by Lynn Kurland
Gillian smiled as her husband laid her back on the fur. She knew he thought to distract her with his sweet kisses and gentle touches, but she wouldn’t distract that easily. It wasn’t meet that the Dragon of Blackmour leave anything unconquered.
She would see to that.
For she was his wife, after all, and a dragoness herself.
• • •
IT WAS WELL PAST NIGHTFALL WHEN CHRISTOPHER finally succumbed to slumber. Gillian rose quietly, checked the bolt on the door one last time, then built up the fire. Then she sat down in the chair she’d occupied for so many days and stared down at the man lying before her.
The firelight flickered over his beloved features, softening them. It glowed against his shoulders, shoulders that bore the burden of keeping her safe. It caressed his large hands, hands which could either wield a sword again in her defense or touch her so gently as to bring tears to her eyes.
She sat watching him for a goodly while, thinking on the events that had brought them to this place and time.
She closed her eyes and gave thanks for the bitter and the sweet, for both had, in the end, brought her joy.
Then she rose and slipped under the blanket next to her husband. His arm came around her and drew her close.
She smiled, content.
epilogue
GILLIAN WATCHED ARTANE RISE UP BEFORE HER IN THE distance and felt the same awe she’d felt the first time she’d seen Blackmour. Artane was, well, immense. It was a major holding, being close to the border and all, and it showed that it had been built with that fact in mind.
“Can you see it yet?”
Gillian shut her mouth and turned to her husband. “Aye,” she managed.
He laughed. “Ah, sweet Gill, I wish I could see your face. Do you look as surprised as you sound?”
“You never said it was this big.”
“You never asked.”
“You, my lord husband, have this irritating habit of leaving out the most important of details. Such as how very large this keep is and how completely adorable your son would be. You vowed he would be ugly till he turned a score.”
“I didn’t want you to be disappointed,” Christopher said modestly.
“Shall I hold him now?”
“Later, Gill. He’ll require a firm hand until we reach the gates.”
Young Robin of Blackmour looked anything but restless at the moment. He sat in his father’s lap, his two-year-old’s curiosity blunted by the nap he’d just had. Black hair stood up all over his head and he looked out sleepily on the world through his father’s deep blue eyes. Gillian’s heart tightened within her at the sight of her husband holding their babe so securely with his large hand. Aye, Christopher was proud enough of the lad, and well he should have been.
“I love you,” she said quietly.
Christopher cocked his head her way. “Is that in repayment for finally bringing you to Artane, or did I do something else to please you?”
She laughed softly. “The first, assuredly, since I have been threatening to lead you on a merry chase here for a pair of years now. And for the other, nay, I was simply glad that ’tis you who holds my son. He and I are both very fortunate to have you.”
Christopher reined in his mount, felt for her, then kissed her full on the mouth.
“Nay, ’tis I who am fortunate,” he said softly. “You’ve given me joy after joy, my Gill. There’s hardly room enough in my heart to receive—”
“By the saints, not again!” Colin exclaimed, nudging his horse forward between them. He gave Gillian a disgruntled look. “That is the fifth time today, Gillian, that you have caused the entire company to halt from your mooning. Or is it you who is at fault?” he asked, turning to Christopher. “Chris, you lovesick whelp, I’m in sore need of ale and a taste of Lady Anne’s fare and you’re doing naught but making me wait the longer for both. Now, must I ride between the two of you, or can you forgo these sickeningly sweet sentiments until we are safely behind the walls?”
“You could leave us in peace,” Gillian suggested pointedly.
“Alone?” Colin gasped, horrified. “The last time I left you alone ’twas in Blackmour’s Folly and I didn’t see either of you for a solid fortnight. The saints only know how many children might result from another such oversight on my part. Move out, lads! I’ve a mind for some ale!”
Christopher turned to Gillian as Colin rode on. “I rather enjoyed that fortnight, my love. Perhaps when we return, we’ll have ourselves another such pair of weeks.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Gillian said cheerfully.
