by Tamara Leigh
"Like you took care of Ashaford?"
This time the knights and men-at-arms stirred nervously, and though they had good reason to believe the man who should have been their lord would react with anger, Liam felt only a dull ache. "Aye, like I took care of Ashlingford."
Turning in Liam's arms, Oliver slipped down in the saddle before him. "You gonna fix it, aren't you, Unca Liam?"
Liam put his arm around the boy. "I am," he said, and turned his gaze on the others. "There is drink to be had in my hall," he announced. "Lady Joslyn and I will follow."
For men who had ridden all morn—likely without pause—it was a welcome invitation. Eagerly, they directed their horses around Liam and Joslyn and spurred the animals away.
Taking his reins in hand, Liam looked back at Joslyn. Though her explanation for coming to Thornemede would have to wait until Oliver was otherwise occupied, he asked, "Is it Ivo?"
She nodded.
The muscles throughout his body tightening, Liam turned his horse back toward the castle and began weaving his story for an intent Oliver. Though there was still tale left to tell when he halted his horse before the donjon, Oliver did not complain when he was told that the remainder would have to wait until bedtime. Liam set the boy upon his feet, watched him scramble up the steps, and turned to Joslyn where she sat atop her palfrey.
He reached to lift her down, and she came easily into his arms—as if it was where she longed to be. Liam lowered her to the ground and held her a bit longer than necessary before taking her elbow and guiding her up the steps.
How would she react to Thornemede? he wondered. He had seen the appreciation in her eyes when she had stood in the hall of Ashlingford, but though these past weeks had seen many improvements made to Thornemede's hall, it still did not compare.
The first thing that struck Joslyn when she entered was not the shabbiness but the sweet laughter of children that somehow rose above the talk of men.
"Oliver has found some children to play with," she said, her eyes lighting on her son where he stood with three others. It pleased her. Unfortunately, at Ashlingford there was not much opportunity for him to be around other children, and as he had spent quite a bit of time with the village youngsters at Rosemoor, he had sorely missed them.
As they crossed the hall, Liam removed his hand from her. "The little girl is Gertrude," he said, a tightness in his voice that had not been there before. "The two boys are Michael and Emrys."
Frowning, Joslyn asked, "Servants' children?"
"Nay," Liam said, offering no explanation.
But explanation was not needed, as Joslyn saw a moment later. Up close, the children were as beautiful as Oliver, and their marked resemblance to him impossible to overlook—especially that golden hair. Even had Joslyn wished to ignore it, she could not. These were Maynard's offspring. They had to be.
She swallowed hard. It wasn't that she hadn't expected Maynard to have fathered illegitimate children, just that she had not been prepared for the encounter. Had she loved Maynard as she found herself loving Liam now, it would have hurt indescribably—especially as the little girl had obviously been born some months after Oliver. Instead, all she felt was sadness for these unacknowledged children.
Becoming aware of Liam watching her, she met his intense gaze. He was waiting for her reaction to the bastards of her deceased husband, she realized. Did he think she would respond to them as Anya had to him? Even if she felt hurt, never would she direct it toward these innocents. "You should have told me," she said.
He shifted his gaze back to the children. "There was not time."
"I know I gave you no warning that I was coming to Thornemede—I could not," Joslyn said. "But you could have told me when last you were at Ashlingford."
His eyes studying her, he said, "It seemed an unnecessary burden to put upon you. Most women do not wish to know their husbands as they truly are."
She almost laughed at that. "Do you think me blind, Liam? Ignorant? I knew Maynard was not faithful to me. Even at Rosemoor he found women who were more than willing. " She looked away.
Liam's hand settling on her shoulder was too much comfort. "I am sorry," he said.
Joslyn took a steadying breath. "The only pain is the humiliation. Truly." Then, eager to abandon the topic, she said, "These children." She nodded to where they stood with Oliver at the base of the stairs. "Surely Maynard did not come all the way to Thornemede."
