by Lynn Kurland
Gillian looked up at him. He seemed earnest enough, and was waiting patiently. That in itself was something noteworthy.
But he was also a hand taller than her brother and infinitely more fierce. She had trusted William with her soul; she couldn’t say the same about Christopher. Nay, jesting with him wasn’t something she could do.
“I have forgotten what we were talking about,” she said, stalling.
He pursed his lips, as if he understood exactly what she was doing. “I haven’t, but I will let it pass for now. The second thing I require is your attentions in the garden. The whole of my life I have wished to bring a saucy maid into the midst of my herbs. Put your arm around me. I wish for you to feel protected while we are out of doors.”
He didn’t wait for her to comply but drew her arm around his waist and kept it there by means of his hand. Then he put his other arm very carefully around her shoulders. Gillian felt a furious blush come to her cheeks, but she didn’t attempt to pull away.
Christopher was silent as they walked, as if he were concentrating very hard, or listening. Perhaps both. Gillian suspected he was paying great attention to where they were going, for he made no misstep.
“Your know your land very well, don’t you?” she asked softly.
“Aye,” he said, drawing a deep breath and releasing it. “I have no choice in the matter.”
Gillian had no idea how to respond. She wasn’t sure Christopher would have appreciated sympathy and she certainly couldn’t offer him counsel on how he should live.
“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling that she needed to say something.
He stopped at the gate to the garden. “Are you? For yourself?”
“Me? Nay,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m content.”
“I surely don’t know why.”
The bitterness was apparent in his voice. Mayhap he thought of what he had lost. And the loss was great. He had lost warring, training, the simple joys of seeing his garden blooming. He had also likely given up any hope of a beautiful wife, though why any father would have turned down such a son-in-law was a mystery to her. Even blind, he was a lord to be reckoned with.
Christopher led her over to a mossy place that was sheltered by a small tree. He helped her sit, then stretched out at her side. Before Gillian knew what he intended, he had swung his feet away from her and dropped his head onto her lap.
“Hand,” he commanded, holding up his hand for hers.
Gillian put her hand in his and continued to stare down at his beautiful face. Saints, having him so close was unnerving! His head was a heavy weight atop her legs and his shoulders against the side of her thigh were as malleable as a stone.
“Are you cold?”
“Nay,” she managed.
“You’re trembling. Surely you aren’t afeared of me, are you?”
“Nay,” she lied.
“If anyone should fear me, it should be that monstrous squire I have. You don’t see him cowering before me, do you?”
“Nay,” she said.
“And why do you think that is?”
Gillian paused and considered. “I think,” she ventured, “’tis because you love him.”
“By the saints,” Christopher spluttered, jerking upright, “whatever gave you such a foolish notion? He’s my bloody squire! I’m sworn to care for him, train him, teach him to be a knight.”
Gillian wanted to point out to him that he treated Jason more like a beloved son, but she refrained. Christopher was scowling furiously and it didn’t take much effort to understand that sentiment was something he didn’t voice easily.
Which boded ill indeed for her peace of mind.
Christopher threw her a final frown, then laid his head back down on her thigh.
“’Tis also because I am the kindest of men,” he said, curtly. “I care well for what is mine.”
Gillian couldn’t manage a response, so she merely sat with her back pressed up against the cold stone of Christopher’s keep and left her hand in his. And she held her tongue.
Time passed in silence. The tension in Christopher’s shoulders seeped into Gillian’s leg and through the rest of her body. She was excruciatingly aware of her hand in her husband’s and that he certainly wasn’t caressing it gently as was his habit. She tried to ease her fingers away from his, but he tightened his grip immediately.
“You’re my wife,” he said gruffly. “Think you I would treat you with any less care?”
She did indeed but didn’t dare say as much.
“Gillian?”
“Nay, my lord,” she whispered.
“Have you ever seen me raise a hand against Jason?”
“Nay.”
