by Tamara Leigh
"But not empty," he reminded her.
His words pained her as surely as if he had struck her. "Though you can ... do that to me," she said, "it does not prove you have a heart, Liam Fawke. It only proves you know women."
"As did Maynard," he said softly. "Yet he never made you feel what you have this night."
To deny it would only make her seem a shrew, Joslyn knew. Best she not even address it. "I assure you, I'll not feel it again with the likes of you," she said.
He took a step toward her. "Is that a challenge, Joslyn? One you wish me to take up?"
"No challenge, Lord Fawke," she said. "I'll simply not be bothered by you anymore."
The low rumble of his laughter raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck. "Ah, Joslyn," he said, "were it any man other than Maynard who'd had you, I might be tempted to teach you what your body has been waiting for."
His words made her feel dirty—as if in lying with her husband she had whored herself.
"But as you are now made my sister," Liam continued, "'twould be unseemly."
Though his dangerous anger appeared to have vented itself, it was apparent he had yet to deal with bitterness.
"Teach someone who cares not whether 'tis a heart you possess or a stone," Joslyn snapped. She descended the remainder of the steps and crossed the bailey with the longest stride her legs could take.
Liam watched her go, then dragged a hand down his face. "Damn," he muttered. He had not meant to kiss her, but the witch had pushed him to it, as had this ever-growing desire to touch her and better know the mystery of her. When she had drawn the likeness between himself and Ivo, he had wanted to shake her but had kept his arms at his sides, knowing that if he touched her he might be tempted out of his anger. Then she had compared him to Maynard, accusing him of being empty when each moment spent with her since their encounter in the alley filled him with longing—longing for one forbidden to him not only by the church but by the knowledge she had first been Maynard's.
Liam was grateful for the reminder of whose wife she had been, for that had been the only thing holding him from her when she'd been drowning in his arms, the eager press of her body calling to the very depths of his desire. Aye, otherwise he might now be inside her, teaching her about him and learning about her. And that could never be.
12
"Tis bigger'n Rosemoor, Mama."
Trying not to feel Liam where he stood beside her, Joslyn angled her head back to follow Oliver's gaze. Aye, Ashlingford's castle was grand, she silently agreed—magnificent, even, with its white- and blue-washed exterior and its soaring interior—but it was not home. Would it ever be?
Her thoughts drifted to Maynard. He had grown up here, walked the floor she now stood upon, and lived among the discreet wealth adorning the great hall, but hardly had he spoken of it. Previous to this day, all Joslyn had known of the castle was that Rosemoor was pitiful in comparison, for the handful of times Maynard had visited the manor he had complained incessantly about its modest size and lack of grandeur. Now she knew why.
"Can I have my own room?" Oliver asked.
"I am sure the donjon is large enough," Joslyn said, smiling to soften her answer, "but you are not, dear boy."
He stamped his foot. "Want my own room!"
"Oliver," she warned, leveling one of her practiced looks at him.
Poised on the edge of rebellion, he wrinkled his nose, pursed his mouth, and clenched his hands into fists.
Inwardly, Joslyn groaned. It was rare that he behaved this way, good-natured as he was, but since leaving Settling Castle two days past, Liam's push to reach Ashlingford had left her son little time to be a child. Tired of sitting a horse with naught to do but ask why and roll his top between his hands, he had grown increasingly fractious, building toward the tantrum that looked about ready to break.
Thinking to distract him, Joslyn bent down and caught his hands in hers. "Would you like to meet everyone now?" she asked. "They are most anxious to meet you."
She knew it was a lie she told him, for the moment they had passed over the drawbridge and into the bailey she had sensed disapproval among the people, the knight Liam had sent ahead having brought them news of the king's decree. Even had it been spoken aloud, it could not have been more obvious that it was Liam these people were loyal to—he whom they wished to be their lord. But as Joslyn had no choice in the matter, neither had they.
Tugging free of her, Oliver stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. "Nay," he said. "Don't wanna."
Other than yield to him, there seemed little
Joslyn could do. He would simply have to vent himself before they could continue with the formalities.
