Dreams of Lilacs

by Lynn Kurland

  “Which is why he planted his fist down Nick’s throat for insulting you.”

  “Exactly.” She patted his cheek. “If we made haste, we could be off in half an hour.”

  “Isabelle,” he said with a sigh.

  “You promised you would take me to Caours and you’ve made me wait two days to be on my way. I’m already packed.”

  “So am I,” he admitted. “I’ll see to the horses.”

  She walked inside the hall and saw Nicholas standing by the fire. Just the sight of him left her trotting off to her right with a bit more enthusiasm than she might have used otherwise.

  “Where are you going?” Nicholas called.

  “To fetch my saddlebag and make a journey,” she said.

  “I am not giving you permission to go anywhere!”

  That didn’t merit so much as a snort, so she didn’t spare him the effort of a reply. She gained her bedchamber and began the hunt for a pair of hose she had filched from the mending pile at Monsaert. She ignored the pointed clearing of a brotherly throat from the vicinity of her doorway. It was more difficult to ignore him when he walked into her chamber and sat down wearily on her trunk. She folded her arms over her chest and prepared to tell him to go be about some sort of useful labor, but he looked so contemplative that she couldn’t bring herself to say anything.

  He studied his hands clasped between his knees for a moment or two, then looked up at her. “I realize you are no longer a child.”

  “The saints be praised for that.”

  He smiled faintly. “Izzy, I simply want you to have a husband worthy of you.”

  “I’m not looking for a husband,” she said, motioning for him to get up off her trunk so she could rummage about inside it. “I’m going to visit Grandmère.”

  Why she had to visit her grandmother was something she was absolutely not going to discuss with him. The truth was, it was best that she be as far away from Beauvois as possible. Knowing that she might be the one to possibly put Jennifer in danger was something she just couldn’t bring herself to think about.

  “Why do I have this nagging feeling that you’ll go to Caours by way of Monsaert?”

  “My route is none of your business,” she said. She shot him a look. “Besides, he doesn’t want me.”

  “Oh, he wants you,” Nicholas said grimly, leaning back against the wall. “Guy didn’t make that journey this morning because it was his idea.”

  “Perhaps Guy was simply out for a pleasant ride.”

  Nicholas pursed his lips. “Believe that if you want to, but I know better. Gervase is going out of his way to earn my favor and he no doubt sent his least objectionable brother to do the dastardly deed for him. Trust me, Iz, he’s not sending gifts and flatteries here because he’s fond of me.”

  She stopped looking for lad’s clothes in her trunk because she realized that she’d already put them in her saddlebag. She shut the lid and looked up at her brother. “Then you aren’t opposed to him.”

  Nicholas scowled. “I didn’t say that—”

  “Your feelings just smart because he bested you with the sword.”

  “And the lance,” Miles said from the doorway. “I shudder to think about other possibilities.”

  Nicholas glared at his younger brother. “I shudder to think of what will be left of you after I see you in the lists.” He pushed away from the wall. “Let’s go.”

  “Can’t,” Miles said cheerfully. “I have other things to do.”

  “Nay, you do not.”

  “He does,” Isabelle said. “He’s coming with me.”

  Nicholas shot her a look. “Nay, he is not and neither are you. Going anywhere, that is.”

  “You, Nicholas, are not my father.”

  “I am the oldest male relative in the vicinity and ’tis my responsibility to help you. I will help you now by telling you that you cannot simply arrive at a man’s hall without a reason.”

  “She did before and look how well it went for her,” Miles noted.

  “Aye, he put her to work as a scullery maid!” He frowned fiercely. “You both continue to deny it, but that sinking feeling in my gut tells me you intend something untoward once you leave my gates. And heaven knows I have enough experience with watching you put your wee heads together to combine mischief to know when my gut is telling me the truth.”

  Miles only returned Nicholas’s look steadily. Isabelle rose, then hugged her almost oldest brother before she pulled away and gave him what she hoped would be a reassuring smile.