“Take a belt to him?”
“Nay, my lord.”
“Shout at him?”
Gillian felt the intense desire to squirm. Shout? Indeed, he did that regularly.
“Often, my lord,” she ventured.
Christopher’s short laugh surprised her. “Aye, there is truth in that, I suppose. And I’ll likely shout at you too. The difference is, you may shout back. I wish you to think on that while I sleep. I’ll expect a few shrewish shouts from you when I awake.”
With that, he closed his eyes and began to snore. Gillian shook her head. The man could blow from fair to foul more quickly than she could follow, but as long as the storm was over, she didn’t mind.
She leaned her head back against the wall and looked out over Christopher’s bailey. It was indeed enormous and so much finer than Warewick that she could hardly believe she was now mistress of it, at least in name.
The sun peeped out from behind a cloud and Gillian smiled in spite of herself. It felt as if she hadn’t seen that blessed heavenly body in days. For some reason, the sight of it cheered her. It certainly cast a warmer glow on the surroundings, though Gillian had to admit a dozen such suns couldn’t lighten the dark gray of the stone about her. Blackmour was a forbidding place, no matter the weather.
“How looks my keep in this fine sunshine?”
Gillian realized with a start that her husband was indeed very much awake and that his snoring had been a ruse. Saints above, had she been babbling her thoughts aloud?
“Ah . . . um . . . it looks only slightly less gloomy than it looks in the rain, my lord,” she blurted out.
“No doubt, my lady,” he said, with a short laugh. Then he merely turned his face toward her and smiled.
His smile caught her off guard. How much it softened the sternness of those rugged features. By the saints, it transformed his visage into something beautiful. For the first time, she looked at him and saw what William must have seen: a serious, yet amiable man whom her brother had trusted completely.
Gillian stared at his mouth, wondering if his lips felt as soft as they looked. She reached out her hand and gently touched his lower lip with her finger. Aye, it was soft indeed.
Then she realized what she had done and jerked her hand away, her cheeks aflame. As if she should actually touch him like a lover!
Christopher caught her wrist, as easily and accurately as if he’d seen it.
“I command you not to stop.”
“My lord . . .”
He sighed with exaggerated patience. “Fetch me needle and thread, woman. I can see I must needs sew my name into the flesh of your arm that you remember it more easily.” He sat up. “Go on and fetch it. It will pain you greatly, but at least you will not forget who I am.” He turned his head toward her. “Well? I don’t hear you moving.”
Gillian looked at him for several moments in silence, gathering her courage.
“I think you jest with me, my lord,” she said, finally.
Christopher’s expression softened. “Indeed I do, my lady.”
And with that, he reclined once more and closed his eyes. Gillian didn’t dare touch his mouth again, but she did leave her hand in his. In time, she felt him relax more fully. She doubted that he truly slept, for every noise made him stiffen slightly.
> She leaned her head back against the stone wall and let the sensation of peace wash over her. At the very least, she felt safe. And she wanted to believe that Christopher cared for her, in a sisterly way of course. He wasn’t the Devil’s spawn the rest of England thought him to be. Nay, he was merely a man with a flaw that he wished no one to know about. Perhaps that was part of what kept him away from her.
She was ashamed enough of that thought that she began to blush. Christopher would never see himself as unworthy of her. The very idea was unthinkable. Nay, he was being polite. He would likely continue to be polite until she did something to show him perhaps a few less manners in the bedchamber would result in a few children.
She stared down at him for a goodly while. Then, when she was certain he was well and truly asleep, she leaned down and brushed a kiss against his forehead.
She blushed clear to the roots of her hair and prayed no one had seen her foolishness. As if Christopher of Blackmour would actually want her!
