Misbegotten

by Tamara Leigh

  "Twas a bear?" Oliver asked, his eyes growing round.

  "It was," Liam said, "and a bigger one I've yet to meet." He glanced at Joslyn, but rather than seeing reproach in her gaze as he expected, there shone relief.

  "Tell me," Oliver urged.

  Behind, Liam heard the knights drawing near. "Mayhap this eve," he said. "'Tis time for us to ride again."

  "I wanna hear it," Oliver pleaded.

  "This eve." Joslyn spoke firmly.

  "Nay, now," he pressed, his jaw thrusting stubbornly outward with his lip.

  "Only a few hours more, Oliver," Liam said. "Then I shall tell you all about it. Everything."

  Oliver thought a moment, battled with his childish desires, and said, "Promise?"

  From somewhere deep within him, Liam dragged out a smile. "Tis my knightly vow to you," he said. Wondering what he was doing making promises to this child of Maynard's who had taken Ashlingford from him, he gathered the reins again.

  "Lord Fawke," Joslyn said.

  He looked over his shoulder at her.

  "I thank you," she said, and urged her palfrey forward.

  Joslyn knew she would never forget the way Oliver sat cross-legged on his pallet listening raptly to Liam's tale of the bear who had come out of the wood to challenge the knights, or how Oliver slowly inched closer to Liam until he finally made it onto his uncle's lap.

  At first, Liam had seemed uncomfortable with the child, exchanging a look of disquiet with Joslyn, but before long his arm had gone around the little boy and he had resumed his lively rendering of the tale. In that moment, Joslyn had sensed something very different about Liam. Though it could not be called calm, there was a certain quieting about him—as if the anger that had seemed to emanate from every pore of him had dimmed. Was it possible?

  When Oliver was fast asleep, Liam gently laid him clown upon the mattress and drew the blanket up over him.

  Was this the same man she had once feared? Joslyn wondered. The one she had been told would murder her son to gain Ashlingford? Or did that man exist only in the minds of Maynard and his uncle?

  Straightening, Liam turned to where she stood beside the four-postered bed she would this night hare with the three daughters of their host.

  "It was a wonderful story," Joslyn said, somewhat embarrassed to pay him the compliment. "You are good with him."

  "There was a time when I was good with Maynard too," he remarked. "But then he grew up."

  Joslyn detected regret in his voice. Had there been a time when animosity had not existed between the two brothers?

  "I must return downstairs," Liam said.

  As Joslyn must also do. She nodded. "I will be down shortly."

  And then Liam was gone, leaving the door ajar behind him.

  Bending down beside Oliver, Joslyn tucked the bedclothes around him as she did each night. Content, he sighed, snuggled more deeply into the mattress, then surprised Joslyn by opening his eyes.

  "Mama," he said, his voice thick with sleep, "I like him."

  "Lord Fawke?"

  "Unca Liam," he corrected her. "Do you?"

  "Like him? Of course," she said, realizing as soon as she spoke that it was not as much a lie as she had thought.

  An angelic smile touching his lips, Oliver closed his eyes and a moment later returned to the arms of sleep.

  Although Joslyn would have preferred to stay with him, she knew she was expected to return to the hall. Regretful, she leaned forward, pressed a kiss to Oliver's smooth cheek, and turned away.

  The hall was abuzz with conversation, but hardly had Joslyn stepped off the stairs when she was accosted by Father Ivo.

  "We must speak," he said.

  She met his urgent gaze. "On the morrow, perhaps? It is late and—" "Tis about Oliver."

  Concern stirring in her, she asked, "What of him?"

  Ivo opened his mouth as if to explain, but a glance over his shoulder had him shaking his head. "Elsewhere," he said. "We cannot speak here."

  Joslyn knew who had silenced him. Looking past (he priest, she briefly settled her gaze on Liam where he sat before the hearth, conversing with Settling's lord. "Very well," she acquiesced.

  Pivoting around, Ivo led her across the hall.

  As Joslyn had thought he meant to speak with her in one of the alcoves, she faltered when he started down the passageway that connected the hall with the kitchens.