  “I want to see Grandmère, to assure her that I’m safe and sound. Miles is coming along to guard my back. That seems reasonable, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure you want to know what I think about your ability to be reasonable,” Nicholas said seriously. “I don’t like this.”

  “I have my reasons,” she assured him.

  “I think I would like those even less, did I know what they were,” he said grimly. He kissed her on both cheeks, then walked to her door. “I’ll arrange a guard.”

  “Thank you, Nicky,” she said quietly.

  He paused, sighed, then shook his head and continued on. Isabelle waited until he had disappeared around the corner before she looked at Miles.

  “Thank you for coming with me.”

  “I wouldn’t think to do otherwise,” he said. “Besides, I love a good mystery.”

  “I just wish it didn’t involve people I love.”

  “Aye,” he said quietly, “I know. I feel the same way.” He picked up her saddlebags and started toward the door. “Say your good-byes to Jennifer, then meet me in the stables. I’ll see to the rest.”

  She nodded, sat back down on her bed, and looked at the piece of sealing wax she still held in her hand. She supposed she would be wise to put it somewhere safe lest she lose it and lose any proof she might have had as to the identity of her correspondent.

  It was odd, wasn’t it, that someone would seal a missive with something that could have potentially identified him? She wasn’t sure if it spoke more to that shadowy figure’s arrogance or his willingness to take ridiculous chances. At the moment, she wasn’t sure which would have been worse.

  Well, the only thing she could do was present herself at Caours and see what happened then. She had the feeling, knowing Miles as she did, that her brother would find a way to guard her without being seen. She would be safe enough.

  She had to believe that. Anything else was simply too terrifying to contemplate.

  She rose, then walked over to the window and looked out over the sea. Perhaps she was a fool to even consider going to Monsaert. She didn’t want to admit Nicholas might have had it aright and Gervase would be appalled.

  Then again, the man had sent her seeds for a particular sort of flower that he had once thrust in her face. It had been a message of some sort, of that she was certain.

  She put her shoulders back and went to look for her cloak. She would stop at Monsaert because it wasn’t completely out of the way. She would make sure that Gervase’s brothers were attending to their studies and she would thank him for the gift of seeds he had obviously sent her way.

  One last afternoon of pleasure before she went to her doom.

  Perhaps not even her enemy could begrudge her that.

  Chapter 16

  Gervase stood in his private garden and wished for nothing more than a good disaster to concentrate on. He was shaking with weariness, but had only his own form to blame for it. He supposed it could have been much worse. He could have been abed, wondering if he would ever walk again. That he was actually standing out in the mud instead of wallowing in it was perhaps the best he could hope for at present.

  A pity there was no one there to see it. Guy had left for Beauvois well before dawn—indeed, Gervase wasn’t certain he hadn’t left in the middle of the night. As long as Nicholas de Piaget had that fawning missive in his hands before sunset, Gervase was content. Perhaps fortune would smile on him and he would manage to gain an audie
nce with the man before the year had waned. He didn’t suppose he would be fortunate enough to have Isabelle remain unwed until then, but there was always the consolation of battle to take refuge in.

  Battle defined as his identifying whoever might have the cheek to seek Isabelle de Piaget’s hand in marriage and doing the pestilence in.

  The rest of his brothers were the saints only knew where. Joscelin would have been useful to him as a sparring partner, but he had decamped for less unpleasant pastures earlier that day. His other brothers were being kept far away from the garden by Lucien, that canny lad with a nose for staying out of trouble. He had considered inviting one of his guardsmen into his private lair with him, but wasn’t sure he could bear the looks of pity they wouldn’t be able to hide. Nay, ’twas best that he do what he could to regain his strength while no one was watching.

  He took a firmer grip, such as it was, on his sword and put himself again through exercises he would have used with a page. The mind-numbing boredom of it soon got the better of him and he resorted to feigning battle against the fiercest opponent he could imagine up for himself.

