He nodded. And let the silence stand.
‘She carries Lancaster’s child.’
He let a curse slip.
His wife raised her brows. ‘Lady Katherine rejoices.’
‘But he...’ How could he explain? The Duke of Lancaster, example of all the things a knight should be, had loved his first wife beyond all reason. Gil had wanted a marriage like that. Lancaster had made him believe it was possible. But now...? ‘It is shameful.’
‘You expect much.’
He did. ‘The love he bore his first wife, even the poet wrote of it.’
‘Most men are not so faithful.’ And yet, her voice carried a wisp of hope.
He knew, now, why she could not believe. That was the worst wound Scargill had left. The one Gil was not certain he could heal.
‘I will be.’ A promise, unlike the last, that he alone could fulfil.
‘I did not ask that of you.’
‘I ask it of myself.’ As he had all his life, striving for perfection.
‘No man is perfect.’
How well he knew that, now.
‘You said,’ she began softly, ‘that I must truly want you in my bed, before you would come again.’
His pulse quickened. ‘Yes.’ An arrogant demand, thinking about it now. ‘Are you saying that you do?’
A shy smile, proof that he had been right. ‘Yes. Let us begin anew.’ And now, a long, slow look from her, assessing. ‘At home. At the Castle of the Weeping Winds.’
* * *
Valerie saw him stiffen, resisting the suggestion, but she did not break her gaze.
‘You cannot leave the Queen.’ His first excuse.
‘She has given her permission. The Queen, of all people, understands the importance of an heir.’
He flushed at the word and she could see the very thought had sparked desire. But still, he fought the idea. ‘It is five days’ ride. We would have less than two weeks before we would have to return to London.’
‘Then we must not delay.’
He smiled, then, as if he knew she had caught him.
She was beginning to understand, now, who he was and why. Of course, he would want more than obligation from a wife. He deserved more. She only hoped she could give it to him.
Her hand on his arm, near a caress. ‘You asked for truth. The truth is, I do not know if I can give you all you ask. But I want to try.’
You can coax him into your bed, Katherine had assured her.
She moved closer now, lifting her lips, not certain he would take them. Now she was the one to risk, giving what he might again reject because it did not come with feelings that he deemed worthy.
Chin higher. Eyes closed. Waiting.
The July sun warmed her face, while his arms took her, loosely, without force.
And then, a kiss.
Gentle, this one. Starting over. She would begin again as well, forbidding memories to intrude. This man’s scent, his skin, the taste of his kiss, these were still new. She quieted her mind, stilling the emotions he had asked for, and tried to allow her body to feel what it might.
And it felt...right.
She let herself sink into him. Strength and power in his kiss, now, but not force. And she could actually return the kiss, return the passion, fooling him into thinking it might be the love he wanted.
Or was it herself she fooled?
This time, the kiss ended gradually, lovingly, and she sighed when his lips left hers.
‘We shall leave,’ he said, his words unsteady, ‘tomorrow.’
* * *
They travelled more quickly than Gil had expected. Only a few retainers rode with them. The rest had taken Katherine to London, but being always with others, they said nothing to each other that could not be said before all.
And they did not touch each other again.
He had sent a messenger ahead, but the steward had had little time to prepare for their arrival. Still, when he introduced Valerie as his wife, he could see that the man understood that things would be different.
At least, Gil hoped so.
But within the walls of his childhood, the past surrounded him anew. As if nothing had changed. Or could.
As night crept upon them, he was awkward next to her, uncertain what should be done. There had been a wedding night, such as it was, in which they had barely touched. The nights on the road there had been no demands, no expectations. But tonight, she had made it clear, they would share a bed in full.
‘Give me some time to prepare,’ she whispered. ‘And come to me, when the moon rises.’
Restless, unable to think of anything but his wife, he wandered the halls, seeing with fresh eyes the ruin the castle had become. Why had she wanted to come here? Why had he agreed?
But when Gil entered the sleeping chamber that night, it resembled nothing he remembered.
Candles, wine, soft scents. He looked around, feeling as if he had stumbled into someone else’s quarters.
Suddenly, gentle hands, touching his back. A goblet of red wine pressed into his palms. And Valerie, soft and close. She had put off her veil and her gown and stood clothed only in her linen chemise, delicate enough to reveal the tips of her breasts. ‘Welcome, my husband.’
First, she had stiffened in his arms and pushed him away. Then, she had lain unresponsive beneath him. And though they had shared a kiss, more, since that time, here was a woman he did not recognise. She was acting like the veriest paid companion. And his body was reacting.
He took a sip of the wine and studied her face, trying to understand her. Her solicitude was welcome. Too welcome. And why should he not succumb to his wife’s allure? They had agreed between them.
And yet, something was wrong.
He put down the goblet. She leaned against him, breasts pressing his chest. Desire, hot and sharp, quickened. Weariness fled. Was it his wife he wanted, or just a woman? His body, less particular than his heart, might not be clear on the difference.
