by Lynn Kurland
To his surprise, he found the bed was empty. He remained perfectly still, certain he’d heard the soft sound of his wife breathing. He ventured out to the middle of the room, wishing he’d brought a cane or something to probe with. He grimaced at the thought. The sight of such a thing likely would have sent her into fits she never would have recovered from.
His foot touched something soft and giving, something that gasped.
“Nay,” Christopher said quickly. “Do not start screaming again. My head cannot bear the sound.”
She obeyed, but her breath came in harsh gasps just the same.
“Stand up, girl, and give me your hand.” Chivalry might have demanded he lift her up himself, but he wasn’t sure where she was and had no intentions of fumbling for her and frightening her more with his clumsy groping.
“My lord, I beg you,” Gillian choked out, her voice hoarse. “If you’ve any mercy at all . . .”
Christopher squatted down with a curse and searched until he found her hands, clenched together. He took hold of the both of them and rose, pulling his wife up with him. Gillian shrank back, but he ignored it. He couldn’t blame her. She was no doubt looking frantically at his head, expecting horns to pop forth at any moment.
He pulled her toward the bed, ignoring the soft, desperate sounds of distress she was making. They ate at him, making his belly hurt right along with his head.
Once the side of the bed hit his shins, he lifted Gillian into his arms and laid her out. He reached over her, pulled over the blankets and covered her as best he could.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and fumbled until he’d found her face. Then, without giving his foolish actions more thought, he stroked her hair, as gently as he knew how. It was something he’d done for Jason now and then, during the first few months of the lad’s stay at Blackmour. He’d soothed his squire partly because Jason was Lord Robin’s son and partly because Christopher had always thought of the boy as something of a younger brother. It was only right to comfort those more helpless than yourself.
Unfortunately, with Gillian the touch didn’t seem to be working. Christopher pulled his hand away, dismayed at her violent shivers. Such gentleness should have soothed her; instead it had worsened her fear. Christopher searched back through his memories for what William had done that fortnight they had been together at Warewick.
Ah. Christopher nodded to himself as he dug out one of Gillian’s hands from under the blankets. He laid her fingers flat in his left palm, then smoothed over her slight hand with his right. Her fingers jerked a time or two, then were still. At least they had ceased to tremble.
How long he repeated his gentle motions, he couldn’t have said. All he knew was her hand became warm and her breathing deepened and quieted. She even made the little twitches of a body falling asleep. Christopher slipped her hand back under the blankets and carefully tucked them up to her chin.
“Sleep on, Gillian,” he said softly. “You’re safe now.”
He wanted to remain, just to assure himself she would sleep peacefully, but heard the sounds of his household rousing. It wouldn’t do for him to be seen lingering at his wife’s bedside, as if he had nothing better to do with his time.
He stepped into the passageway quietly. He closed the door as far as it would go, then paused and sniffed.
“What do you want, Colin?” he demanded.
“Saints, Chris, how is it you always know ’tis me?”
“The Sight, you fool. How else?”
He turned toward his bedchamber and started down the hallway. Perhaps Colin would use the few wits he possessed and remain behind. Christopher had no desire for speech, especially with his brother-in-law—even though Colin had apologized the day before for his actions the night of the wedding. Christopher had forgiven him readily enough after a wrestle during which he just happened to use Colin’s nose as a place to rest his elbow numerous times. A broken nose, several bruised ribs and a swift kick in the arse had been repayment enough, to Christopher’s mind.
“How is our lady?” Colin asked politely. “You were in there long enough. No screaming, so I assume you didn’t bed her again.”
Christopher stopped and looked in Colin’s direction.
“Did I or did I not tell you yesterday that I had no desire to discuss my wife? With you or anyone?”
“Aye.”
“Then why in the bloody Hell do you keep bringing her up?”
“I like ’er, Chris. I don’t know why you don’t.”
“Whether you like her or not is of little import to me,” Christopher said, ignoring the last. “She has my name and a safe place to sleep. Whatever happens to her beyond that matters not to me.”
Colin stopped and Christopher didn’t stop with him. He continued on to his bedchamber where he shut himself inside and contemplated going back to bed.
He turned sharply to the fire. He’d remained abed for three months after his wounding. It had taken him a month to be able to lift his head without retching and another to do the same without weeping over what he’d lost.
The final month had been what had almost killed him. He’d done nothing but lie on his back and stare up at the ceiling, telling himself that, aye, he was beginning to make it out. Two fortnights of deceiving himself. Two fortnights of sheer hell.
Colin had dragged him out of bed—bodily. Christopher had cursed his dead wife’s brother so thoroughly and so hatefully that he now wondered why Colin hadn’t just walked away. But Colin hadn’t. He’d bullied and badgered and pestered Christopher until he had risen each day just to try to beat the whoreson senseless. It had accomplished what it was meant to.
Christopher sighed and dropped into his chair by the hearth. He put his head into his hands, then winced as his fingers made contact with the tender bump. He gingerly lowered his face into his hands and let his shoulders slump.