  That lasted fairly well until he stepped backward, slipped, then caught himself heavily on his right leg. The pain was blinding—

  He paused, then frowned. Actually, that was quite a bit less pain than he’d expected. He couldn’t move, of course, and his leg quivered as fiercely as a score of bowstrings fluttering in tandem, but he wasn’t on his knees. He leaned on his sword and forced himself to simply breathe in and out until his leg steadied beneath him.

  “My lord?”

  He almost fell over in surprise. He turned to look at his squire and almost went down in truth as his leg gave way beneath him. Of course, that could have been because it wasn’t just his squire standing there, peering at him from around the hedge, looking as if he expected Gervase to take his sword and heave it through his chest. Isabelle de Piaget stood there as well, watching him with absolutely no expression on her face.

  Her perfect, stunning face.

  “Isabelle!”

  She turned suddenly and was almost knocked over by Yves who threw himself at her. She caught him, pulled him up into her arms and suffered a pair of small arms wrapped around her neck, no doubt cutting off any hope of breath anytime soon. Gervase would have walked over to rescue her, but that was beyond him. It was all he could do to stand there and not swear viciously at the unstable nature of his right leg.

  He suddenly had a shoulder within convenient reach. He was too damned grateful for the saving of what was left of his pride to even snarl at his savior. He simply put his hand on someone’s shoulder—he realized it was Miles de Piaget standing there after he’d already clutched the man’s cloak—then watched as a woman he’d never thought to see again gathered up his brothers and shepherded them back to the house.

  She didn’t look back at him.

  He decided he would think about that later. He took refuge in a choice curse or two, then looked at Miles.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  Miles only looked at him as if not a damned thing in the world could disturb his tranquillity. “We’re on our way to Caours and thought it might be wise to rest for a bit. I believe your page was preparing to tell you that we were at your gates. As you can see, your men were good enough to permit us entrance.”

  Gervase grunted, then looked at his page. “Cyon, I’ll not shout at you for their cheek. You’re safe enough.”

  Cyon only made him a low bow, then strode over and looked boldly at the whelp from Artane.

  “I can see to my lord,” he said firmly. “If you wish to retreat to the house and refresh yourself with a bit of wine.”

  Miles only inclined his head. “You do your lord credit,” he said seriously, “and I am sure he appreciates your loyalty. I was thinking that perhaps since the day is so fine, I might see if he would ply a bit of his famous swordplay on me, though I am surely a much lesser swordsman.”

  Cyon put his shoulders back, looking particularly fierce. He shot Miles a warning look, then turned to Gervase. “Does that suit you, Your Grace, or shall I remain?”

  Gervase had to fight a smile, which was a rare enough occurrence of late that he had to savor it for a moment or two. “I think, Cyon, that I might manage to see to this one for a few minutes. Perhaps we will require a bit of wine out here, if you would be willing to fetch it. No doubt Lord Miles will need something strengthening after his humiliation at my hands.”

  “As you will, my lord.”

  Gervase watched his page turn and walk briskly back to the hall, then looked at his crutch. Miles was only watching him with a faintly amused smile.

  “Instilling their arrogance early?” he asked.

  “It seems prudent,” Gervase agreed. “Now, what are you doing here in truth?”

  “We’re on our way to our grandmother’s abbey,” he said, “and Isabelle thought it looked like rain. It seemed reasonable to seek a bit of shelter, don’t you think?”

  Gervase didn’t have to look up to note that there wasn’t a cloud in the bloody sky. He also tried not to notice that Miles didn’t move even though they were standing there like two statues and he was gasping every time he even attempted to take a step. Miles put his hand finally on Gervase’s shoulder, conveniently around his back, and nodded toward the closest bench.

  “Long journey here,” he said, “and I’m exhausted. Let’s go sit.”