She tilted her head back, lips parted, reaching for his.
Even as she stood on her toes, she was shorter than he. He dipped his head, met her lips and lost himself in her.
Was this the same woman who had slept beside him, untouched, in their marriage bed? Now, she was eager.
So was he.
His lips pressed to hers, then breaking to brush her cheek, her ears. To murmur her name like a prayer.
Awkward in her response, and yet she continued to kiss him, matching him kiss for kiss. Her body pressed his, chest to loins, where he was stiff and ready. She did not speak, not in words, but her breath quickened, signalling she, too, was excited.
He had demanded love, as if it could be commanded, but even if she felt only lust, well, tonight, that would be enough.
He could not think beyond that now.
She pulled him towards the bed and he stumbled, finally opening his eyes again to look at her. She was panting, still, but the look on her face was grim. Determined. He thought she had changed, and yet... He stopped and let go of her hand. ‘What are you doing, Valerie?’
She looked over her shoulder. ‘Why do you stop? I promised to try. Is this not as you asked?’
Yes, his body was screaming. He could barely think beyond his desire. But he did not want to take her like this.
He shook his head, not trusting speech, and motioned to the mattress. ‘Sit.’
Obedient, still, she did. And he wrestled with his breath and lowered himself on to a bench, safely out of reach.
‘When I told you we were to marry,’ he began, ‘I said nothing would change. I was wrong.’
Her smile, genuine. ‘You could not know. You had not been married.’
‘You are kind.’ He had been a saddle-goose and she had
every right to say so. ‘It is clear that marriage changes everything. One of the things it has changed is you.’
‘Me?’ Her smile disappeared.
‘You said a wife is different. What did you mean?’ He should have asked before, the night she said it. Admittedly, he had not cared so much what a woman thought before. Another thing that had changed.
He was trying to learn her expressions so that he could know when she spoke truth, when she lied and when she simply concealed. At the question, her eyes had widened and he glimpsed the woman who had faced him that first day.
She had an answer, it seemed. She was simply trying to decide whether to tell him. ‘The truth,’ he said. ‘Tell me the truth.’
‘Very well.’ She spoke in a slow and measured tone that suggested she was speaking it. ‘When I was a widow, I could act on my own. Once we married, we became one person.’
He was a man of war, not of law, so he knew only vaguely what the law thought of a widow instead of a wife. ‘Of course. Husband and wife are one.’
‘And the one is you. I ceased to be.’
He rubbed his head. Would this make sense if he had not taken a sip of wine? ‘You speak in riddles. Here you are before me. You walk, talk, breathe. You have a soul.’
‘Yes, but I now need your permission to do...anything.’
Had he ever denied her? If so, there had been no malice in it. ‘None of us are entirely free to follow our own devices.’
And then, a moment’s memory. We cannot ask Sir Gilbert’s promise before he has the chance to speak to his wife. And yet he had not thought of doing so, so certain that a wife’s wishes would be the same as his own.
‘What do you want to do,’ he asked, ‘that you cannot do now?’
She studied him before she answered and there, finally, was the look he had feared. The one that pitied him for his lack of understanding. ‘I will never know, now.’
And then, a thought. Worse. What if it were not that he prevented her from doing something? What if it were something he was forcing her to do?
‘You said you would try, Valerie.’ He moved the bench closer and took her hands in his. ‘I am tired of paying penance for Scargill’s sins. Do you understand, truly, that I am not the man he was?’
Then the tears came. Ones she did not even try to stop. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you know because I’ve told you or do you truly believe it?’
‘I want to believe. But it is my mind that knows. My body...’
Her body knew no other way to respond to a man.
He moved to the bed and gathered her close, stroking her hair and letting her sit and cry without interruption. Finally, when the tears were spent, he raised her chin and looked at her. ‘I will not hurt you. I promise.’
And she smiled, as a mother might smile at a child who promised he only wanted one last sweet. ‘No. You won’t.’
And he realised, with those words, that he would not hurt her not because he was a better man than Scargill, but because she had developed her own armour and she would never let any man hurt her again.
Did she love him? Or was she only submitting to him, as she would to any man that had been named to wed her? Did he still want to know? ‘Let me try to teach your body something new.’
* * *
He said nothing, then, but with his kiss.
A kiss, two, more, lips that explored her face, ears, throat, skin, kisses without counting. Without ceasing.
Scargill had never bothered with kisses.
No. I will not think of him. I will not think at all.
For to think was to stiffen with fear, then to force herself to acceptance. Not this time. Gil wanted, deserved, better.
He lifted her in his arms, still kissing her, gently, as if knowing that the power and strength of his desire had triggered her fear before and was determined, this time, to put her feelings before his own.
Braver, now, she let herself feel. That had worked before, for a time. Eyes shut, she felt his lips, then his fingers, soft, gentle, and aimless as a feather. There was no rush. No goal. Instead of racing to mount her, he meandered, no end in mind but to discover what she hid and what she liked.