"Nay, he did not. They were sown on Ashlingford women. I brought them with me when I came here."
But why? Joslyn wondered. She looked up at Liam. "And their mothers too?" she asked.
He shook his head. "They have no mothers. Gertrude was abandoned, and the boys' mothers are dead—one in birthing, the other by the plow."
"Why would you do it, Liam? They are not your responsibility."
"Are they not? I am their uncle, Joslyn, just as I am Oliver's."
Her heart swelled for this man. She had not chosen to love him, but she could not stop herself. "Do they know that?" she asked.
"I have told them, but I do not think they understand."
"What will you do with them?"
Liam's gaze grew distant. "When Thornemede is completely mine—its people and its land—I will place them with a family."
"Together?"
"I would not separate them."
Joslyn nodded. "Are there any others? Any more of Maynard's children?"
"Five that are known, but there are certain to be more."
"Where are they?" she asked.
"With their mothers still. But enough of this. Now I would know your reason for coming to Thornemede."
Catching movement out of the corner of her eye, Joslyn looked back toward the children and watched as Oliver took the little girl's hand in his. She smiled.
"Joslyn." Liam prompted her.
"If there is someone who can watch Oliver, it would be best if we spoke elsewhere," she said.
"Maeve will watch him," Liam said. He indicated a woman who stood to the side, her gaze intent on the children. "She cares for Gertrude and the boys."
"Very well," Joslyn said.
Liam motioned her toward the steps. "Come."
Upstairs, Joslyn stepped ahead of him into the chamber he took her to. It was the lord's solar— where Liam slept—she realized, as her gaze fell upon the screen behind which the great bed lay. Sensation rippled over her spine, followed by apprehension. She swallowed. Though last night she had dreamed of being here with Liam, uncertainty now crept in.
"Sit down." Liam indicated the chairs before the hearth.
Joslyn chose one with its back to the screened-off bed.
"Now tell me," he said as he lowered himself opposite.
"Ivo returned to Ashlingford," she began, and explained what had followed the priest's return.
"I will kill him," Liam said when she finished telling him of her encounter with his uncle. His eyes were cold with purpose. "The church be damned. I will put him in his grave myself."
Reaching to where he sat in the chair before her, Joslyn laid her hand upon his arm. "Do not speak so, Liam. I am well—truly—and Emma seems none the worse for her encounter with him."
He stared at her a moment before shifting his gaze to the bandage around her neck.
Joslyn could almost feel the calloused pads of his fingertips move over her skin, causing her to warm inside and out. If only he would touch her, make her feel a woman again!
With a growl, Liam shot upright. "God, Joslyn, why did you not go for help?" he demanded.
"I know I should have, but when I heard him strike Emma, I . . . " She shook her head. "I just did not think."
"Nay, you did not," he agreed. Turning away, he paced across the chamber and, upon reaching the door, paused there a moment before swinging around to face her again. "He could have killed you!"
Much as she would have liked to deny it, as she had once denied Ivo was capable of setting the brigands upon them, Joslyn no longer cou
ld. "I know/' she said.
Liam shoved a hand through his hair. "Tell me the rest of it," he commanded. "Did they find Ivo?"
"Nay, though they searched through the night."
Of course not. Liam nearly said it aloud. Ivo had been long gone ere the Ashlingford men had even put foot to stirrup. But he was still out there and would soon enough reappear. If only he could keep Joslyn and Oliver here with him! He entertained the idea momentarily before rejecting it. Nay, their places were at Ashlingford, not in the ruins of Thornemede.
Liam counted himself ten times a fool for not having questioned Oliver further when the little boy had mentioned he'd seen Emma's money. He had let an important fact slip by without a single moment's consideration. Was this what yearning did to a man? he wondered. Did it so dull his instincts and senses that he thought with the mind of a lovesick youth rather than that of a man who had been trained to watch his back? If so, he would soon be dead, for there seemed no end to his desire for Joslyn. "Where is the money now?" he asked.
