Misbegotten

by Tamara Leigh

  him," she said. "If he would not allow him to wed a commoner and continue as heir, surely he would have refused you."

  "A half-Irish bastard," Liam supplied. "Only after the old man died, a year later, and my father had wed Anya did he make it known that I would be baron after him. Thus, there was none to oppose him, excepting Ivo and Anya, of course, and he was certain that did they dispute my right when he died, the king would still accept me as baron."

  Joslyn contemplated what he had told her. "Anya must have hated you."

  Remembering her many cruelties—the vicious words, the pinches and slaps, the degradation, Liam said, "No more than Ivo, though I cannot say she did not have every right to despise me. After all, I was taking from her by taking from Maynard."

  A movement in Joslyn's lap drew Liam's gaze to her hands, clenched in her skirts, as if it was the only way she could prevent herself from touching him. He had done that to her, he realized. He had rejected her goodness. But it was best this way. Wasn't it?

  Following his gaze, Joslyn stilled her hands. "Twas what your father wanted," she said. "It was not your decision to make. Just as it was not mine to make whether or not Oliver should be baron of Ashlingford."

  In the next instant, Liam did something he would never have thought himself capable of. He reached out to her. Covering her hands with his, he said, "I know that now, Joslyn. Forgive me for having believed that in wedding Maynard you were the same as he. I was wrong."

  The brilliant gaze she lifted to him was made even brighter by the tears that sprang to her eyes. "Naught to forgive," she whispered, "only to be understood. And I do understand, Liam."

  He resisted, but in the end he smoothed back the black hair falling over her brow and leaned forward. Though he expected her to turn from him, she didn't. Instead, she parted her lips.

  Liam lowered his head. So sweet, he thought as he gently tasted her—like the first day of spring after the crudest of winters.

  He should have ended it there, should have drawn hack ere she touched her tongue to his, but he did not. Roused and roused again, he circled his tongue around hers, then drew her into his mouth. The little breath Joslyn gasped excited him further. He wanted her—and no other. Inch by aching inch, he wished to slide her garments up her ankles, her calves, her trembling thighs, her woman's place . . . and when finally she stood naked before him, he would lay her down and slowly learn every sweet curve and hollow of her. She would be his.

  "My lord?"

  It was a voice Liam could not ignore, for it had no place where he and Joslyn were headed. Feeling her stiffen, he pulled back and stood.

  There, lingering on the bottom step of the stairs, was Sir Hugh. Though he was not one to be easily addled, his discomfort at having come upon them in such a compromising position was obvious. Flushed from the top of his shaved pate to the collar of his tunic, the steward looked anywhere but at them.

  Glancing back at Joslyn, Liam saw the fear on her face.

  God's wounds! he cursed. It had been a fool thing to do, especially in a place where the chance of being come upon was so great. It could even have been Ivo who had discovered them. "You need not worry," he said to her, and strode across the hall to the steward. "I trust you will be discreet about whatever you have seen this day," he said.

  Sir Hugh raised an eyebrow. "But I have seen naught, my lord," he said with all earnestness. "I know not what you refer to."

  In other words, what he had seen would never be told. "I am mistaken, then," Liam said. The matter laid to rest, he nodded to the ledgers the man held. "I wish totals month by month," he instructed, "and then a comparison across the last three years."

  The steward descended the last step. "I will figure it right away, my lord."

  Liam turned on his heel. "And now I've other matters to attend to," he said. As he strode from the hall, he saw that Joslyn had risen from the bench and now stood with her back to him, affecting an interest in the tapestry that hung behind the high table.

  Liam was drawn to her, wanting badly to reassure her that what had passed between them would remain their secret. However, as they had already come too near to exposing themselves, he continued past her and outside. He would ride this want out of him, he told himself, and only when it was gone would he return.

  Her emotions in upheaval, Joslyn avoided the steward's path and made her way to her chamber. There, Oliver napped, and in a chair beside the hearth Emma dozed, watching over him as if it filled a part of her that had long been empty. She truly loved Oliver. It was almost as if he were her own.