This time, kisses were not power, not urgency, though she knew they could be. And now, in his arms, there was nothing to do, nothing to fear. Loose, comfortable as if she were in sleep.
And yet...excited. In a way she had never imagined possible.
He trailed his fingers over her bare arms, then over the sheer linen so that the tips of her breasts rose to meet him, aching for more. He left her shift, her defence, in place, but then brought his hand up her bare leg. A touch still so soft that it might have been the air instead of his fingers that caressed her.
Was the moon high? Did the wind howl? Again, she could not guess. Content, more than content, to lie in his arms.
His fingers glided over her knee and up her thigh, pulling her shift high and exposing her fully to his gaze. But only that. He made no move to mount her. His fingers, his lips, stayed a safe distance and then paused. Waiting. Temptingly close.
She opened her eyes.
To see his smile. The one she had too seldom seen. The one that promised...everything.
‘You are so beautiful.’
Words no man had ever said to her before. And yet she believed him.
She lifted her arm, trailed her fingers across his shoulder and down to his elbow, the hair softer than she expected. At her touch, he, too, seemed to need to catch his breath, making her smile.
And then, she slipped her hand on to his back, pulled him to her and met his lips.
She could feel the weight of him, the hardness of his shaft through the fabric, pressing her leg, and still his lips and fingers, moving, as if he would touch every inch of her skin. Yet he did not take more than she offered. Her kiss, her arms...
Her body moved of its own now, her legs parting, opening to him, an invitation...
He paused. Pushed himself away and waited, until she opened her eyes again, and looked at him.
‘Will you trust me?’ he asked.
And she could do no more than nod.
Instead of mounting her, he ducked his head, parted her legs, and then the lips that had touched her everywhere kissed her there.
And, oh, what she could feel. In the past, she had blocked the pain, but that had blocked her pleasure, too. This, this was the desire that made women risk all. She had no more sense of anything but him, her, their bodies connected. It was as if she had taken wings, like an angel, no longer bound to earth.
Blasphemous thought. And blasphemous to care more for pleasure than duty. But this was beyond pleasure. This was—
And then, she could not think at all, but burst into a thousand, thousand pieces, that mingled with his, until there were no longer two of them, but only one.
* * *
Finally, much later, when she had come again to earth, she opened her eyes to see her husband leaning over her, smiling.
Now, she knew the joy that smile promised.
‘And so,’ he said, his voice husky, ‘you can believe.’
Now, she could smile in return. ‘And so, my husband, let us make a son.’
The joy in his face as he took her to him again was beyond words, but not beyond flesh.
And so, open to him as she had never been to another man, she let herself forget that she had not told him every truth.
What do you want to do that you cannot do now?
I want to stay in England. I do not share your dream of Castile.
That secret she still kept.
Only later, when the dawn touched their bed, did she worry that perhaps she no longer could. For she had been able to lie to others, who did not know her lies from truth, nor cared to know.
But this man cared. And this man, more and more, could tell the difference.
Chapter Sixteen
Valerie had hoped, in bringing him back, to show Gil that he could be content in this place, to make it home enough for him to release his dreams of Castile. So the next afternoon, she persuaded him to walk with her, thinking that he would love the feel of his earth beneath his feet as she did.
In the weeks since their last visit, summer had come in full. Green leaves and grass bright enough to hurt the eyes surrounded them. She saw little pasture land. Oxen, but no cattle.
And nothing cultivated for beauty alone.
No one had loved this earth for a long time. What was grown, poorly, as far as she could tell, was nothing more than basic necessities. Near the kitchen, a few herbs thrived, against all odds, in the neglected garden. Everywhere, she saw work that should be done.
‘We can meet with the steward, Husband, before you leave, to discuss management of the land during the time you are gone.’ She had more than one idea of what must be done, but though she was the lord’s wife, she was newly come. She would have to have his support, his permission, before the steward would listen to her.
‘I have never done so before.’
She shrugged. ‘And this is the result.’ She regretted the words immediately. Criticism would not convince him to give his home the care it needed. ‘While you are away, I can make certain the plans are carried out.’
‘This is not a place you will live. Ever.’ No spark of interest, still. ‘The Queen awaits your return.’
‘No, she...’ She had not told him all. ‘She said it would be better for me to be here. To raise our child on his own land.’
A sly argument. He would not know whether she was with child before he sailed.
He hesitated. ‘But only until we reach Castile.’ Determination in his eyes again. ‘I will not fail you.’
Castile. Castile. She was sick to death of hearing that hated name. ‘I know that.’ Knew and despaired of being able to change his mind. ‘Until then, perhaps I could create a corner of Castile here.’
‘Impossible.’
‘Something to remind us. My own sort of promise.’ She must not let him tell her no. ‘I thought a garden.’ A garden she wanted as much as he longed for Castile. ‘A garden like the one at Alcázar.’
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