Someone should have warned him that his second marriage would be far more difficult than his first. It would have been the kind thing to do. Or perhaps someone should have warned him before his first marriage. That had been the start to all his troubles.
He closed his eyes and pretended he could see the flames dancing against the walls of his chamber. He could remember how fire looked as the reflection of it played over the sides of his silver goblet, how it had looked in Lina’s pale hair, how it had caressed her flawless features. Angelic she had appeared, angelic and so beautiful that she had ever stolen his breath. Saints, he had been taken with her! It had been so from the first time he’d laid eyes on her.
He had gone to Berkhamshire at Colin’s invitation, taken one look at Colin’s sister and fallen face first into lust. Magdalina of Berkhamshire had been the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Pale and delicate, as unattainable as a dream. Yet she had become attainable and only because of him, or so she had led him to believe. She had teased and flattered him, yet held her distance, prolonging the game. Christopher had found himself, for the first time in his serious young life, playing the fool. He’d sung for her, he’d danced for her, he’d made up foolish lays to tease her into smiling for him. He had laughed more in the six months he had courted her than he had before in his entire life. He had wed her willingly. She had been his beautiful Lina and he couldn’t spend enough to see her clothed or adorned or entertained. He had laid his heart and his wealth at her feet and thought it would be enough to hold her.
He shoved away his foolish thoughts. It did no good to think of her. He knew well how skillfully her beauty had hid the ugliness of her soul. He smiled grimly. Perhaps he hadn’t been served by sight in those days. Had he been blind, he might have listened more closely to what she said and paid no heed at all to her face. Aye, he would have been much better off without his bloody eyes to guide him.
Never again. He rose, then swayed at the sudden pain in his head. Never again would a woman touch his heart. It would hurt too much when she discovered the truth.
As Gillian would, and no doubt soon enough. He had been
careful not to let on to his secret, but he wasn’t sure how long he could keep up the ruse. It might be easier if he never had to speak to her. He promised himself a good evening’s worth, of thought on that when his head wasn’t paining him so greatly.
Aye, he would find a way to keep Gillian away from him, for then she would cease to trouble him. His belly wouldn’t wrench at the sound of her frightened cries, his poor head wouldn’t take any more abuse thanks to her attempts to please him, and his heart would not soften at the feel of her hand resting so trustingly in his. He could go back to wallowing in his miserable life. At least there all he felt was pain. Other emotions were unpleasant at best.
And frightening at worst.
nine
GILLIAN TOUCHED HER HAIR SELF-CONSCIOUSLY AND wished she hadn’t been so foolish as to have cut it off eight years ago to spite her father. She had paid for that not only by the lash, but by her hair’s subsequent defiance. Much as she wrestled with it, it simply would not stay tucked under a veil. Unfortunately, poorly coiffed hair would make a poor impression on the servants. She would have difficulty enough convincing them to obey her without her locks adding to her troubles.”
She wouldn’t have been facing the servants at all, but Christopher had demanded she leave her chamber and make an appearance before the household. That message had come by way of Jason, along with the admonition for her to stay out from underfoot, although Jason had phrased it kindly enough. Gillian, however, had heard Christopher bellowing the like, and knew what the original message had been. It didn’t trouble her. All she wanted was to do nothing to foul her husband’s humor. Not that she had seen enough of his humor over the past se’nnight to know what state it was in.
After that first night when he had broken down her door, she had been certain she would leave the next evening. But when the next night had fallen, leaving had seemed rather unappealing. It was cold out and very dark. Who knew what sorts of things lurked in the darkness outside Blackmour’s walls? At least inside she knew what she faced. And so she’d gone to bed, terrified that at any moment Christopher would come in through the door, having changed his mind and decided beating her was wise.
He never came, though. That had been enough to keep her from leaving. Every night she went to bed terrified, and every morn she awoke, untouched. It was a fragile peace, but it seemed more appealing than braving the wilds of England.
And even though Christopher did not visit her, Jason did. He came often, to see if she needed aught and to deposit meals on her table and carry off the untouched ones. After hearing Christopher’s exclamation of displeasure over her neglecting her food, she had decided eating was much easier than enduring a flogging, so she had eaten all that was given her. Christopher hadn’t come to express his opinion about it.
Toward the end of the se’nnight, she actually found herself becoming restless. The view of the sea from her window was indeed fine, but she longed to see it from the battlements and have something around her save the four walls of which she was growing increasingly tired. It was then that Christopher had demanded she take up her duties as chatelaine.
She smoothed her hand over her gown and stepped out of her chamber. She walked down the stairs to the great hall. The tables were put up and the servants lounged about, as if they hadn’t a care in the world. She knew she should have done something, but what? One of the serving wenches looked up and stared insolently. Gillian looked away quickly and decided that impressing the servants would have to come another day. For now, all she wanted to do was escape their notice.
She left the great hall quickly, grateful to shut its door behind her. It was chilly outside, but not unbearable. The courtyard was full of folk working and children playing. They were, though, far less interesting than the group of men who cheered and clapped at the spectacle in their midst. Gillian edged closer, wondering what it was they watched.
