Ailénor skimmed a quick glance downward by reflex, fully conscious of her unclad state. Jerking the blankets up to her chin, she quickly assessed the situation. Three things impressed themselves all at once. She was alone, naked, and stranded high in the rafters of the mill. No matter the ladder, she was trapped until Garreth’s return.
He would return, she assured herself, shutting out any dark possibilities. If something had befallen him, surely she would know it in her heart.
Ailénor sharpened her ears for sounds in the building, and listened intently once again. Silence prevailed, broken only by the chittering birds.
She relaxed and eased back down on the pallet. At once she felt a smarting in her muscles, in places never sore before. While her hips and back ached from the hardness of the oak boards, there was a new, unfamiliar soreness between her legs and a decided tenderness to her breasts.
Ailénor held no regrets. Despite the discomfort, she felt radiantly alive, languid yet energized by her lovemaking with Garreth. She looked to the side and skimmed her hand over the blanket to touch the place where he had lain. A smile stole over her lips and through her heart.
Lovemaking. Truly, ‘twas that. She loved Garreth and admitted it freely to herself. In his arms, beneath his touch, she had become a woman.
Ailénor inhaled deeply of the loft’s cool air, then snuggled down in the cocoon of blankets, feeling much like the caterpillar just turned into a majestic butterfly. Happiness wreathed her, and she basked in the fervid memories of the night before. Her mind detailed the particular intimacy of their joining. Her breasts tightened at the remembrance of Garreth filling her, the feel of him forging against her, she rising to meet him, their bodies rocking together in perfect unison . . .
A noise caught her ear. Her eyes snapped to the end of the loft as Garreth’s head and shoulders appeared above the planking, and his gaze merged with hers. She flushed hotly all the way to her toes.
Ailénor glanced away, her lashes fluttering downward as he climbed aloft and crossed to her. Stealing a glimpse upward, she found his mouth spread in a heart-jarring smile, compounded by a sparkle in his eyes. He looked to be a man supremely content, obviously pleased with their night of shared passion.
She felt her cheeks color hotly. At the same time, pleasure flooded through her, warm and sweet, that she could affect him so.
Garreth consumed Ailénor with his gaze. She was utterly entrancing, a pretty blush to her skin, her hair tousled about her in fiery disarray. Modestly she avoided his eyes. A place within his heart dilated. He anticipated her shyness this morn, understanding ‘twould be difficult for her to face him after their first joining. He wanted to ease any awkwardness she might own.
“Are you all right, my heart?” he asked softly, lowering himself beside her. She gave a nod, but when she still did not meet his gaze, he cupped her chin and raised her face to his. “Ailénor, I do not wish for you to be afraid of me, or ashamed. What we shared . . .”
Ailénor’s eyes leapt to his, wide and expressive. “. . . ‘twas the most surpassing experience of my life,” she completed his sentence in a rush, covering his hand with hers. Her mouth lifted in a smile. “I am not afraid or ashamed. Embarrassed, mayhap. ‘Tis all so new. And somewhat unsettling. Whenever you look on me henceforth, ‘twill be . . . well . . . with knowledge of my . . . ah . . . most intimate secrets.”
Garreth chuckled deep and rich. “Sweet Ailénor, I have only begun to discover your secrets, and would gladly continue to do so this very moment were it safe to remain in these lodgings.” He drew her to him and brushed his lips over her brow and temple. “First I must see you to the protection of Winchester. Then I promise to unlock all your secrets.”
His lips moved over hers, and he warmed her with a deep and absorbing kiss.
Garreth keenly wished to reveal his intentions to Ailénor concerning their future, but resisted. ‘Twas ill-timed. In addition to other complications, she did not yet know the truth of his identity, or aught about the life he would ask her to share with him in England. With the Irish cutthroats at their back, there was no time for lengthy explanations, and those certainly needed to precede his proposal. Before doing so, however, he must speak with the king.