  Warmed, though still filled with misgivings that vied with treacherous longings, Joslyn walked to the window and leaned into its shallow embrasure. It took her but a moment to pick out Liam as he crossed the inner bailey, for his red hair shone like a beacon until he disappeared from sight.

  She was in love, she finally admitted it. It had to be that elusive thing she had only heard spoken of, for never before had she felt this way about another: a oneness, as if Liam would always be with her, even if he did not share her feelings.

  "If____" She chided herself. Never would he love her. Perhaps if Maynard did not stand between them, il would have been different, but he was there—evidenced in the beautiful child of their union. Aye, Liam wanted her, and must hate himself for it, but that was the extent of his feelings for her. And it was not enough.

  He was drenched. Village to village, field to field, Liam had attempted to ride the need for Joslyn out of him, as he'd vowed to do ere returning to the castle. As the sky loosed sheets of chill rain upon him, his body eased, but that was not the only relief he sought. He wished Joslyn gone from his thoughts-just as he'd wished her gone from them this past month while at Thornemede—but as he had failed then, he failed now. She was in him and would not be driven out.

  Tossing the reins to a waiting squire, Liam left his curses in the mud that sucked at his boots and took the steps to the donjon two at a time. Inside, a porter reached to a table set nearby. "A towel, my lord," he said, and draped one over Liam's shoulders.

  Liam strode toward those seated around the great hearth, all of them having fallen silent with his arrival: Joslyn, Emma, Ivo, and a multitude of others, including knights, men-at-arms, and servants.

  "Unca Liam!" an ardent childish voice exclaimed.

  Oliver emerged from between his mother and Emma and ran toward him.

  I or the briefest of moments, Joslyn looked Liam in the eye; then she turned her face back to the fire. Still, it was enough for Liam to see her distress. Was 11 Ivo? Had the old devil learned what had happened between them this day and made more of his threats?

  Looking to where his uncle sat, Liam saw what he had not noticed when he'd first come into the hall— Ivo's awkward attempt at filling the lord's high seat that had been brought down from the raised dais. God almighty! He had no right—

  "You came back!" Oliver cried, nearly upon him.

  Knowing this was neither the time nor place to speak against Ivo's brazen claim, Liam focused on the little boy. Some good came of everything, he thought, as he glimpsed shades of a young Maynard in Oliver. However, for only a moment did he allow himself to he pulled back in time. He had no use for such memories.

  Hunkering down, he caught Oliver in his arms. "You've grown," he said.

  "Uh-huh," Oliver replied. "Lots." Drawing back a space, he looked up. "How come you're all wet, Unca Liam?"

  Grinning, Liam set the boy back from him. "I was out fighting that bear again, and it started raining in the middle of the battle."

  Oliver breathed a sound of awe. "Really?"

  "Tis true," Liam said, and began toweling his hair.

  "Wish I coulda seen it."

  "You think so, hmm?"

  The boy nodded vigorously.

  With a chuckle, Liam ruffled his hair and then straightened.

  "Oh," Oliver blurted. "Mama said to thank you for my stick."

  "Did she?" Liam mused, remembering the night he had
come into her chamber to leave it for Oliver.

  "Uh-huh. Thank you, Unca Liam."

  He smiled down at the boy. "I am glad it pleases you." He continued to the hearth, only to discover a certain grimness about those who sat before it. And at their center was seated a bedraggled Sir Gregory, also recently out of the rain.

  Having received the knight's missive earlier in the week stating that he was healed of the wounds he had acquired during the raid, and announcing that during his protracted stay at Settling Castle he had won the hand of the lord's eldest daughter, Liam had not expected Sir Gregory to return to Ashlingford so soon, if at all. "So you are back from Settling," he said, savoring the warmth of the fire.

  A shiver of cold shook Sir Gregory. "I arrived less than an hour ere you, Lord Fawke."

  As at Thornemede, each time Liam heard his name linked with the title he had waited so long for, he felt an overwhelming urge to look behind him—as if he might discover his father there. As if Montgomery Fawke still lived. Lowering himself into the chair a servant brought for him, Liam said, "Unless you catch your death of cold, it looks as if you will live."

