Worry tore through Philippa. “Nay,” she breathed in protest. “Nay, I won’t let Margaret hurt you, not when I’m the one who did wrong. I should never have told you my name. Rowena must give me to Margaret. Once Roger’s mother has me back, she’ll forget her complaints against you.”
Temric turned his head to look at her. Rather than relief, rage darkened his eyes. His mouth tightened. “You would dishonor me so?” he hissed. “Nay, you’ll not defy me in this. I’ll take her blows, for I earned them with the kiss I pressed on you.”
Philippa started to shake her head in denial and his anger died into pleading. “Nay,” he protested. “I’ve seen how much this stay at Graistan has pleased you. If my life can buy you even one more day of happiness, let me die.” As he fell silent, he reached for her as if to embrace her, only to let his empty arms fall to his sides. A quiet cry escaped him and he once more looked to the far wall.
Awed, Philippa studied his profile, cherishing every harsh line of his face. “That you should care so for me that you would sacrifice yourself,” she breathed in disbelief, then shook her head. “Nay, you’ll not give your life for me. It would be a wasted sacrifice, for once you’re dead, she’ll still have me after, despite what you’ve done.”
He turned his head to look at her. Philippa caught her breath. It was his need to keep her safe that filled the dark depths of his eyes.
It was no less than what she felt for him. “Nay,” she said again, her voice quiet and firm. “What you want is impossible. If you try to do this, I’ll stop you. You’ve already given me far more than you can know and left me no way to repay you in kind.”
His smile was crooked and sad. “All the repayment I need is permission to yet dream of you.”
Heart aching, Philippa shook her head to deny him even this. “I think you’re not the sort of man to indulge in such useless pinings. I couldn’t bear it if you were to make me your lady love and foolishly sigh for the barest sight of me. That’s what the knights in my mother’s stories did, spending their hearts on what they could never have. Nay, do not dream of me. Instead, go to your mother’s home and forget me, for ours is a hopeless cause.”
The light in his eyes died away, leaving their color a flat brown. “Do you spurn my love, then?” His voice was so low she barely heard the words, but there was no mistaking the pain that ached in him.
Tears started to her eyes. How could he think for even an instant that she would refuse him? They were equals, he and she.
“Would that I had my life to begin again,” she told him, “and the freedom to live it as I would. If that were to happen, you would be the choice of my heart. I break beneath the knowledge of what might have been and what I can never have.”
A strangled sound, a tangle of joy and pain, escaped him. She lay her fingers against his lips to still it. Although he tensed, he didn’t move his head away from her touch.
“You mustn’t hurt for me,” she begged softly.
“You’ve denied me all else; you cannot deny me my own pain,” he whispered. The slight movement of his mouth against her fingers felt soft and warm, his beard rasping against her skin. “My heart is already breaking.”
The moment passed and still her fingers rested against his lips. He was leaving, Margaret had come and Roger would soon be here. They had only a moment before Anne returned, bringing with her the bond of propriety that had dictated all of Philippa’s life. Her only chance to know this wonderful man was slipping away.
At last, he tried to free himself from her touch with a turn of his head. “I am sworn,” he warned her.
“You are not touching me,” she returned, her voice as low as his, then stroked her fingers downward to brush the ruffled hairs of his beard back into place. From there, her fingers moved along his jaw in a gentle caress. Up the curve of his uninjured cheek she stroked, across the rise of his brow, then down the crooked line of his nose.
His eyes closed. He relaxed against the wall, then drew a long, slow breath. With that sound, a warm, soft sensation woke in Philippa. She once again brushed her fingertips across his lips, then trailed her hand down the strong line of his neck. When she reached his shoulder, she followed its breadth until her hand rested against the hard curve of his upper arm.
The warmth within her increased. Never before had she felt so alive or aware. Her hand moved again, until it lay against the powerful swell of his chest. Where his armor made any human contact impossible, the soft material of his shirt and tunic provided no such barrier. His body’s warmth flowed unhindered through her fingers into her own flesh. Instead of inspiring caution, the aggressive heat of him urged her into leaning nearer. Her blood tingled in her veins. It was a heady feeling, much like the aftereffects of the strong wine she’d consumed yesterday.