  "Come," he urged, looking around.

  "Can we not speak here?"

  "Nay, outside. There we will have privacy."

  "But there is privacy here," she pointed out, the passageway empty but for them.

  "It only appears so. Come, Lady Joslyn."

  Grudgingly, she followed him through the kitchens, then outside into a moonless night lit only by torches set about the bailey.

  Because father Ivo's clerical robes identified him, they were allowed to pass unhindered by the guards. Reaching the wall walk overlooking the wooded side of the castle, the priest drew to a halt before an embrasure.

  As Joslyn had no mantle to warm her against the chill night, she folded her arms across her chest. What about Oliver?" she prompted.

  Ivo stared at her a long moment. "Methinks he was meant to die this day." "Die?"

  "And you as well."

  "What makes you believe that?" she asked, having gladly accepted what had been advanced during the evening meal by Settling's lord—that the brigands had been sent by one or more of the noblemen who wished Thornemede for themselves, and it was Liam's death they sought. Considering the number of men who had set themselves upon him, it made sense to Joslyn.

  "I know William well," Ivo answered. "Tis Ashlingford he seeks, and Ashlingford he will take if he is not sent from it. Forever."

  "But it was he who delivered Oliver and me to safety," Joslyn said. "He who was attacked."

  "He is not foolish, Lady Joslyn. If ever he is to hold Ashlingford, your deaths cannot touch him. 'Twas only a guise he affected."

  "Nay," Joslyn said, certain the priest was wrong. "Tis true that I feared he was behind the raid when first we were attacked and I could find no sight of him, but then he appeared. Had he intended to murder us, he could easily have done so then."

  Joslyn sensed Ivo's anger even before he spoke it. "You do not wish to know the truth, do you?" he demanded.

  Recalling the untruths both he and Maynard had told her—the things they had led her to believe— Joslyn could not help herself. "I do wish to know the truth," she said, "but I do not think I will get it from you, Father Ivo."

  "You say I lie, then?" he exclaimed, astonishment thinning his anger. "I do not wear these vestments for comfort, Lady Joslyn." Seizing the crucifix from where it hung low on his chest, he thrust it near her face. "I am a holy man," he said. "A man of God. A man of prayer and comfort."

  Joslyn looked past the crucifix, with its jewels that could feed a thousand hungry mouths, and into Ivo's eyes. "A man who should have told me the truth about Ashlingford," she reminded him. "Neither you nor Maynard ever told me the old baron intended for his estates to go to his elder son—or that once Maynard was awarded them it was he who gave control of the barony to his brother. You had me believe it was stolen from Maynard."

  "But it was!" Ivo cried. "'Tis true Maynard agreed to install William at Ashlingford that he might administer the barony in his stead, but that was all. Never did he intend for William to take control, and most certainly he did not agree that in exchange for the bastard's services he would leave Ashlingford to Liam upon his death. I tell you, lady, William is the devil himself. Had his plans not gone awry, I would this day have buried you and your son."

  Joslyn shook her head. "That Liam—Lord Fawke—" she hastily corrected herself, "is responsible for the raid cannot be the truth."

  "Liam, is it now?" Ivo snapped.

  Berating herself for the slip, Joslyn returned to the safer subject of the raid. "It must have been one of those who lost Thornemede to Lord Fawke who ordered the raid,
" she said.

  Stepping from the embrasure, Father Ivo turned a harsh hand around Joslyn's arm. "Methinks forbidden longings speak from your mouth and twist your good judgment, lady," he snarled. "Do you so soon forget? In the eyes of the church Maynard's brother has become yours—bastard though he is."

  Joslyn gasped. "How dare you suggest . . . " Clenching her hands into fists, she said, "You are wrong."

  "I pray that I am."

  His touch was foul. Joslyn tried to pull her arm free, but Ivo only gripped her tighter. "Unhand me," she demanded.

  As if suddenly remembering himself, he complied. "I am only trying to protect you and my . . . great-nephew," he said. "Unfortunately, devotion for Maynard has made me act rashly where I otherwise would not have." He paused, seemed to grope for his next words, and said, "I pray you will forgive me, lady."