  Those gathered around the fire exchanged knowing glances—except for Ivo, who sat silently fingering the chain of his crucifix. It was on Liam's tongue to demand an explanation for their peculiar behavior when Joslyn spoke up.

  “Emma, would you take Oliver up to bed?" she asked.

  "Of course."

  Oliver groaned. "Wanna wait till dark."

  "Nay, Oliver, 'tis time." Joslyn spoke firmly. "First I hug, and then off you go." She held out her arms to him.

  Oliver glanced at Liam.

  “Do as your mother says," Liam said, though as soon as the words were out he wondered how it had fallen to him to back Joslyn.

  Heaving a hefty sigh, Oliver accepted her hug and looked again to Liam. "Tell me a story, Unca Liam?" he asked.

  "Aye, but not tonight."

  "When?"

  "Tomorrow night, hmm?"

  Oliver smiled. "A'right," he said, and followed Emma from the hall and up the stairs.

  "Now I would know why you all sit here looking as if someone has died," Liam said. "Speak."

  With naught to temper the serious set of his face, Sir Gregory leaned forward in his chair. "It has come, my lord," he said, his voice thick with foreboding. The plague has arrived in England."

  Liam's first thought was for Joslyn. Looking at where she sat across from him staring into the fire, he saw fear in her eyes. Doubtless, she was imagining losing everything dear to her: Oliver. Lord, were it not lor their audience, he would take her in his arms, he thought. More than anything, he wanted to wipe i way that fear.

  "Did you not hear me, Lord Fawke?" Sir Gregory asked. "I said, the plague has come."

  Liam shifted his gaze to the knight. He had known the disease would reach them eventually but had prayed for more time. "I heard you," Liam said. "What else do you know of it?"

  Sinking back in his chair, the knight shrugged his weary shoulders. "There is not much to tell, really. Two days past, word reached Settling that it came in through Melcombe Regis at Dorset on a ship bearing a man stricken with it. Within days, a local died from it."

  "Only one?"

  "Nay. Several after him, and still others are dying now."

  "Know you how many?"

  Sir Gregory frowned. "Several, is all I was told."

  As shown by the silence that followed, everyone in the hall was painfully aware of what this meant. Of those the plague struck, few survived. And those it overlooked were left with the painful loss of their loved ones. It was merciless, caring not whether one was noble or peasant, male or female, adult or child.

  Liam thought ahead to the preparations that needed to be made. A physician must be found for Thornemede, more clerics to ease the dying, areas of quarantine designated, food supplies—

  "Tis God's wrath come upon us," Ivo said suddenly. "Divine retribution for our sins."

  Instantly, a dozen pairs of fearful eyes looked to the priest, imploring guidance from a man incapable of guiding anyone. It nearly made Liam laugh. Strange, he thought, how fear had a way of leading astray those who were usually shrewd. They might as well look to the devil for salvation.

  Basking in the attention that was so rarely given him, Ivo warmed to his role. "Sinners," he went on, hisl gaze touching first Liam and Joslyn before moving to the others. "They have brought this on themselves, angering God with their lies and deceptions, their greed and lust. Wicked, I say."

  Though it was the same view the church embraced—that the plague was poured out by the hand of God—Liam knew Ivo was speaking more to him and Joslyn than to any of the others. In an effort to hold himself in his chair, that he would not leap out of it and do his uncle harm, he clenched his fists tighter.

  "God will smite them all with the festering ill of the plague," Ivo continued. He looked heavenward, “Like leaves in autumn, the sinners will fall dead to the ground until His earth is cleansed of every last one of them—man, woman, and child"

  The murmur of men went around the hearth, followed by the weeping of the women servants—most loudly those who were mothers.

  Though Joslyn avoided his gaze, Liam saw the moisture gathering in her eyes. He looked across at Ivo. "Is it not your duty to counsel hope, priest?" he demanded.

  Ivo draped his wrists over the chair arms and leaned back. "You would not have me lie, would you, William?" he asked. "'Tis true what I speak. You know it yourself. The dead will pile so deep (here will not be enough ground in which to bury I hem."

  Liam was not sure which angered him more, the fear Ivo seemed determined to infect everyone with or his air of superiority as he reclined in the lord's high seat. Damnation, but the man was infuriating! However, before he could formulate a reply past the flurry of his emotions, Ivo had turned his attention elsewhere.