Beneath her palm, his heartbeat was steady and strong. Her pulse lifted until it met and matched that beat, then rose again until it roared in her ears, demanding something of her, although she wasn’t certain what that something was. Letting this new sensation be her guide, she braced both hands against his chest and rose onto her toes. Ever so gently, she lay her mouth atop his.
He gasped, the sound short and sharp, but made no other motion. Her eyes shut against the rush of sensation. His lips were soft beneath hers, his beard rasping against her skin. The taste of him was pleasant.
Trapped in that feeling, she leaned against him. As she shifted, her lips moved on his. This caused the most incredible shiver to leap through her, racing from her head to her toes.
A responding quiver shot through him as he again gasped. This was so startling, she retreated, but only until their lips met in a light grazing of flesh to flesh. As the new heat within her cried out against that loss of physical contact, she opened her eyes.
His eyes were still shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. Beneath her hands, his muscles tensed. His hands were splayed against the wall. Fearing she had hurt him, she sighed and began to ease back down onto her heels. From deep in his throat came a sound of such loss that she gasped against it.
“Nay,” he breathed, his eyes opening. Their dark depths were alight with the knowledge of what he wanted and what he couldn’t have. “Philippa, how am I to continue without you, now that I know you? You are mine.”
Philippa’s heart broke with his words. With a cry, she threw herself against him, her arms twined around his neck in a desperate need to be as close to him as possible. Their mouths met. This time, it was he who kissed her, his mouth slashing over hers as he devoured her with his need.
His passion overwhelmed Philippa, filling her with a most urgent need to move. She shifted against him, only to gasp against a sudden quickening in her most female of places. He made a sound deep in his throat. That shivery sensation strengthened.
Tearing her mouth free of his, she gasped. Wanting for her blazed in his eyes. Happiness exploded in Philippa, the emotion so strong it spilled from her lips in a joyous laugh. Oh, it was wondrous to be wanted because of who she was. And, Mary save her, but it was agony not to feel his mouth on hers. It was she who took his lips this time, returning to him the same passion he’d given her.
Crockery clattered against the floor. With a gasp, Philippa whirled in Temric’s embrace. Anne stood in the doorway, her eyes wide. The remains of Philippa’s breakfast lay shattered at her feet. Behind her stood a slim youth, his dark hair spilling into his face as he gawked at them.
“Mon Dieu,” Anne cried in the Norman tongue, then finished in English. “Temric, what are you doing? Have you gone mad?”
Sorrow tore at Philippa’s heart. She looked at Temric, emptiness waking where the wondrous warmth had been in the previous moment. “Too soon,” she said softly, speaking of the parting that must soon come between them.
The corner of his mouth lifted in a movement that was both pained and wry. “Not soon enough,” he whispered in reply.
The sound of footsteps on the stone stairs rang into the room. Anne’s eyes widened even more. She gesture
d frantically at Philippa. “Your lady sister comes,” she hissed. “Hie, release him and step away.”
Philippa barely managed to step to the side before Rowena pushed past the boy to enter the now crowded room. With a glance, Graistan’s lady took in her sister’s loosened gown, uncovered hair and her untoward nearness to the castle’s master-at-arms. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw firmed. “What is this?” she demanded.
Temric stepped around Philippa to stand before his brother’s wife. “How dare you imprison me,” he scolded, his voice harsh. “You have no right to treat me so.”
Rowena’s back straightened. “Do I not?” Her voice was icy with the power she owned. Awe shot through Philippa’s pain. Her sister wasn’t the slightest bit intimidated by the man towering over her, despite Temric’s clenched fists and threatening posture.