By choosing Ailénor as his bride, he would, in essence, be rejecting the monarch’s kinswomen, Mora and Rosalynd. Not that he had obligated himself to either. Still, the court buzzed with expectation that upon his return from Francia he would betroth himself to one of the king’s cousins. He needed to apprise the king of his decision to wed Ailénor — tactfully, to be sure — along with all that had befallen them.
Having delivered Ailénor from her abductors, and with the approval and support of King Athelstan, Garreth hoped Duke William would find no reason to obstruct the marriage. Naturally he must approach Ailénor’s father with his suit, but he wished first to clear all paths concerning the king and duke, for he sensed the greater challenge lay with the Baron de Héricourt.
Ailénor’s hands drifted around his neck as she responded beneath his kiss. He groaned with want, but held his passions in check. They need be away. Expecting the king to be in residence, he determined to right things this night. Still, having taken Ailénor’s maidenhead, he did not wish to leave her anxious of his commitment to her.
Ending the kiss, he held her close. “My heart, you are mine. Now and always. We are mated. Never will I let you stray far from my side.”
Ailénor’s heart overflowed at Garreth’s words. He kissed her thoroughly, and she met him fully, joyously. When their lips parted long moments later, they both gasped for the want of breath.
Dropping a kiss to the tip of her nose, Garreth grinned, a beam shining in his eyes. “Unless you intend to travel naked to Winchester, you’d best dress, my sweet.”
He grazed one silken shoulder with a kiss, then rose to retrieve her gown from where he had placed it earlier.
“‘Tis rather worse for its ordeal.” He shook his head at the garment, then gave it over to Ailénor. “I fear we shall both present quite a startling sight at court.”
Ailénor’s brows pleated as she accepted the gown, its fabric stiff and scratchy and hopelessly wrinkled.
“‘Worse’? Oh, Garreth, ‘tis pitiful.” She looked to his tunic and found its condition no better. “‘Startling’ is also mildly put.” The side of her mouth quirked a smile. “Do you think the guards will allow us past the gates?”
“It could prove a challenge,” he concurred with a note of amusement. “At least we will have the opportunity to change into more suitable attire before presenting ourselves to the king.”
“K-king? We are to meet Athelstan?”
“Not if you are still wrapped in naught but a blanket.” He lifted one brow and eyed her covering, waiting with manifest interest for her to dress.
Ailénor gave him an admonishing look, then matched the lift of his brow and gestured him to turn round.
Garreth’s grin deepened. “As you wish, my lady. This time.”
He listened to the rustle of cloth, then shifted his weight, chafing with idleness and visions of Ailénor standing naked behind him. He directed his thoughts ahead.
“You will be safe in the fortifications of Winchester,” he offered conversationally. “There are over twenty-seven thousand soldiers to keep watch of you and maintain vigil for our ‘friends.’ Once you are secure in the royal city, we will send a missive to your parents, assuring them of your well-being and alerting them to what has passed.”
“Garreth .” Unease crept into Ailénor’s voice. “Surely word is being spread throughout Normandy of my disappearance. Should Rhiannon’s men discover they seized the wrong woman, they will return for my mother.”
“They could not possibly know of it, Ailénor,” he comforted.
“Mayhap not yet. But think, Garreth. A kinswoman of Normandy’s duke — abducted? Such news will cross La Manche quickly.”
The thought stopped him cold. “I am loath to say it, but as
long as they pursue you, we know they have yet to realize their mistake.”
“Vraiment,” she agreed in a reflective tone. “Alors, let us give them no reason to discover it.” Her spirit revived. “I am ready. Let us be away.”
Garreth turned to Ailénor and gazed on her with unqualified approval. “You are very brave, my heart — a woman of true mettle.” He took her hands in his and kissed them, then guided her toward the ladder.
Ailénor’s grip tightened on Garreth’s hand as her eyes drew to the edge of the platform.
“Mayhap not as much ‘mettle’ as you believe.” She took a swallow.
Garreth gave her a reassuring squeeze, then climbed onto the ladder and lowered himself several rungs. Looking up to her, he held forth his hand.
“Trust me, Ailénor. I’ll not let you fall.”