  "Are you a sinner?" he demanded of the serving maid to his right. The woman nodded. "Have you children?"

  A great glistening tear trickled down her face. "Two, Father."

  Ivo slammed his palms on the arms of the chair. "Repent, I say—all of you—and mayhap God will spare your pitiful existence. And that of your children." As the serving maid fell to her knees beside him, mumbling incoherently, he swung his head around and looked from one person to the next until his gaze fell upon Joslyn. Long and thorough he considered her while she refused to look down, even though the weight of his gaze and the accusation in it must have made her wish to.

  He wouldn't dare, Liam told himself. For all Ivo's animosity, he was too prudent to bring his accusations against Joslyn in the presence of the castle folk—most especially with Liam looking on.

  "Are you a sinner, Joslyn Fawke?" Ivo finally asked.

  The muscles in Liam's clenched fists strained. Ivo knew his bounds, and he had just come up against them. Certainly he would not cross them.

  Though Joslyn's eyes widened, no words passed her lips.

  "Aye, you are," Ivo said with certainty. "You lust for the forbidden, your own husband's brother." He pointed to Liam. "Bastard though he is."

  Ivo indeed dared, and in daring had gone too far.

  Liam lunged out of his chair. This time he would do what should have been done years ago. He would wring the life out of the devil no matter the consequences. No matter the bloody church.

  Seeing his nephew hurtling down upon him, Ivo sreeched and fumbled backward in the chair, but there was nowhere for him to go.

  With a snarl, Liam grasped his uncle by the neck of in lobes, dragged him up out of the high seat, and flung, him to the floor—ready to extract what was due him from this man who had made him suffer for so many years.

  Ivo must have known his life was forfeit, for he played the priest no longer. Leaving his holy dignity among the rushes, he scrambled onto all fours, leapt to his feet, and from somewhere in his robes brought forth a wicked dagger. "Come on, bastard," he dared. “Come on!" With a maniacal laugh, he slashed the
air before him.

  Liam's own dagger pressed against his back where it was girded on his belt. He considered it but knew that only the feel of Ivo's neck beneath his hands would do. Stepping forward, he ducked the dagger thrust toward him and countered with a blow to his uncle's middle. Quick on his feet, Ivo sidestepped. Quicker, Liam swung his body right and landed an elbow to Ivo's gut.

  Sucking in a breath, the priest stumbled back. "Send you to . . . hell for that," he gasped.

  Liam moved in, his eagerness laying him open to i he blade Ivo swept down upon him. Liam saw it coming but had only enough time to turn his shoulder to it and prevent it from entering his heart. Skittering down his arm, the blade opened his tunic and scored the flesh beneath.

  The wound was minor, Liam told himself. He hardly felt it.

  Triumphant, Ivo raised his dagger high as if to show everyone the blood that colored his blade.

  Now Ivo had left himself open, and Liam took quick advantage of it. With one thrust of his body, he knocked the dagger from his uncle's hand, with another, he sent him down among the rushes again. Then he was upon him. His greater weight pinning Ivo, he reached for the priest's neck and closed his fingers around it.

  Disbelief in his eyes, Ivo strained beneath Liam, and with his hands attempted to pry the vise from around his throat. But Liam was determined. Soon it would be over.

  "Liam."

  He did not hear Joslyn at first, with the blood pounding loudly through his ears.

  Dropping to her knees, she gripped his arm. "Pray, Liam, do not," she beseeched him. "Do not do this."

  He shifted his gaze from his uncle's hideously gaping mouth to Joslyn's, which trembled with fear.

  She shook her head. "Twill be the end of you," she whispered.

  He didn't care. What had he to live for anyway? What better end to his life than to free himself—and Joslyn—of this devil?

  "Please," she pleaded. The tears she had earlier denied began to fall. Suddenly, Liam realized that though he would regret allowing Ivo to live, his regret would be deeper yet did he kill his uncle with Joslyn looking on.

  Turning from her, he stared hard at Ivo's bulging eyes, crimson face, and lolling tongue. Then he loosened his fingers and drew back.