With a glance at those who watched, Joslyn felt regret for what was about to happen. It would certainly win none of them over to their side. Indeed, it would reinforce what they already thought of Maynard's successor.
"I am sorry, Oliver," she said, "but your own room will have to wait until you are older."
His chin quivered and his eyes filled with tears, but just as he opened his mouth to cry out his disappointment, Liam plucked him from the floor and into his arms.
"Your mother is right," he said, "but that does not mean you cannot see the room that will be yours when you are old enough for it. Would you like to do that?"
Oliver's mouth turned up. "Can I?" Liam nodded. "But first I am going to ask a favor of you."
Joslyn did not know what to think of this turn of events, but at least she was not alone. Shifting restlessly and murmuring among themselves, the castle folk stared at the unlikely twosome. Here was the man who had just lost his last bid for Ashlingford, and in his arms the child who had taken it from him.
"What?" Oliver asked.
Leaning forward, Liam whispered something in his ear. "Think you can do that?" he asked.
Oliver sighed. "A'right, but then I wanna see my room."
Liam nodded. "Ready?"
"Uh-huh."
Sparing Joslyn no more than a glance, Liam strode toward the gathering and began introducing Oliver.
From the sideboard where drink had been set out for the returning knights, Ivo stood with tankard in hand and looked from Joslyn to William and back to Joslyn. Unmoving, her profile reflected an emotion Ivo would have loved to slap from her face as she stared after the bastard and her son. Then she stepped forward to be included in the introductions.
Damn her! Ivo silently cursed. She had no right to look at any man that way, most especially William. The greedy bastard was luring her ever nearer an unholy union—luring his brother's naive widow into his bed by pretending he cared for her son. But Ivo wasn't fooled.
Oliver's happy, chattering voice dragged Ivo from his thoughts. Down from Liam's arms, the child stood before Emma, who had creaked down onto her haunches to welcome Maynard's son. With her rumpled face aglow as it had not been for years, the old woman nodded at Oliver's excited string of mispronounced words, smiled, arched her eyebrows at him, and touched him as often as possible.
She was likely to be the only one other than himself to welcome Oliver's arrival at Ashlingford, Ivo thought. The others would just as soon see the evidence of Maynard's existence disappear. Thus it fell to him to serve as the child's protector. Who better to watch over Oliver than one who regarded him as much his own son as one sprung from his seed? Ivo was hard pressed not to laugh at that last thought. Aye, it was time for him to make Ashlingford his permanent residence.
Joslyn sighed. Except for the woman who had been Maynard's nurse, no one had seemed genuinely pleased to meet the future baron. In fact, had Liam not appeared so accepting of her son, Joslyn thought it likely Oliver would have been greeted by naught but cold stares and speechless mouths. But Liam's unspoken message having been received by all, the servants and retainers did their best to welcome the unwanted child into their midst, even that great bald-headed man who was Ashlingford's steward: Sir Hugh, wasn't it? Still, there had been some who had appeared to waver on the ed
ge of succumbing to the little one's innocent charm. Joslyn hoped time would bring them around.
"I trust it meets with your approval?" Liam asked, startling her out of her worrisome thoughts.
She saw that Oliver was once again perched on his arm. "My approval?" she echoed.
He raised an eyebrow. "Ashlingford."
Of course. This being the first time they had spoken to one another since that bitter night when Liam had shown her just how "empty" he was, Joslyn floundered to find the right words. "It is beautiful," she said. "I would not have guessed it to be."
"Maynard did not tell you?"
Cursing herself for saying more than necessary, Joslyn braved Liam's gaze again. "He did not speak often of his home," she said. His few visits to Rosemoor had chiefly been spent at the table with her father, gambling the day and night away, and throughout he had spoken of little but the bastard brother who had stolen the barony from him. Now, though, Joslyn knew much of what he had said to have been lies. Would time prove the rest lies as well?
Liam surprised Joslyn by letting the matter rest. Turning his gaze upon Oliver, who had listened to the exchange with curiosity puckering his brow, he asked, "Are you ready now to see the solar that will one day be yours?"