Joslyn must have been deep in thought herself, for it took her a moment to respond. "Sir Hugh has retrieved it and locked it in his chest."
Liam nodded. "That is good."
Joslyn stood and stepped toward him. "Liam, what if Ivo comes again?"
He met her gaze. "I will not lie to you, Joslyn. He will come again, which is why you must take no more unnecessary chances with either yourself or Oliver."
"As I did in coming here."
He inclined his head. "Aye, though at least you were wise enough to gather a sizable escort."
She halted a short distance from him. "Sir Hugh is the one who insisted on so great a number," she said. "I did not believe half as many were needed."
Liam had walked away from her, so he would not have to smell the tempting sweetness of her skin. Now it wafted to his senses like the strongest wine. His gaze was drawn to the screen he'd erected around the bed. True, it effectively divided the chamber in two so that this half could be used for receiving visitors, but it was no place for him to be with Joslyn. What had he been thinking to bring her here? He ought to have taken her to the garden that was no longer a garden ... the kitchens ... the inner bailey—anywhere but here. He fought the longing to close the distance between them, but in the end his feet carried him forward.
Standing over Joslyn, he looked down into her upturned face. "I am sorry he hurt you," he said. Lightly, he touched the bandage at her neck. "If only I had been there to stop him."
She stared at him with those magnificent amber eyes.
It was too much. His loins rising with need, Liam cried, "Damn!"
Joslyn blinked with surprise. "What is it?" she asked.
Before the last of his defenses came crashing down, he pulled his hand back. "'Tis only you, Joslyn," he said. He swung around and walked away. "Now let us return to the hall."
There was silence until he was almost to the door. Then Joslyn broke it.
"Nay," she said softly, that one word stirring him as if it were her hands upon him.
Halting, Liam turned and saw that she stood exactly where he had left her. And in her eyes was the light of a woman who wanted more from him than the mere caress of fingers. Joslyn Fawke was ready to give herself.
Though Liam's body rose eagerly to wrest control from his mind, he forced himself to listen to reason. There were harvests to be brought in, the dread plague to be overcome, and Ivo, who still waited to bring the church down upon them. God, any excuse that he would not have to acknowledge what he felt for her, for once he lay with her he would have to admit it—even if only to himself.
"Dinner is shortly to be served," he said, and pivoted again. Walking away from her was one of the hardest things he had ever done, especially when her hurt reached out to him, but he could not allow himself to turn back to her.
It was hard and lumpy as only a well-worn, under-stuffed mattress could be, but Joslyn hardly felt the discomfort as she lay in the dark with naught but her aching thoughts for company.
She sighed, the small sound large in the quiet of the chamber she and Oliver had been given. If only she could stop thinking about Liam! If only she could push out the pain that filled her so completely.
Stifling the groan that rose to her lips, she turned from her back to her side, bunched the flat pillow beneath her head, and again tried to settle down to sleep. However, it refused her as surely as Liam had. He still wanted her—that had not changed, she knew—yet when she had finally gathered the courage to all but offer herself to him, he had shunned her. Why?
Joslyn huddled more deeply in the bedclothes. She ought to have returned to Ashlingford this afternoon following the meal, she told herself. Instead, she had endured the rest of a day turned miserable and stayed the night as originally planned. The only good to come of the journey to Thornemede was that Oliver was finally content. Having heard the rest of his story ere bedding down for the night, he had fallen asleep with a smile on his face.
If only Liam would be as willing to make her smile, too!
Standing on the roof of the gatehouse the next morning, Liam watched the Ashlingford party disappear from sight—Joslyn with them. Then he closed his eyes against the truth. But it was useless. Even though he had not lain with Joslyn, he could no longer deny his feelings for her.
There was only one thing to do. He returned to the hall and wrote a missive.
22
Blessedly, the harvest was in, and still the plague had yet to descend on Ashlingford. Blessedly. Though Joslyn suffered no illusions that it might pass them by unscathed, she was grateful it held back long enough to bring in the grain that would sustain them throughout the winter.