“It’s my province to protect what belongs to Graistan,” Rowena went on. “That old hag has already driven our oxen so hard she broke them. Now she thinks I’m going to give her free rein to abuse one who calls himself my servant? Over my dead body,” she spat out. “And, do not dare open your mouth to tell me you’re no man’s servant. You cannot have it both ways. Either you’re common and you’re my servant, or you accept what Rannulf has tried to give you and make yourself noble.”
Temric’s shoulders tensed until Philippa thought the fabric of his garments would give beneath the pressure. He threw back his head. “I am a son of Graistan,” he roared. “You have stripped me of all honor. Let the aged bitch of Lindhurst have what little of me is left.”
Rowena poked a finger into the center of Temric’s chest, driving the soldier back a step. “I’ll hear no more prattle over honor. It was Rannulf’s filthy honor that nearly cost us both our lives and caused me to miscarry. Now, hold your tongue and sit down. Anne, come you and look at his face.”
Philippa stared open-mouthed as the powerful knight did as he was commanded and sat upon the tiny stool. Once he was seated, Rowena turned on her. “Shame on you! Bind up your hair before anyone else sees you and thinks you a harlot.”
There was something to the way that Rowena spoke that woke anger in Philippa. What right did even her sister have to speak so to her? Anger grew, hurtling up out of the core of her being with terrifying force. What right did any of them have to steal her happiness, or force her back into Lindhurst’s hell? Shocked, Philippa tried to swallow the emotion, but it refused to ebb. Instead, the rage clung within her, simmering and only barely under her control.
“My lady,” Anne said, stepping between the two noblewomen, “I fear this is my fault. I thought only to bring Lady Lindhurst here as swiftly as possible, not giving her time enough to finish dressing. Then, I left her without help or companion, not realizing you meant to bring Temric here as well. Which should I do first, your sister’s hair and gown, or the sewing of Temric’s face?”
“Well, that’s at least half an explanation,” Rowena replied, anger still touching her tone. “Go, get your healing things. I can help my sister.”
“Aye, my lady,” Anne said.
As she slipped out the door, Rowena’s attention shifted to the dark-haired youth. “Who is this boy?”
“My half-brother, Peter,” Temric retorted in a growl. “He’s my mother’s youngest son.”
An irritated sound left Rowena. “Mary preserve me, but this place has more brothers than rats have fleas. Make yourself useful, Peter. Pick up those bits of pottery so my sister doesn’t cut her feet on them.”
The boy’s face folded in concern. He looked at his brother. “Temric, she spoke too swiftly for me to follow. What did she say?” he asked in worried English.
After Temric’s swift translation, Peter complied without complaint, setting the pieces into the corner behind the door where he stayed as if trying to escape notice. That left Rowena to scoop up Philippa’s shoes from the floor and hand them to her as she came to tie her sister’s lacings. Her every movement was harsh and hostile, even the sound of her breathing.
That simmering anger in Philippa again strained at her control. What was wrong with Rowena? Sisters should understand and shield each other, not betray the other’s happiness with anger.
She shoved a foot into one shoe, snarled, tore it off, then pried the comb from its toe. The fragile wimple followed. When it was empty Philippa stomped her foot into it and its mate.
Giving Rowena just long enough to tie the final lace, Philippa shoved free of her sister. She crossed the room for the point farthest from Lady Graistan, then began to drag the comb through her tangles. Rowena crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing as she watched her elder sister plait her hair. For some reason that only made Philippa’s anger worsen.
When her hair was braided, Philippa threw the twin plaits over her shoulders, knowing full well that without ties to hold them closed they were sure to open again.
Rowena’s chin jerked up a notch. She held out the wisp of a wimple. “Here,” she said, “finish it. Put on your head covering.”
Anger fair burned in Philippa’s cheeks. She grabbed the cloth from her sister and untangled it, only to find it wasn’t the simple square she knew. Without Anne to help her wrap it around her throat and pinning the wimple in place, she couldn’t begin to don it.
“I can’t,” she snapped, letting the thin head cloth drift lightly to the floor. “I don’t know how.”
From his seat on the stool, Temric sighed, his shoulders sagging. “Leave her be, Rowena,” he said. “If you must spill your ire, use me as your target. My shoulders are broad enough to bear the consequences for both of us.”