They rode on until they’d reached the outer gates. Gillian looked at her husband.
“You will show me where you roamed as a youth?”
“I promised I would. I doubt much has changed.”
Gillian reined in her mount as Christopher did. He sat still, listening for several minutes.
“Chris?”
He smiled reflexively. “Just thinking. Nothing to fret over.”
“Robin will be happy to see you.”
“And I him.”
She waited, but still he didn’t move.
“Shall we go in?” she asked.
He reached for her hand and clasped it tightly. “Aye, we will.” He looked at her. “Can you bear to be at my side night and day for the next month or two? I’ll need more than your eyes for this, Gill.”
Her only answer was a gentle laugh and another kiss.
• • •
“OH, BUT THEY DO LOOK HAPPY,” MAGDA SIGHED. “Don’t they, Berengaria?”
Berengaria smiled. “They do indeed.”
“And to think ’twas us who brought them together!”
Magda said, tears standing in her eyes.
“Hrumph,” Nemain said from where she rode behind the other two in the Dragon’s company. “All you succeeded in doing was using up the last of my thumb-bone! It was Berengaria’s herbs that accomplished the deed, though I’m still not sure about her methods. Those certainly weren’t the approved beauty and courage herbs.”
“I’m quite sure my potion would have helped,” Magda insisted, “had I just had time to perfect it—”
“They wouldn’t have been able to drink your brew for the taste of it!”
Berengaria only smiled as she rode along on Blackmour’s gentlest mare. The Dragon and his lady were most generous with both their affection and their means. They also thought nothing of harboring women who were rumored to be witches. Then again, Christopher had no room to criticize, what with his own black reputation flung from one end of the isle to the other.
She watched him dismount with his son tucked in the crook of one arm, then reach up and pluck his lady from the saddle as if she’d been a child herself. Berengaria smiled through her tears. Ah, here were two who had overcome themselves to reach out and heal the other. What joy was theirs because of it!
“Do you require aid, mistress?” a gruff voice asked.
Berengaria accepted a bit of aid from Colin of Berkhamshire and beamed her approval on him.
“Very gallant, lad. You’re coming right along.”
Colin grunted. “As if I needed chivalry. What I need is a few more of those beauty herbs to improve my visage. I don’t suppose you brought any along, just for emergency’s sake, did you?”
“Oh, I’ll mix you something up right away,” Magda said, falling from her mount and making a grab for her saddlebag along the way. “Just let me get set up inside, my lord, and I’ll have something tasty prepared in no time.”
“Ah, perhaps too much beauty is a bad thing,” Colin stalled. He hastily bowed to the three of them and then bolted for the great hall.
Berengaria watched Christopher and Gillian be welcomed by Robin and his lady Anne, then saw them go into the hall. She almost followed, when she was interrupted by a tall lad coming to a halt before her. This had to be the young lord of Artane, Phillip. He was fashioned perfectly in his father’s image.
“My lady.”
“Good morrow to you, my lord,” she replied.
“My lord Christopher says you are healers?”
Berengaria didn’t ask why he wanted to know. The young man was covered with bruises and scratches. She lifted her eyebrows in question.
“My betrothed,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “A duller man might suspect she wanted nothing to do with wedded bliss.”
Berengaria laughed. “Of course. It must be her Scottish temperament.”
Phillip blinked. “How did you know?”
“Scotland?” Nemain echoed, her ears perking up. “I’ve a mind to go to Scotland. Seen any wizards in those parts, my lord? I’m in sore need of a thumb-bone.”
“Wizards?” he echoed. “Thumb-bone?” He shuddered. “None that I’ve run across.”
“We’ll have to remedy that, won’t we?” Nemain said, hopping spryly down from her horse. She grasped him by an unbruised bit of skin and pulled him toward the hall. “My specialty is brides who haven’t the mind to be brides. I’ll be happy to give you my aid.”