"God answers prayers," she murmured to herself. "Just not all of them."
Turning into the winds that blew down from the north, she made no attempt to catch back her hood when it was swept from her head, or to prevent the blustering air from rearranging her veil and hair. Instead, she stared across the landscape to the patterned fields. Sheep wandered over them, grazing on the stubble left by the cattle that had foraged there first. This was the last day for the animals to fatten themselves; on the morrow, the plow would once again be put to the earth so that winter cereal crops could be planted for the following year. This meant Liam would soon be returning—might even now be riding from Thornemede to oversee the first breaking of ground.
Beneath her mantle, Joslyn hugged her arms about her. She almost wished he wouldn't return. Though it was now more than two months since she had visited Thornemede, the pain of his rejection had not lessened. Rather, with each trip he had made to Ashlingford since, it had grown because of the distance he kept from her.
But it was better this way, Joslyn tried to convince herself. After all, she and Liam had no future beyond, perhaps, one night of passion. And even if it were to become more than that, Liam would eventually wed another to produce his own heirs, someone more suitable than the widow of the brother who had betrayed him.
Squaring her shoulders, Joslyn tugged the reins to bring her mount around. In the next instant, a feeling of being watched came over her—and not from behind where her four escorts waited.
Looking right, she swept her gaze up the knoll from which the deepening of autumn had cleared the green grasses. There, at the top, sat a lone rider, his robes flapping in the wind, his silvered dark hair blowing across his face, and the hilt of a sword jutting from the scabbard swung low on his hip. He stared at her.
Ivo had returned, just as Liam had said he would.
Fear closing around Joslyn's throat, she jerked her head around to search out her escorts. They were exactly where she had left them, huddled at the edge of the wood where the wind was not so harsh. Lord, she had not realized how far she'd ridden from them. And as none of them were looking her way, they had no idea of the danger she had put herself in by seeking these few minutes of solitude.
Looking back at Ivo, Joslyn saw he had not moved from his place. Nay, he was in no hurry, f
or even if she could convince her gentle palfrey to put everything it had into flight, Ivo's warhorse would reach her before any of the Ashlingford men.
There was her meat dagger suspended from her girdle, she reminded herself, but she knew Ivo would slit her throat before she could raise it from beneath her mantle. She might as well attempt the escape he expected.
Joslyn caught hold of that last thought and turned it over. Aye, it was exactly what he waited for—to chase her down in sport. Why not do the unexpected? Why not go to him willingly? What it would gain her, she wasn't sure, but it was certain to unsettle him enough that there might be opportunity in it.
Keeping her face impassive in spite of her heart's pounding, Joslyn urged her horse toward the knoll at a leisurely pace. Although tempted to look behind to see whether or not her escorts had yet noticed what transpired, she did not.
"Father Ivo!" she called out in greeting as she directed her palfrey up the incline toward him.
"Father?" he repeated, his eyes narrowing. "Why so formal, dear Joslyn? 'Tis no longer necessary. Surely you know that."
Naturally, it was she he blamed for his defrocking. "You still wear the robes of a holy man," she pointed out, "even though you are excommunicated."
His smile hideous, he stared at her with all the hate and venom of the devil himself. "Excommunicated," he repeated. "I prefer the word 'unchurched.' 'Tis not so ... permanent."
As Joslyn drew near him, nausea churned her stomach. "But it is permanent," she said. "The church will not allow you back after what you have done— and all those things you did before."
"Ah, Joslyn, are you really so naive? All it takes is money."
"Which you do not have," she countered, reining in her mount before him.
He leaned forward in the saddle. "But I will have it. 'Tis why I have watched you these past weeks. I knew you would eventually leave yourself open. And so you have."
He'd been watching her—had seen her make these rides over the demesne lands day after day. The knowledge chilled Joslyn. Beginning to panic, she started to look around.
