she could put no sense to what Oliver was saying, Joslyn looked to the one who might prove himself their savior. But Liam was nowhere to be seen.
Then a terrible thought struck her: Liam was behind this attack. Here was the means by which he would rid himself of her and Oliver and gain Ashlingford for himself.
"Mama?" Oliver squeaked, his fear echoing hers.
With an unexplainable pain in her center, she eyed the bordering woods they could not possibly hope to reach, then met her son's wide-eyed gaze with a lie of confidence. "Hold to me," she said, knowing that if she did not at least try to save them, their fate was spoken for.
Obediently, he turned and wrapped both arms around her waist. It went no further than that, though, for in the next instant they were dragged from their horse and onto another. For a moment Joslyn believed an attacker had swept down upon them, and then those feelings learned in the alley told her different. It was Liam Fawke who held them. Liam Fawke keeping his word.
"Do not fight me," he growled, tightening his arm around her.
Joslyn opened her mouth to tell him she had no intention of doing so, but a cry somewhere between a wail and a scream stopped the words. Jerking her eyes left, she saw one of the brigands racing toward them on a horse lathered with exertion, his raised sword piercing the air before him.
Liam tensed, and then answered the other's charge by guid
ing his destrier around, dragging his thrusting sword from its scabbard, and raising it to meet the enemy.
Instinctively, Joslyn hunched over Oliver and a moment later felt the impact straight through her bones. Then the next blow, and one after it. Like the beat of a smithy's hammer, the song of steel rang in her ears. But this was no weapon being forged. It was the reason for the forging: death.
A sudden moisture flecked Joslyn's brow. Knowing that rain could not fall from a cloudless sky, she began to pray as she could not remember ever having prayed.
"To the devil with you!" Liam shouted, his body following the thrust of his sword forward.
The air split with an enraged cry of pain. But whose? Joslyn wondered, her heart swelling so large
she thought it might burst. Though she could not believe it was Liam whose life had just been laid waste, her motherly instinct prepared her to take the brunt of their fall from Oliver. The fall never came.
Suddenly they were moving again, the gust of Liam's breath in Joslyn's hair, the bunched muscles of his chest pressing against her back. He lived.
"Thank you, Lord," she murmured, and opened her eyes to see they had crossed into a shaded wood.
Liam did not go far. Instead, with an urgency that spoke to Joslyn of further bloodshed, he halted his destrier beside an outcropping of boulders and, without any gentleness, lifted her down.
"Get behind the boulders and stay there," he ordered as she stumbled back under the burden of Oliver. "I will return for you when 'tis done."
Her footing still uncertain, Joslyn lifted her chin and met his stare—but only for a moment before a shout on the edge of the wood announced the arrival of two more brigands.
"Now!" Liam bellowed, his gaze turning fierce.
He was another man, she saw in that instant, a man to be feared even if he had just saved their lives. Was this now the knight who had raged at King Edward seven years past when his birthright had been given to another?
Realizing his rage might be loosed on her did she not do as he commanded, Joslyn ran forward and dropped behind the first boulder. Then, peering over the top, she watched as Liam remounted and rode back toward the fray.