Magda pushed her white hair out of her face with her pudgy, gentle hand and toddled off after Nemain, who was already knee-deep in her list of needful ingredients. Phillip was still shuddering.
Berengaria counted on her fingers, then smiled in relief. She could aid the young lord of Artane yet still be at Blackmour in time to birth Christopher’s yet-to-be-conceived daughter.
Och, but business was brisk!
• • •
“I TELL YOU, HE LOVES HER! HAVEN’T YOU SEEN THE way he is ever holding her hand?”
“Sister, he’s blind,” a deep voice whispered soberly. “I daresay she’s helping him.”
“Kendrick, you’re lying! I’m telling Papa and he’ll take a strap to you.”
The young man laughed. “Empty threats, Mary. And I don’t lie.”
“He doesn’t need aid. Why, the other day, I saw him stop her before she stepped into a puddle! He’s simply the most perfect man ever created and you’re bloody jealous.”
“Aye, I’m jealous enough of his happiness,” Kendrick agreed. “And if you wish to moon over him so powerfully, put away your mending. You’re drooling on Phillip’s favorite tunic. ’Tis no wonder he always wants to ply the needle himself.”
There was the sound of a maid bursting into tears, a hasty apology from her brother, followed by the sound of light feet fleeing from the chamber. Booted feet followed, carrying with them more apologies.
Christopher let out the breath he’d been holding.
“Never again,” he vowed. “Never again will I let you talk me into hiding behind curtains, Gill. Saints, what possessed you to think this bloody alcove would be a fine place for an afternoon tryst? We have a perfectly good bed in Robin’s finest chamber to use. Here I find myself holed up in this cramped space, struggling to not breathe too loudly—”
“That should be the least of your worries,” Gillian said. “Did I or did I not hear you say you were thinking of giving young Robin to Kendrick to squire? By the saints, Christopher, the lad will never survive it!”
“My lord Artane would never let anything happen to his godson,” Christopher said, praying that was true. Had he truly said anything to Kendrick? Saints, that was all young Robin needed! Son of a warlock and squire to an arrogant, womanizing—
“Christopher, you’re going to break me if you do not loosen your grip.”
Christopher forced himself to relax. “Forgive me, my love. Let us speak of something besides squires and nefarious reputations. Now, you had a purpose for spiriting me off to this place?”
“You need a daughter, my lord. Berengaria told me to begin my labors right away.”
“Saints,” Christopher laughed, “you four women give me no rest at all, what with your orders!”
“You seem to be holding up very well. Now, come here, husband, and let me soothe you.”
Christopher allowed his wife free rein for a few moments before he escaped her sweet kisses and merely held her close.
“Gill?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“I don’t hold your hand merely to have you aid me.”
“I know, Christopher.”
“I like to hold your hand.”
“I know, Christopher.”
“But I am glad ’tis your hand that guides me.”
“Nay, Chris, ’tis yours that guides me.”
He smiled against her hair. “Of course it is. I did save you from the puddle yestermorn. I would have walked you into it, though, if you hadn’t squeezed my hand.”
“’Twas merely a show of affection, my lord.”
“Promise me such shows of affection far into the future, my lady, and I’ll be content.”
“Always, my lord.”
Christopher closed his eyes and silently gave thanks for the blessings that were his. He had a fine, strong son who delighted him and Gillian both with his antics and childish babble. He had friends that did indeed see past his blindness to the warrior he had been and still was.
And he also had eyes that saw not the world around him, but past it to what he never could have seen otherwise. For it was with those eyes that he had seen his lady.
And she was the greatest blessing of all.
He held her close and didn’t stop the tears that leaked out to dampen her beautiful, unruly curls. Ah, how sweet were the gifts he had been given!
It was all he ever could have wanted, and surely more than he deserved.
He could ask for no more.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lynn Kurland is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous novels and novellas. Visit her online at lynnkurland.com.