• • •
CHRISTOPHER WASHED SLOWLY, LOOKING FORWARD TO sitting before the fire and warming up before going to bed. The day had been eternally long and full of problems he hadn’t cared to think about. The only light in the gloom had been his time with Gillian in the garden. He was more than pleased with how things had gone. She had called him by his name at least twice that he could remember and she had kissed his forehead. If that wasn’t a sign of blossoming trust, he didn’t know what was. A pity all he could think about was that he’d wished she had kissed him a bit closer to his chin.
On his mouth, for instance.
He plunged his hands into the freezing water and splashed his face. It was insane. The entire idea of wedding her had been absurd and the consequences only worsened with each passing day. He had nothing to offer her. Aye, he had his name and his protection, but that was nothing.
Considering he wanted to offer her himself.
All of himself.
He dunked his head in the basin this time and kept it there until the chill of the water and the need for air forced him to lift his face.
“My lord, what are you doing?” Gillian exclaimed.
Christopher felt a cloth put into his hands.
“You’ll chill, my lord. Come over to the fire and regain your warmth.”
He had warmth enough, and to spare. But she would never know that. She was just beginning to trust him. Bedding her would have to wait a few more months. Perhaps years. Perhaps never, if his common sense won the war against his loins. As if he could actually care for a child they might produce! He could hardly care for himself!
“My lord, help me with this wine, would you not? I fear I am hopelessly unskilled at mulling it.”
Christopher ruffled his hair with a linen cloth, then crossed the room and knelt down next to his wife.
“’Tis done easily enough,” he said, setting out the cups and pouring the wine. He sprinkled in the spices, then he reached for the iron poker and plunged it into each cup. After he had put the fire iron away, he handed Gillian a goblet and smiled tightly. “See?”
“Thank you, my lord.”
He drained his, then cast about for something else to do to take his mind off his wife.
“Oh, but I do have a terrible tangle in my hair,” she muttered under her breath.
“Let me see to it,” Christopher said, ignoring his instinct for self-preservation. He worked the tangle free of her silken curls, then indulged himself in a few moments of merely touching her hair. It smelled like roses. He sniffed his way up a lock until he suddenly found himself nose to nose with his bride.
“My lord?”
He ached to kiss her. Just a simple kiss. What could that possibly hurt?
“Christopher?”
She was trembling. He pulled away with a silent curse. Too soon. It was far too soon and he was frightening her.
“To bed, Gillian,” he said hoarsely. “You’ve been awake long enough. I’ll not have you tiring yourself overmuch.”
“I’m perfectly sound, my lord.”
The wench had the gall to sound annoyed. Christopher had half a mind to kiss her senseless and show her just how annoyed he had been since his damnable decision to give her time to trust him. Saints, he should have bedded her a se’nnight ago. He would have done it carefully and brought her great pleasure.
Nay. He rose and turned his back on the fire and Gillian. Carefully wasn’t enough. Foolish or not, he wanted her to want him. And, more than that, he wanted her to realize the life she was consigning herself to. If she were still a virgin, he could release her and give her to someone else. Someone whole.
The thought made him grind his teeth.
The smell of roses wafted past him. He jumped when he felt cold, slender hands touch his arm.
“My lord, what have I done to anger you?”
The fear was back in her voice. Christopher groaned silently.
“Nothing, Gillian. It isn’t you.”
“Should I say something saucy to please you?”
“Aye,” he said, feeling a weary smile come out.
She was silent. “I fear I cannot think of anything at the moment.”
“Let us go to bed and you can think on it while we sleep. I’ll expect something worthy of you first thing tomorrow.”
“Very well, my lord.”
“Gillian,” he began, feeling powerfully uncomfortable. He wanted to ask her if she feared him, but he couldn’t bear to hear the wrong answer. He fixed a gruff look on his face to cover his uncertainty. “If you steal my pillow as you did last eve, I’ll be forced to take drastic measures.”
“I’ll be more careful.”
“Aye, you will. Indeed, I daresay we’ll be forced to sleep a bit closer to each other tonight.” The saints preserve him, he was setting himself up for a night of sheer misery! “Just so I can retrieve my bedding with greater ease, of course. No other reason.”