Through the crowd, she could see that two men wrestled in the middle of the circle. Normally she wouldn’t have paid any heed to such a thing, but she could have sworn one of the combatants was Jason. Christopher wouldn’t like it if his squire were being abused. She certainly didn’t have the courage to stand up to whomever was abusing him, but she could mark him and pass his name along to Colin, who could in turn tell Christopher.
She approached cautiously and stood behind a broad man, trying to peek around his shoulder. It just happened to be Colin’s broad shoulder she was trying to see around. He frowned down at her. She looked up at him and tried to smile. She knew it had come out as more of a grimace, but Colin seemed not to notice. He turned around again to watch the wrestlers, putting his elbow up on one of his fellows’ shoulders as he did so. It, quite conveniently, allowed Gillian full view of the battle. Somehow, that small gesture cheered her. Feeling a bit more courageous, she leaned forward and looked into the circle.
And then she wished she hadn’t.
It was Christopher who wrestled with his squire, and he was half-dressed and sweating profusely. Jason could have been wrestling naked and Gillian wouldn’t have marked it. She had eyes only for her husband.
She had seen William before with his shirt off, but he looked nothing like Christopher. Merciful saints above, her husband was finely fashioned! Not a spare bit of softness on him at all. Finely honed muscles rippled under his skin as he moved, as he avoided Jason’s grasp, as he lunged for his squire when he came too close.
It was in the midst of her gaping that Gillian realized that Christopher was actually managing the feat without seeing anything. She looked more carefully and noted that though he seemed to be watching his squire, in truth he was listening intently. And touching. Though he looked as if he were merely toying with Jason, he kept his squire within reach merely to know where the lad was.
“Don’t be such a woman, Artane,” Colin boomed. “Take your lord down!”
Jason lunged and tried to do just that. And though he was rather tall for his age, he could do nothing more than force Christopher back a pace. The men laughed and Jason’s face flamed. Even Christopher cracked a smile at the bawdy jesting. Christopher held his squire immobile until Jason cried peace. Christopher released the lad and started to walk toward the edge of the circle. Jason moved and Gillian almost called out a warning. It was unnecessary. One moment Jason was lunging at Christopher’s back and the next Jason was flat on the ground with Christopher’s bulk pinning him there.
Gillian stood, silent and marveling, as the crowd broke up and moved away. Colin grunted at her on his way by, possibly his way of bidding her a good day. Gillian acknowledged it, then gave her full attention to her husband.
He rolled off his squire, then helped the lad to his feet. Jason stood with his back to her and submitted to having his hair ruffled.
“A fine showing,” Christopher said, “despite your dishonorable attack.”
Christopher was actually smiling at the lad. Gillian was hard-pressed not to gasp in surprise. Devilishly handsome he might have been when he frowned, but he was nothing short of beautiful when he smiled. For the first time she had seen something approximating gentleness on his face and the sight left her completely undone.
“Surprise is my only ally, my lord,” Jason said, ducking away from Christopher’s hand.
“You’ve made me sweat. That says something for your strength, does it not? Your sire will be well pleased with you, I think.”
Jason kicked at the dirt at his feet. “My lord, unless my sire comes here, I should leave within the month.” He looked up at Christopher suddenly. “Come to Artane, I beg you. My mother ever complains that you never accompany me.”
Christopher’s good humor evaporated. “I haven’t the time.”
“My lord, ’tis an easy ride—”
“Damn you, Jason, I said nay!”
“But you know Artane as well as you do Black—”
Christopher put his hands on Jason’s shoulders. “Jason,” he interrupted, “does it not occur to you that I might wish to see you
r family? Do you think I haven’t wished to roam again in the places where I passed my youth? But what would it serve me? To be led about by the hand everywhere I went, to appear weak and maimed?”
“But, my lord, it would not be that way,” Jason protested. “I vow it wouldn’t.”
Christopher ruffled Jason’s hair affectionately. “Enough said, imp. Let us search out something edible as reward for our hard work, then I’ll leave you at liberty to spend the day however you choose.”
Jason’s sigh was heavy, but he readily followed Christopher into the house. Gillian stood in the middle of the courtyard and watched them go inside. Her father had never once given any of his lads a kind word. The kind of cheek Jason had displayed would have earned them a flogging, at the very least. Yet Christopher’s rebuke had been nothing more than a few words, and gentle ones at that. What manner of man was this Christopher of Blackmour?
She walked over to the bench pushed up next to the hall and sat down, bewildered. Indeed, her life had become nothing but a tangle of confusion. She was captive in the aerie of a dragon whose reputation for cruelty and wickedness was flung far and wide, yet it was the one place she’d slept where she’d never been beaten. Her husband had broken down her door in anger, yet had then soothed her to sleep by stroking her hand as William always had done when she’d been frightened. Christopher was a fierce lord who obviously brooked no disrespect from any soul, yet he had been gentle with a squire who should have known better than to let his tongue run free at his lord’s expense.
But the most startling revelation of all was Christopher’s smile. By the saints, how that transformed his visage! In that smile was kindness and affection. It was a smile that would have laid the whole of England at his feet, if he had but used it to his advantage.