  He waited for her to do so, but the words he had spoken were still too fresh. "Good eve, Father," she said, stepping around him and leaning into the embrasure.

  The silence dragged out until finally Ivo said, "Tis your son who is at stake here, Lady Joslyn. Do not forget that." Then he walked away.

  Joslyn listened for his footsteps to recede and, with the last, propped her elbows on the shelf of the embrasure and buried her head in her hands. Never had she believed she would arrive at such a terrible place in her life. If only—

  A sound to her left entered her consciousness. Thinking Ivo returned, though for what purpose she did not even care to ponder, she drew back and looked down the wall walk. Peering closely, she saw a shadow moving among shadows along the wall. "Father Ivo?" she queried.

  No answer. Shortly, the shadow took the shape of a man, but one of greater proportions than the priest. Mayhap a guard, she ventured, suddenly wary.

  "I am Lady Joslyn," she announced, hoping for the same courtesy, "a guest of your lord." But hardly had she said it when that new sense of hers suggested she had guessed wrong—and was a moment later confirmed when Liam Fawke stepped into the light.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked.

  Unlike when he had bent over the little boy who had begged a tale from him, he looked sinister in the bare light, his jaw swollen and crossed by numerous stitches, his eyes glittering darkly.

  He continued toward her, finally halting so near she could feel the warmth of his broad body. "I am hut seeing to your safety, Lady Joslyn," he answered, his voice deep as the night, "and keeping an eye on my dear uncle."

  She took a step back from him. "You were listening to our conversation," she accused him.

  "I was," he said, no shame in his admission.

  "All of it?"

  "Nearly."

  Though at the moment Joslyn could not recall every word that had passed between her and Father Ivo, she knew far too much had been said of Liam. loo, there was the priest's accusation that she desired his nephew—the reason he believed she defended Liam against any involvement in the raid. "Tis past lime I retired for the night," she said, starting past him.

  He stepped into her path, causing her to brush against him.

  Joslyn's breath caught on the sensations that sung through her. They had hardly touched, and yet it was as if they had embraced. Shaken, she stepped back.

  "My uncle has had his say, Lady Joslyn," Liam said, "and now I will have mine."

  Seeing no way past him without an argument that would likely take as long as what he wished to say to her, Joslyn acquiesced. "Please be quick with it."

  A long uncomfortable moment passed before he spoke. "It is not greed that drives me to Ashlingford," he began. "Tis birthright—a promise made long ago by a father to his son. A son he loved nearly as much as he loved the woman who birthed the misbegotten child. But though Ashlingford is a part of me as surely as my own arms, and now stolen twice from me, I would not murder for it."

  "I know you would not," Joslyn said.

  The light in Liam's gaze flickered over her. "Yet you believed me responsible for the raid."

  "Only in the beginning," she admitted. "I searched for you, but you were nowhere to be seen."

  In Liam's silence she felt his resentment, but when he spoke again it was not reflected in his voice. "Though Ivo would have you think it is I you should fear, Joslyn, I tell you it is he you ought to keep your distance from. A priest's garments he may wear, but never has a man been farther from God than Ivo."

  "Now 'tis you who seeks to make me fear him" Joslyn observed.

  "With good reason, I assure you."

  "Tell me the reason."

  "Suffice it to say that he who accuses me of having

  hired the brigands to murder you and your son is the very one who put coin in their pockets—coin to murder the bastard nephew he wishes to be rid of."

  Joslyn was stunned. "You are saying your uncle planned it? Good God, but you and your uncle are more alike than you can know. Neither of you will even consider the most obvious place for the blame. Surely it was one of the nobles who wished Thornemede for himself."

  If he was offended at being likened to the man he hated, he controlled it. "I had entertained that idea myself," he said, "but then, in the middle of a confession I was extracting from the one brigand we found alive, Ivo slit the man's throat. I knew then."

  Joslyn felt as if the ground had been pulled out from beneath her. What greater evidence of the involvement of Ivo in the raid than that he had slain the brigand ere the man could confess his last? Feeling suddenly ill, she pressed her back to the wall for support.