  Gervase couldn’t do anything but nod. He managed to gain the bench, then stretch his leg out without howling. He tried not to notice, again, that Miles had fetched his sword for him and impaled it in the nearest flower bed. Gervase couldn’t bring himself to speak. It took all his strength to rub his leg and attempt to work out the cramping there.

  “I faced you once,” Miles said without preamble. “Or tried to, rather. I doubt you remember it, considering I was just another in a very long line of young lads wanting to cross swords with you. I believe you said something to the effect of ‘come back, whelp, when you know which end of your sword to grasp.’”

  “That sounds like something I would have said,” Gervase agreed. “Arrogant whoreson that I was.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t slight your current incarnation of yourself,” Miles said. “I believe there’s ample arrogance still inside you just biding its time.”

  Gervase shook his head. “I daren’t hope for it.” He continued to work on his leg until the cramping had subsided into simply feeling as if he’d torn his muscles afresh. He looked at Miles. “Why did you come?”

  “It is as I said,” Miles said with a shrug. “We’re on our way to Caours.”

  “And Lord Nicholas allowed you to leave?”

  “Isabelle can be very persuasive under the right circumstances,” Miles said. “Which is actually rather unusual. She’s accustomed to simply standing and being unobtrusive.”

  “So she said to me, though I don’t believe it.”

  Miles smiled. “Was she not unobtrusive in your hall?”

  “Let’s just say she’s hard to ignore.”

  “These are tales I must hear, but perhaps later after we’ve worked a bit more.”

  Gervase didn’t want to admit that the thought of it left him wanting to make a hasty trip back to bed, so he simply shook his head. “In another minute or two, if you please. So, tell me, did your brother enjoy the missive I sent him or is he still planning my demise?”

  Miles studied him for a moment or two. “Nick might have,” he said slowly, “but your brother was apparently robbed of it on the way to Beauvois, so all my brother had to enjoy was Lord Guy’s sparkling wit and unwholesome ability to spew out endless flatteries. And I say that in the gentlest way possible. Your brother’s reputation for having honor beyond reproach extends endlessly in all directions.”

  “He is a paragon of all virtues,” Gervase said, almost easily. Guy could scarce wield a sword to save his life, but considering that he himself was having trouble with the same t
hing, he thought it might be wise not to point that out. There was no reason to dislike his brother. That he sometimes had less than warm feelings for him said more about him than it did Guy, no doubt.

  “My sister enjoyed the seeds Lord Guy brought for her.”

  “But—” Gervase shut his mouth around the protest. He looked at Miles carefully. “Guy brought her seeds?”

  “Lavender, apparently, that turned out to be not lavender but some common flower called forget-me-not.” Miles looked at him innocently. “I don’t think your brother can tell the difference.”

  What Gervase thought was that Guy couldn’t tell the difference between quite a few things, which began and ended with knowing when he should and shouldn’t flatter a woman he was most certainly never going to—

  He had to take a deep breath. He found that he was taking an appalling number of them when he thought about Isabelle de Piaget.

  “Isabelle thought the seeds might have been from you instead and Guy merely misspoke.”

  “Why would I send her seeds?” Gervase said shortly.

  Miles only studied him for a moment or two in silence, then pushed himself to his feet. “Let’s go work for a bit.”

  “Are you daft?” Gervase said sharply. “I can scarce stand.”

  “It will be worse if you simply sit.”

  “And just what in the hell would you know about it?” Gervase snapped before he thought better of his tone.

  “My brother’s wife had her leg crushed by a stallion standing on it when she was a youth. I wasn’t too stupid to take note of what was done to allow her to walk.”

  Gervase suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “And what was that?”

  “Bathing with herbs, then as much walking as she could bear. If it eases you any, I won’t force you to put any sudden weight on that leg of yours. Consider it my gift for your not having killed me when I was a cheeky youth.”

  “And what are you now?”

  “A lad who loves his sister and wants to see her happy. I think she might indulge in a brief sigh of regret if your sorry self were to be slain by my elder brother because you put his youngest sister to work in your kitchens.”