Many heart-stopping minutes later Ailénor heaved a huge sigh of relief as she stepped from the last of the crosspieces and onto the solid floor of the mill. Together with Garreth she passed through the building, descending the two flights of steep stairs to the bottom entrance level. There the miller’s children waited by the door.
“Go along with them now,” Garreth urged. “Their mother waits for you in their cottage. You can break your fast and make your ablutions. I’ll remain here and see if I can be of assistance to the miller.”
Perplexed, Ailénor glanced to the machinery that equipped the mill, then back to Garreth. “What assistance would you offer him?”
Garreth read her confusion. “None involving cloth, I assure you. The miller is bringing a cart around. He will transport us partway over a bridle path that leads north to the upper Itchen.”
“Can we not simply take a boat from Hamwih?” She furrowed a brow.
“Word is about this morn that the storm brought strangers into town during the night. ‘Tis unclear whether the reference is only to ourselves or to our Irish bloodhounds as well. The miller advises we not chance crossing town to hire a boat. They would likely lurk at the docks. The mill sits on the brink of town. We can set out on the path without drawing notice. The Itchen loops out and turns back on itself like a hairpin. ‘Twill be necessary to cross but a short neck of land. We can rejoin the river upstream and engage a boat at the hamlet there. The Itchen flows directly to Winchester — into the city itself — though we will disembark before the gates, of course.”
“Of course.” Ailénor digested this information.
At that moment the young girl came forth and offered Ailénor a veil to cover her distinctive hair.
Merci,” Ailénor accepted the creamy length of linen, realizing the dark red of her hair would indeed appear a beacon in daylight.
Settling the veil in place, she took leave of Garreth and followed the children’s lead. The miller’s son paused at the door, verified all was clear, and waved them on. Hastening across the yard — the expanse gone to mud — they gained the cottage.
Ailénor gave herself over to the care of the miller’s wife who saw to her needs and laded her with provisions for the journey. She also supplied a worn but serviceable mantle to cover her gown. Barely had Ailénor thanked the woman for her generosity than the miller pulled the horse and cart before the house and summoned her to depart.
Stepping outside, Ailénor found herself quickly ushered to the back of the cart. There Garreth waited, now cloaked in an age-dulled mantle, his features obscured by a hat of faded green felt.
He greeted her with a grin, touching the limp brim of the hat, and handed her up. He joined her, and together they settled themselves in a narrow, open space amidst sacks of barley. The miller banked more sacks around them, then loaded casks of ale onto the back of the cart, further concealing their presence. This done, he climbed onto the seat where the children perched in anticipation. With a click of his tongue and a snap of the reins, the miller sent the nag and cart trundling forward.
Garreth turned a sparkling smile on Ailénor. “Well, my lady, we are off to see the king. What do you think of that?”
She wagged her head, eyeing their bedraggled state. “Truly, we make a woeful sight.” She sighed and gave a laugh.
“My lady, you wound me,” Garreth countered with high cheer. “I confess, however, the state of our dress is the least of my concerns this day. Aside from the curs nipping at our heels, I am still debating how I shall explain to the king the fate of his Psalter.”
Ailénor’s eyes rounded as she envisioned the priceless and much abused Psalter flying from her hands and sinking to the bottom of the Solent.
“Oh, Garreth. What shall we do?”
As they bumped over the road leading northward, Garreth drew her into his arms.
“We have between here and Winchester to think of something.” His smiled with a roguish glint to his eyes.
»«
The tension began to flow out of Ailénor as they approached Winchester.
For hours they had sailed the clear waters of the Itchen, wary of each new vessel that appeared on the river, vigilant for sign of Rhiannon’ s men. But the day passed uneventfully, and now, as they closed upon a high, conical hill rising to the right, Garreth assured her they neared their goal.
“St. Catherine’s Hill,” he informed her, some of the tightness diminishing in the set of his shoulders. “You can glimpse the ancient earthworks that crown its top. From there, one has a splendid view of the valley and the city that lies just beyond. When all danger is passed, we should think to make a day’s outing there. I believe you would greatly enjoy it.” A weary smile touched his face. “Ah, look.”