Instantly, Oliver's forehead smoothed. "Aye, now!"
Stepping past Joslyn, Liam strode to the stairway and disappeared from sight.
Joslyn felt a yearning for home as she stared at barren stairs that were twice the width of Rosemoor's. Lord, but this place was large! she reflected. How was she ever to make a home of it for Oliver?
"Fool woman!" Ivo snapped.
She looked around at him. "What have I done to displease you, Father Ivo?" she asked, her dislike of him swelling.
"Think you naught of allowing Maynard's son to be alone with the one who seeks his death?" he demanded.
Though quiet followed, Joslyn knew they were not alone. Lingering servants listened and watched to see what her reaction would be to his accusing words. She set her chin up a notch. "Liam Fawke will do him no harm," she said with conviction.
Ivo stepped toward her as if he intended to lay a hand to her, but he clenched his fist instead. "Then as your mind is otherwise occupied, it falls to me to protect Maynard's son." He started for the stairs.
Joslyn knew what he implied—that her love for Oliver was not so great as her desire for Liam. "I have not asked for your help," she said, "nor will I, Father Ivo."
He paused. "You have not, but Maynard asked it of me, and now I will honor the vow I made him to safeguard his heir."
"Is that all he is to you? An heir?"
Ivo's fervent gaze turned flat. "Nay, he is more than that," he said. "Far more than that." Then he mounted the stairs.
Was there to be no peace at Ashlingford for her? Joslyn wondered. Was she to raise up her son with this priest's hatred hovering over one shoulder, the temptation of Liam Fawke over the other? With a sigh and a shake of her head, she slid her gaze to where Emma hovered nearby.
The old woman stepped forward. "Something is amiss, child?" she asked in a voice graveled by age.
Though Joslyn felt comfortable with this woman who had taken so readily to Oliver, especially as she exuded such genuine warmth and acceptance, she wondered if she could speak to her of her misgivings regarding the priest. She thought on it a moment longer, then replied, "I do not trust Father Ivo. I believe his hate for his nephew consumes him. And I do not understand why."
"You are right," Emma said. "He holds it as dearly to him as his own arms and legs."
"But why? All because Liam is of less than noble birth? 'Tis not as if it were his own doing."
With a sigh, Emma gently laid a hand to Joslyn's shoulder. "We will talk of it, you and I," she said, "but now is not the time. Come, and I will show you to your chamber."
Suddenly weary from three days spent in the saddle, with its incessant creak and groan, Joslyn allowed herself to be guided from the hall and up the stairs. However, at the first landing the sound of Oliver's gleeful voice echoing from the right pulled Joslyn that way.
"Do not worry about him," Emma said, urging her opposite. "Liam will not allow this loathing he and his uncle have for each other to touch the boy."
Though Joslyn felt this was true of Liam, she was not so certain of Ivo. "Oliver should nap," she said. "It has been a long journey and—"
"And he is quite tired of being still," Emma reminded her. "Let him enjoy himself and he will sleep well tonight. Surely there can be no harm in that."
Joslyn wavered.
"I will go to him as soon as you are settled down for a rest," Emma assured her. Joslyn sighed. "Very well."
Turning left down the corridor, Emma led her to the modestly appointed, yet elegant chamber that had been made ready for her. "Twas the Lady Anya's," she murmured.
Maynard's mother. As with nearly everything that had to do with her departed husband, Joslyn knew very little of the woman. Only two things had ever been made clear about Anya Fawke: She had been revered by her son for her strong will, and her death so soon after his father's had been a bitter blow.
Wanting to know more that she might come to understand these people better, Joslyn asked, "You and Lady Anya were friends?"
Emma's eyebrows jumped. "Friends?" she repeated on a bubble of forced laughter. Then, her disbelief fading into sadness, she shook her head. "Nay, but we knew each other's secrets well."
Joslyn wished the woman would continue, but she did not. "Maynard told me of her death. The tragedy of its coming so soon after his father's."
Emma stood silent a moment and then walked to the bed. "It was tragic," she said, as she turned back the coverlet.