Rowena turned on him all too swiftly. “You should bear the consequences! Dear God, what am I to think? First, you’re attacked in our courtyard by an old woman who claims you kidnapped my sister. When I intervene to save you from a beating, you turn and attack Graistan’s men. Now, I send you to keep my sister safe from those bent on using her, only to find you nigh on embracing her.”
Anger vented from Philippa in a furious shriek. No one, not even her sister, was going to scold her love. Rowena whirled to look at her, her expression startled.
Philippa’s fists clenched. “I won’t have you blaming him. He wasn’t embracing me. It was me who held him in my arms and forced my attentions on him, even against his warning that I must not.”
Anger eased a little with each word she spoke, until, with the last word, it was gone. Only then did Philippa understand what she’d done and she gasped in surprise. What had happened to her? Never once in twelve years of marriage had she dared to so boldly vent her anger. Now, after but two days of freedom, it seemed all control was gone.
Temric looked at her, his face sad. “So she did, but I didn’t do enough to stop her for I didn’t wish her to cease.”
Rowena glanced between them, her surprise giving way to horror. “Tell me this isn’t true,” she cried. “Temric, you are brother to my husband while Philippa is my married sister.”
“Do you think we don’t know this?” The sadness in Temric’s voice had deepened. “Why do you think I was in such a hurry to leave for my mother’s home? As for the possibility of future sin, there’s little chance of that when I’m off to live with my mother for a goodly time to come, and Philippa returns to Lindhurst once the bishop’s done with her. What lies in our hearts for each other will ever be just that, the dreams and wishes of our hearts.”
Philippa caught her breath as the reality of it sank in. He would never pursue her. Her life was over, even if she supported Roger’s suit against Rowena and won her husband’s forgiveness. To have experienced and been denied love was a sort of death in itself.
Philippa returned to stand at her sister’s side. “Rowena, now that you know he did no wrong, tell me you’ll keep him safe from Margaret. Truly, he did no more than prevent my lord’s mother from beating me into unconsciousness so Oswald wouldn’t bring me here. You mustn’t let Margaret have Temric.”
“Dear God,” Rowena cried, throwing up her hands in disbelief,
“you make it sound as if I allow any passing stranger to murder Graistan’s folk. Of course I’ll do all I can to hold him safe, but the matter’s not solely in my hands. Lady Margaret can and will present her complaint to the bishop.” She paused to send a sharp look at Temric. “Since my husband’s half-brother so foolishly insists on maintaining his common status, Lady Margaret has every right to demand his punishment.”
“I am common,” Temric retorted irritably.
“And noble as well,” Rowena snapped back. “When I see the life to which you condemn yourself, my heart quakes for Jordan. I pray he has more sense than you.”
Anne peeked around the door’s edge. When she saw all of them watching her, she gave a nervous smile and strode forward, her healing wares on a tray. Kneeling at Temric’s side, she set the tray upon the floor, then began to gently pry and prod at his face.
Philippa and Rowena came to stand beside Anne. Philippa pointed toward Temric’s cheek. “I think it only needs stitching along this bit of it,” she offered, then squatted to search Anne’s bits and pieces for a length of very fine thread. “If you use this, the scar will be thinner for him.”
Temric grunted. “You can leave it as it is for all I care. Let me bear the mark as a reminder of what it cost me to lose control.”
“Oh, you’ll bear the mark either way,” Anne assured him, threading her needle. “I’ve stitched you often enough I suppose I don’t need to warn you that it’ll hurt, but I will remind you to hold still,” she warned Temric, then put the needle to his cheek.
Rowena made a quiet sound. A muted yelp from the doorway followed. “Don’t let her fall, Peter,” Temric shouted, lurching to his feet. By the time both Philippa and Anne had risen, Rowena hung limply from the boy’s arms.
“I did nothing,” the lad protested squeakily in his native tongue. “Truly. She just fainted.”
Knights of Valor Page 91