He leaned forward and pointed ahead as the boat skirted the hill.
The royal lady herself — Winchester,” he said with a note of reverence in his tone. “She was Venta Belgarum to the Romans and Wintancaester to the first Saxons. For centuries now, she has served as the royal and spiritual center of the Wessex kings.”
Ailénor’s blood stirred at Garreth’s words, and she felt her own excitement rise. The city lay on the west bank of the Itchen, nestled in a gap between two steep, wooded slopes.
“The site is highly favored,” Garreth apprised. “Not only is the river at its narrowest to ford here, but the old Roman roads converge on the city from all directions.”
“Does one lead to Lundenburh or, mayhap, Lindum or Jórvík?” Her interest peaked.
Ailénor’s question took Garreth by surprise, but then he recalled her cousin Richard mentioning Lord Rurik’s shipping interests in those towns.
“Aye. The northward road passes straight through Silchester and on to Lundenburh. From there, one can catch an additional road, but Lindum and Jórvík lay to a far distance north. Why, minx? Did you wish to travel there as well?”
“Non.” She smiled. “‘Tis only that I have heard them described so vividly in my father’s and uncle’s halls.”
Garreth and Ailénor fell to a companionable silence as their boat glided into the settlement that flourished outside the city walls. A multitude of timbered houses and workshops — one and two stories tall — stables, gardens, and fine stone churches lined regular streets, each property defined by ditches. The vineyards, Garreth pointed out to Ailénor, belonged to the abbess of St. Mary’s.
As they disembarked near the southeast corner of the city’s wall, Garreth released a long breath and stretched as though he had just set aside a great weight. The lines that had etched his forehead throughout the day disappeared, replaced by happier ones radiating from the corners of his eyes as he smiled at Ailénor. On impulse, he drew her against him and planted a sound kiss full upon her lips.
“You are safe now, my darling. No harm will come to you in Winchester.”
“Hasty words, sir,” Ailénor bantered as she sought to steady herself as he released her, then darted a quick glance about to see if anyone watched. “We have still to enter the city gates.”
“Observe, then, my lady, the strength of arms at hand to aid you.”
Garreth directed her attention to the rugg
ed flint and stone wall surrounding Winchester, fronted with defense works — ditches and earth banks. The wall itself bristled with soldiers for as far as the eye could see in either direction.
“Alors, but they are an army. I only wish I held your assurance they would aid me on this side of the wall should the need arise.”
“Be assured,” he murmured so low she nearly missed the words. He chuckled then, some unspoken thought lighting the depths of his eyes. “Come. We shall follow the twichen and enter by Chingeta, King’s Gate. ‘Twill lead us directly to the palace complex. Once we are refreshed, we shall see that descriptions of Grimbold and Wimund are circulated among the guard and we must compose a missive to your parents.”
Ailénor’s spirits buoyed as she followed Garreth. He had delivered her unscathed from her plight, and now all was about to be set aright — her mother warned and Rhiannon’s creatures hunted out.
The last of Ailénor’s fears dissipated, and her presence in England took on the air of a grand adventure. She especially looked forward to meeting the renowned king, Athelstan. She had heard the most dazzling things of both the sovereign and his court. At home she had even once heard him referred to as the “English Charlemagne.”
The twichen Garreth spoke of turned out to be a lane ringing the city’s outer wall and ditches. They followed it westward a short distance along the south wall and came to Chingeta. It occurred to Ailénor that not all persons would be allowed to use what she assumed to be a private entrance, but before she could ask Garreth of it, she found herself standing before the gate looking up at the stone guardhouse atop the entrance.
No less than six guards manned the gate itself. Two came forth with spears in hand. Ailénor did not miss their quick perusal of hers and Garreth’s shabby appearance. Mayhap they would turn them both away after all.
To her surprise, as Garreth doffed his ragged hat, both soldiers’ faces dropped in obvious surprise. They swiftly reclaimed themselves and snapped to attention, as did the other four securing the gate.
The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series) Page 15