  "I do not know what to believe," she murmured, wanting no more to rest her head upon a pillow but to burrow beneath one. "He is your uncle—of your blood."

  "As you should know by now, blood has naught to do with anything," Liam said. "It has all to do with greed. A powerful emotion."

  Had Ivo ordered the raid? Joslyn wondered. Was his hate for Liam truly that great? Not wanting to believe it, she shook her head. "I am sorry, Lord Fawke. Mayhap I am a fool, but I cannot believe the raid was Father Ivo's doing—just as I do not believe it was yours." She prepared herself for his anger, but it did not come.

  "You do not have to believe it," Liam said. "All I ask is that you not close your eyes to the possibility. As Thornemede is likely to take me away often, I will not always be at Ashlingford to protect you from my uncle's scheming."

  His words struck a chord within her. "Could it be you care, Lord Fawke?" she asked, but in the next instant knew she should never have said it.

  Liam's anger resurfaced. "As I have told you," he growled, "if any harm should befall you or your son, 'tis likely the blame will be put on me. Do not mistake my concern for anything more than that, Lady Joslyn."

  Embarrassment caused Joslyn to respond with like anger. "How foolish of me to believe you might actually have a heart, Liam Fawke," she snapped. "Why, you are more empty than even Maynard was." She skirted him and headed for the steps that would return her to the bailey, but had barely made it halfway down when Liam seized her arm, turned her around, and pushed her back against the wall.

  "More empty than Maynard?" he whispered, his breath tinged with the sweet wine he had drunk at table. "Let me show you how empty I am." And he lowered his head.

  Knowing what he intended, Joslyn jerked her chin to the side. However, rather than being deterred, Liam put his mouth against her ear—not forcefully, but with a sudden gentleness that contrasted sharply with his anger.

  Joslyn was unprepared for the sensation, so much so, in fact, that with her mind urging her to flight, her body countered with a treachery she had not known it was capable of. As Liam's breath fanned her sensitive skin, tendrils of pleasure wound through her and warmed her insides. "Nay." She mouthed the only protest she could manage, but even to her ears it sounded more like a sigh.

  And then Liam pressed his body into hers, letting her feel all that he was. "Empty?" he repeated, his voice grown so husky it was hardly recognizable. Without waiting for an answer, he began tracing her ear with his tongue. But that w
as not all. While Joslyn's emotions clambered one atop the other, he curved a hand around her hip and pulled her forward the last breath that stood between them.

  With his male member hard against her belly, and growing harder with each breath she took, a queer sound not unlike the mewling of a kitten parted Joslyn's lips. Never had she been touched like this, never had fires leapt within her, and never had she known so great an ache in that place she had thought untouchable.

  She thrilled to the fitting of her body with Liam's. It was if they had been made to become one. His hardness to her softness. His man to her woman. She turned her face to him, inviting him to kiss her.

  Liam accepted. Pressing his lips to hers, he urged her mouth open.

  With a resonant groan shuddering out of her, Joslyn touched her tongue to his and thus began a dance so sensual it was as if they were already joined. Knowing want so strong it nearly made her cry out, she dug her nails into Liam's arms.

  He murmured something into her mouth, slid his hand up her side and closed his fingers around her breast. Her response guiding him, he found her taut nipple through her gown and squeezed it between thumb and forefinger. Joslyn whimpered.

  Liam slid his mouth off hers and trailed it downward until he reached that wonderfully sensitive place between neck and shoulder. Gently, he sank his teeth into her flesh.

  "Liam," she gasped, her body quaking.

  "The same as Maynard?" he asked.

  What had he to do with this? she wondered through a haze of longing. "Nay." She sighed, wishing Liam would only continue what he'd begun. "Ah, nay."

  But he had no intention of going any further. He was done with her. That realization came too late to save Joslyn from humiliation when the bewilderment finally cleared and she found herself now pressed against the wall rather than against the man who had filled her every sense with desire.

  Grateful for the dark, she gathered her shredded pride about her and lifted her gaze to where Liam stood silhouetted against the sky. "You are despicable," she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper.