He held out his arms as Grace rushed to him, enfolding her shivering form in his cloak. So great was his relief, words refused to come.
Bravecoeur hoisted Godefroy over his shoulder and set off in the direction of the rampart. “I’ll retrieve our swords,” he shouted.
Rodrick joined his father and sister and the three clung together as Grace sobbed.
“It’s over now,” Gallien reassured her. “I’m taking you both back to Ellesmere.”
Rodrick shook his head. “I cannot, mon père. I must return to Shelfhoc. Swan is alone with Bronson.”
Grace turned to Rodrick. “What has happened to Bronson? Why is he not here?”
Rodrick stepped backwards. “He was wounded. A fever took hold.”
“I must go to him,” she murmured.
Gallien thought Grace seemed unduly stricken by Bronson’s injury. He locked gazes with his son, who nodded in answer to his unspoken question. It grieved him to realize both his children had fallen in love with someone they might never be allowed to marry.
* * *
Rodrick was impatient to return to Shelfhoc. “What’s keeping Bravecoeur?” he muttered. “How long does it take to retrieve two swords?”
“What about Titus?” Grace asked.
Their father had suggested he accompany them to Shelfhoc and insisted Grace ride with him. “He’s a follower, not a leader. When he regains his wits and discovers his master gone, he’ll go into hiding.”
“But he should be punished for what he did to us.”
Rodrick dragged his eyes away from watching for Bravecoeur. “He’s out cold, and it would take an army to carry him downstairs. His punishment will be the fate of a fugitive, forever looking over his shoulder.”
“Look,” Grace exclaimed. “Something’s on fire.”
“Fyke,” Rodrick exclaimed, spurring his horse towards the oak. The animal shied away from the flames licking at the undergrowth around the mighty tree. He dismounted quickly and slapped the beast on the rump. “Bravecoeur?” he shouted, coughing as smoke drifted into his eyes.
The stiffening breeze would soon fan the flames. He peered into the hawthorn thicket. His captain lay near the base of the oak tree, and there was no sign of Godefroy.
Covering his mouth with his cloak, he strode into the prickly bushes. Kneeling beside Bravecoeur, he shook his shoulder. The man coughed, trying to sit up. “Your pardon, milord. They got away.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Rodrick shouted, urging the captain to his feet, thankful he wouldn’t have to carry him.
They stumbled away from the burning bushes as the fire took hold with a vengeance. Safely away, they fell to their knees, watching as flames crept up the trunk of the mighty oak.
“What happened?” Rodrick asked.
Bravecoeur swiped a hand across his forehead. “I was stupid. I tossed Cullène to the ground while I buckled on my sword. Next thing, he’d leapt on my back, his arms clamped around my neck.”
Smoke swirled in the shifting wind, choking them. They moved further away from the now burning tree that hissed and crackled as it gave up its long life to the flames.
“He hung on like a limpet I couldn’t shake off. Then, to my surprise, the giant lumbered out of the trap door.”
“They must have been aware of the tunnel.”
Bravecoeur shook his head. “Mayhap, but he looked around uncertainly as if he’d never been there before, and he’d brought a torch from the house. When he saw me struggling with his master, he thrust it in my face. I stumbled and fell. Last thing I recall is him tossing the torch into the trees as he lunged at me. Godefroy must have hit me on the head.”
“And they escaped.”
“To my everlasting shame,” the soldier replied. “Or the flames have consumed them.”
They stood for long minutes watching the tree burn, then Rodrick slapped Bravecoeur on the back. “Now comes the hard part, my friend—explaining this to my father, and to Grace.”
* * *
Tossing and turning on the meager pallet in the cold attic of her former home, one thing had become clear to Grace. She loved Bronson FitzRam. The possibility of never seeing him again was the most painful part of the terrifying likelihood Godefroy intended to take her life.
She didn’t know why Bronson was determined not to remarry, unless he was still in love with his first wife, but she was certain he felt something for her. She was ready to accept whatever he had to offer.
Rodrick had held nothing back about Bronson’s injuries, and she was grateful. They’d always been honest with each other.
As Shelfhoc came in sight, the familiar sense of homecoming swept over her. She suspected her father had sensed her feelings. He’d barely spoken a word, obviously furious with Bravecoeur. At the risk of infuriating him further she had to speak. “I belong here,” she told him with conviction as they entered the courtyard.
He dismounted and lifted her down. “With Bronson, I suppose.”
“I love him, Papa.”
Her father winced. “As I told your brother, it will be difficult, but your mother and I want you and Rodrick to be happy, as we have been.”
She looked her father in the eye. “And you experienced difficulties at first.”
He chuckled. “We did, saucy chit. Now go in and see if he still lives.”
Tybaut rushed out, bowing briefly to the earl, then addressing Grace. “Milady. Saints be praised you’re safe.”
She swallowed hard as he ushered her into the warmth of the house, glancing up the stairs. “How fares your master?”
He touched her elbow, moving her towards the solar. “His sister tends him. He is still feverish, but everyone is praying hard.”
She breathed again that he was still alive, but the news was not good.
Swan dozed in a chair, head thrown back, mouth open. She looked exhausted. Rodrick picked her up and cradled her in his arms. She blinked awake and smiled, then saw Grace. “Thank God,” she murmured. “He will get well now you’ve returned.”
Rodrick carried his beloved out of the solar.
Fearing the worst, Grace turned her gaze to Bronson. He dwarfed the raised pallet on which he lay. The golden stubble of his beard already darkened his face. Lucia stood at his side, tears streaming down her cheeks. She came willingly into Grace’s outstretched arms.
“God be praised,” the girl sobbed into her mistress’s bosom.
“You need sleep,” Grace whispered into the girl’s hair. “Tell me what to do. I will tend him.”
Lucia wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “He hasn’t wakened, though he thrashed around when we had to cut away his tunic and sew him up. It’s a deep wound, and the vinegar I poured on it must have stung like the devil. But it’s the blow to his head that has stolen his wits.”
Carefully, she folded the linen away from Bronson’s chest. Grace winced at the thick wad of padding caked with dried blood.
“It bled for a long time, but has stopped now,” the servant explained as she lifted the pad.
Grace wrinkled her nose. “What is that odor?”
Lucia dabbed at the poultice, then peeled it back, rolling it up from one end. “I used everything available, mint, yarrow, onions, garlic. There’s a poultice of onions under each armpit too. I’ve been burning rosemary in the fumitory, but it doesn’t seem to help.”
Grace clamped her hand to her mouth to stifle a strange sound threatening to emerge from her throat as Bronson’s chest was revealed. She’d seen soldiers stripped to the waist in the training yards and peasants laboring in the fields in the hot sun, but had never set eyes on a male chest of chiseled rock. She wanted to run her fingertips over the golden hair dusting his chest that wandered in an intriguing line down his belly.
His masculine beauty was marred by a neat line of bizarre stitches stretching the breadth of his chest, above his dark nipples—nipples she had a sudden mad urge to lick.
Stitches of blue, of red, of green held onto the
jagged edges of a ghastly wound like shipwreck survivors clinging to driftwood. The juices of the poultice seemed to have rendered the colors more vivid.
Lucia cleared her throat. “I did my best, milady. It was all we had.”
“Thank you,” Grace managed from her parched throat. “Your needlework has always been the finest.”
Lucia put back the poultice and the pad, pulled the linen back over Bronson’s chest, bobbed a curtsey then left.
He lay like a stone statue atop a tomb, needing only a kiss to breathe life into him. She stroked his matted hair off his forehead, leaned forward and kissed his fevered brow, savoring the salty taste of his sweat. “Come back to me, Bronson.”
Then she pressed her lips to his, delighting in the swans’ down softness of his beard. Pangs of desire skittered into her womb, despite the sharp taste of henbane that told her they’d drugged him with dwale. “I love you,” she murmured.
She startled when he inhaled sharply then slowly touched his fingertips to his lips. She clasped his warm hand and held it to her breast. “Bronson,” she whispered.
His hand tightened on hers. “Grace,” he rasped, licking his lips. “You taste salty.”
A Remarkable Job
A kiss awoke Bronson from a dream. He was lying atop a sarcophagus, a tiny winged cherubim hovering by each shoulder. He didn’t want to open his eyes, fearful he’d been kissed by the Angel of Death.
Touching his parched lips, he heard whispered words of love, tasted salt. Surely harbingers of death breathed fire and brimstone?
He inhaled deeply to reassure himself of his mortality. His hand was pressed to something soft and warm. As his palm absorbed the warmth, his heart filled with the certainty he was going to survive whatever ailed him. Pungent aromas assailed his nostrils, but overriding all was a scent he recognized immediately. “Grace,” he rasped. “You taste salty.”
The cherubim giggled like naughty children and disappeared into the fog clouding his wits. “They’re gone,” he said, thinking suddenly of his stillborn babes. He peeled open his eyes, elated to see Grace’s lovely face, but saddened by her tears.
“You’re awake,” she sobbed.
His throat produced a grunt of confirmation as he scanned the space around him. “Why am I in the solar and why do I smell like I’ve bathed in onions?”
She smoothed a hand over his brow. “Rodrick was afraid carrying you upstairs would worsen your wound.”
Wound?
He furrowed his brow, trying to recall—
It came to him then, the grinning face of the man who had slashed him. Now he understood the army of tiny creatures marching across his chest in boots spiked with nails. He raised his free hand to touch the wound, reluctant to remove the one cupped under Grace’s breast.
Breast?
Embarrassment washed over him. “Forgive me,” he drawled, making a half-hearted attempt to remove his hand. “I’m in a stupor.”
She resisted his efforts and grasped his free hand. “It’s the dwale, but you mustn’t touch the stitches. Lucia did a…er…remarkable job.”
He should ask what she meant but a dull ache throbbed at his temples and a pleasant one was stirring in his loins. “I’m hungry,” he managed, suddenly realizing he was, though he doubted she understood he thirsted for her.
She laughed. “It’s a good sign.”
Her bright smile filled him with contentment, though he missed the comforting weight of her breast when she removed his hand and stepped back.
“I’ll fetch something to eat.”
He made an attempt to sit up, but she put a hand on his shoulder. “Lie still. He hit you hard, and you lost a lot of blood.”
He lay back, enjoying her coddling as the heat of her hand seeped into his bare skin. “Who did this? What did they want? Did they harm anyone else?”
“Too many questions,” she said, obviously avoiding answering. “All will be revealed after you have eaten.”
He watched her go, knowing deep in his heart she was made for him. But what did his dreams of angels portend? Were they to remind him life was fleeting and the risks of losing another wife in childbirth too great? Or did they signify something else?
* * *
Rodrick carried Swan into the hall, where his father was in discussion with Bravecoeur, though it seemed a one-sided conversation.
The soldier studied his feet when his earl abruptly stopped talking and hurried over to his son. “Suannoch, I regret the attack on you and your brother in my territory. Godefroy will be punished, if he still lives.”
Swan furrowed her brow and looked at Rodrick. “He isn’t in custody?”
Bravecoeur coughed and bent the knee before her. “Forgive me, milady, he is still at large because of my failure.”
Rodrick helped her stand as the soldier explained.
She offered her hand to the captain. “You’re excused, Captain Bravecoeur. I don’t fault you.”
The soldier rose. “I swear I will do everything in my power to recapture him, if he survived the fire.”
Swan nodded, prevented from speaking further when Jolly bustled in with a large tureen of broth and a ladle, setting them down on a trestle table. The lads brought wooden bowls. The cook filled one and offered it to the earl. “My lord, please take sustenance before you depart, and milady Swan, you must eat before you rest.”
“You’re leaving, Papa?” Rodrick asked.
“Oui,” his father replied, sipping the broth. “I must get back to Ellesmere for Christmas Day, or your mother will never forgive me.”
Swan sighed. “With all that’s happened I had forgotten the morrow is Christmas Day.”
Swan and Grace’s carefully planned celebrations had been ruined, but Jolly came to the rescue. “This horrible day is nearly over. God willing, our master is on the way to recovery, but on the morrow you will have your Christmas feast if the lads and I have to toil through the night to assure it.”
The grinning scullery boys nodded in unison like puppets on strings.
Grace joined them. Rodrick was relieved to see a smile on her face. “How does Bronson fare?” he asked.
His sister embraced Swan. “Thanks to you, I believe he will recover. He’s hungry.”
Swan hugged her cousin. “I am beyond relieved to see you safely returned, Grace. It was more thanks to Lucia that my brother is still alive, but I was confident your presence would work miracles,” she replied as the two women clung together.
Rodrick’s father came to his feet. “Delicious broth. I must be off before it gets dark.” He hugged his daughter. “Mayhap Jolly’s suggestion of a Christmas celebration might set Bronson on the road to recovery.”
Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Thank you, Papa. Give my love to Maman.”
The earl bowed to kiss Swan’s hand. “It seems I am to be blessed with another beautiful daughter. I will petition Archbishop Theobald.”
She blushed and threw her arms around him. “Thank you, my lord earl.”
He patted her softly on the back, then released her and turned to Rodrick. “Take care of your nose, mon fils. It looks painful.”
“In truth, I’d almost forgotten it,” he replied.
Grace ladled a bowl of broth. “This is for Bronson, Papa. Come with me to say goodbye.”
When they were finally alone, Rodrick cupped Swan’s face in his hands. “Now, Swan FitzRam, it’s my bed for you.”
Her eyes filled with uncertainty, and a hint of desire.
He laughed. “Don’t worry. You can sleep in my room upstairs. I’ll be honorable, much as I want to make you mine. I’ll bed down in the hall with Tybaut and the lads.”
* * *
Grace and Bronson tried hard to hide their feelings for each other as she fed him his broth, spoon by spoon, but the alchemy between them was impossible to miss.
Grace had confessed to loving her northern relative; if she thought Bronson didn’t harbor feelings for her, Gallien could plainly see she was wrong.
The man was clearly smitten.
Gallien had promised to petition the Archbishop on behalf of Rodrick and Swan. It was difficult to foretell if Grace and Bronson’s situation would help or hinder the cause.
It was enough to make a father’s head spin, and there were other serious concerns facing him as an earl newly recruited to Henry Plantagenet’s campaign for the throne.
If Bravecoeur had been more vigilant, Grace’s abductors would be on their way to Ellesmere’s cells. Now, their capture was his first priority—right after he’d celebrated Yuletide with his beloved Peri. With two of their offspring away at Shelfhoc, he and his wife would have more time to themselves. The prospect was more than appealing.
“I expect you’d like some privacy,” he told Grace and Bronson. “I have to get back to Ellesmere.”
His daughter set the bowl aside, rose and kissed him on each cheek. “Give my love to maman.”
“I will,” he replied. “She’ll be glad to hear you are safe, and in…”
The wary look in her eyes made him change what he’d been about to say. “In good spirits,” he concluded, aware now Bronson hadn’t yet admitted he cared for Grace.
“Goodbye, my lord,” Bronson said hoarsely.
Tempted to tell of his own hesitancy years ago that had almost resulted in his losing Peri, Gallien nevertheless pursed his lips and left the chamber.
Male Essence
Rodrick vaguely heard the scullery boys scurrying off to the kitchens in the early hours of the morning to wake Jolly who slumbered in her cot behind the brick chimney. Tybaut snored not too far away.
He fell back to sleep and wasn’t sure how much time had passed before his nostrils twitched—Jolly was roasting venison. It evoked a memory of happy Yuletides at Ellesmere. But he had a sense this was a day of new traditions for him and Swan.
He turned over onto his side on the uncomfortable planked floor.
The earldom of Ellesmere was his birthright. When he and Swan were granted permission to marry, she would be his countess. His father had promised to petition the Archbishop of Canterbury. Surely his support carried weight?
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