“Of course not,” she answered softly.
Christopher couldn’t decide if she sounded sorry because he supposedly had no other reason to sleep close to her, or if she were sorry that she would be forced to endure his presence in such close proximity. And that doubt in his mind was enough to drive him to drink.
He was momentarily tempted, then remembered all the mornings he had suffered already thanks to too much drink over Gillian of Warewick, lately of Blackmour, and he knew he could not drink again to forget her.
He was, the saints pity him, firmly caught in a hell of entirely his own making.
sixteen
“NAY, JASON, LEAVE GILLIAN’S MEAL BE. I can see to it myself.”
Gillian watched her husband wave away his squire, then watched Jason’s face fall. Jason’s shoulders slumped and he moved away to take his place on a stool behind the lord’s table. Gillian felt her heart go out to him. For a solid se’ennight Christopher had been telling the lad he needed nothing from him. Indeed, Gillian began to understand how it was Christopher kept his blindness from his household. He chose her meal carefully and skillfully, then oversaw her consumption of it with as much ease as if he’d actually seen her slipping things under the table to the dogs.
But when Christopher quit the hall with Colin and left Jason behind, Gillian stopped thinking about her husband and started thinking about his squire. The poor lad. It was obvious he felt his place had been done away with, and that was the last thing she wanted.
“Jason?”
“Aye, my lady?” he asked wearily, as wearily as only a lad of ten-and-six can.
“Perhaps you would care to walk with me? As part of your chivalry training?”
He smiled faintly. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Up on the roof, where Sir Colin cannot torment us.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Within moments, they were walking along the battlements. Jason was unusually silent. Gillian knew the best way to cheer him would be to make him talk about something he loved. It was rather handy that the person he
worshipped was the same one who figured prominently in her dreams also.
“Tell me of your time with Lord Blackmour,” she said, attempting to sound only mildly interested.
“It has been a squire’s life,” he said, shrugging.
This wasn’t going as she had expected it to and it was difficult to corner him when she was walking in front of him.
“I grow chilled,” she announced, hoping she sounded the part of a grand lady. Jason was likely used to dealing with those sorts and it would put him at ease. “Let us retire to your lord’s solar. I would have a bit of wine to soothe me.”
“As you will, my lady.”
A short while later, Gillian was warming her toes by a finely constructed fire. She reached for the bottle and poured more wine into Jason’s cup. He downed it just as readily as he had the previous four cups.
“You knew him always?” she asked, refilling his cup yet again.
“Aye,” Jason nodded, then drained the goblet. “He had squired at my father’s keep and I had watched him from the time I became aware of the souls around me. He was a fierce and powerful lad whose bravery far surpassed those around him.”
Wine had loosened Jason’s tongue and Gillian couldn’t have been more pleased about it. These were tales she was more than ready to hear.
“My father loved him dearly and treated him as he would have another son. He had no reservations about giving me to Lord Christopher at such a tender age. You might say,” Jason said with a smile, “that I came along as part of my lord’s outfitting. My father gave him a fine new stallion, armor and a page. My lord Christopher didn’t even turn me over to the care of his mother, as is custom. He wanted to keep me near him, so as to watch over me.” Jason’s smile turned into a grin. “You might suppose I was a very spoiled little boy.”
“Even if you were at first,” Gillian said, returning his smile, “I daresay you’ve grown out of it. Now, tell me more. What things did you and Christopher do?”
“Marvelous things,” Jason said, beaming. “Tourneys, battles, visits to court. He took me with him everywhere he went and cursed anyone who sought to deny me entrance. He was determined that I should learn as much of the world as I could while he was there to protect me from its evils. And he trained me, saints, how he trained me! My lord Christopher is one of the finest warriors I’ve ever seen, my father and my brothers included. He is rarely unseated in the joust and never bested with the sword.