"Her heart, was it not?"
"It was."
The woman could not have made it more clear that she did not wish to speak of Lady Anya. With a sigh, Joslyn stepped to where Emma bent over the bed, her aged hands plumping the pillows. "Emma," she said, "there is so much I need to know, not only about Father Ivo but also about Oliver's father and his family. Will you tell me of them?"
Emma stilled. "You wish to hear from an old woman like me?"
"I do. Otherwise 'twill be Father Ivo who tells me, and I do not know what to believe of him."
Turning from her task, Emma met Joslyn's imploring gaze. "Aye, it would be better did I tell you," she conceded, "but now you must rest."
Joslyn could not argue with that. "Of course," she said, fatigue dragging at her limbs. "Later, then."
With a small smile, Emma reached forward and pulled the tie of Joslyn's mantle loose.
"Will I sleep here when I'm bigger?" Oliver asked, one small hand patting the mattress, the other holding tight to his top.
Liam pulled his gaze from where Ivo watched at the solar doorway. "Aye, you will," he answered, his enmity for Ivo lessening as he looked into the innocence of Oliver's face. "When you become a man and lord of all Ashlingford, it will be your bed."
As soon as he spoke it, Liam heard the echo of his father's voice saying the same to him nearly twenty-five years past, making a promise he'd not known would never be kept.
"That's a long way away, huh?" Oliver asked.
Having lost the thread of conversation, Liam frowned. "What is a long time away, Oliver?"
"When I'm a man and lord of Asha'ford."
"Not as long as you think," Liam said, remembering how brief his own childhood had been. Always there had been someone forcing him to grow up faster than the other children: the enmity of Ivo, the jealousy of Anya, even the expectations his father had for him.
Fingering the coverlet, Oliver said, "Wish I could sleep here now."
"Would you like me to lift you up so that you may know how it will feel when you come to it a man?"
Oliver's eyes popped wide open. "Aye!"
Liam lifted him beneath the arms and sat him upon the mattress—just as his own father had done with him all those years ago.
"Tis big," Oliver said, looking around h
im. "You sleep here now?"
Though it should have roused Liam to anger, for he had never slept here as he should have, he felt only regret. "Nay, it was your father's bed," he said.
"Oh." Oliver tilted his head to the side and frowned. "My papa sleep here till it's my turn?"
At first Liam did not understand his question, but then he realized the boy was unaware of his father's death. Lord, why hadn't Joslyn told him? he wondered. True, it should be gently said regardless of Oliver's relationship with Maynard, but the boy was old enough to understand some of it. However, it was not his place to do it, so Liam searched for words to get around Oliver's question.
But Ivo was not of the same mind. "Nay, he does not sleep here anymore, Oliver," he said, stepping into the chamber. "Did your mother not tell you that he died?"
Were it not for the boy, Liam would have loudly cursed his uncle's lack of delicacy. Always, Ivo had dealt with children in this manner, as if they had the minds of adults—the same as he'd treated both Liam and Maynard during their childhood.
"He dead?" Oliver repeated, uncertainty rolling into his bright eyes like clouds across a clear sky.
Throwing Ivo a look of warning, Liam said to Oliver, "Your father has—"
"I will tell the boy, William," Ivo interrupted. "He should hear it from one who loved his father, not one who—"
Liam swung around to face him.
Abruptly, Ivo halted. "Keep your temper about you, Irish," he said low-voiced.
"You will leave now," Liam said between clenched teeth.
"Else?"
Lord, but he was tempted, Liam thought, as he eyed his uncle's vulnerable jaw. But not in front of Oliver.
"Father Ivo," someone behind called to him. It was sweet old Emma, come to put out the spark ere it turned to flame.
"What is it?" Ivo demanded.
As always, she was unruffled by his displeasure. "My soul is in need of prayer," she said, her gaze steady on him. "Lord Fawke can talk to the child while you and I address the Lord."
Ivo was slow to respond, his tension overflowing into the chamber. In the end, though, he left the solar with a backward warning glance to Liam.
