Chapter 5
Their return to Woodchurch was easier than their outward journey. Cariad had almost fully recovered and handled the short journey admirably. Relief combined with dread pricked at Madeline, churning in her gut. She was grateful to be free from the oppressive atmosphere of Ashford Manor but, having barely had time to settle at Woodchurch before they left, she feared the ghosts of the past that still lingered.
Remorse struck her for her ungrateful attitude. Lord Reginald and Lady Elizabeth had gone out of their way to see to her comfort and had treated her as they would a daughter, but she had been unable to return the sentiments. Indeed, they had behaved no differently towards her than when she was a child but time had stolen the solace she used to feel in their care.
As they proceeded past Woodchurch chapel, Madeline pulled Cariad to a stop. There was one ghost here that she needed to confront.
Tristan rode slightly ahead of her and turned his mount around when he realised she had paused, motioning to Thomas to continue on.
“Is he here?” she asked him.
“Aye, he’s here.”
Madeline took a breath and dismounted. Tristan followed behind her, keeping his distance.
The flint walled chapel was meagre as befitting a village of Woodchurch’s size and few gravestones surrounded it. Only the most noble of families were buried here. Moving directly towards her mother’s grave, she found the freshly turned soil that indicated a new burial.
Her father’s grave.
She stared at it for some time, mayhap hoping to conjure some kind of emotion, but none came. Only the cold fist of detachment took root in her heart.
“He grieved for you, Madeline.” Tristan said softly as he came up behind her.
She let out a disparaging laugh. “Yet I was not dead.”
“A young maid out in the world alone -‘twould not be surprising if he thought it true.”
“‘Tis funny that he should care for me once I was gone.”
“All Woodchurch saw how he mourned, ‘tis why the lands have been neglected thus.”
Shaking her head in denial, she met his forceful gaze. “Why do you tell me this?”
“So you know that you were loved.”
“Loved? Nay, he did not love. He knew naught of love. Likely, he grieved the missed opportunity of joining his lands with another through my betrothal.”
“I cannot claim to have respect for your father, not after his treatment of you, but I do believe he loved you in his way.”
“Why would he claim me dead then? Why not search for me? Why not bring me home?” Madeline realised she was speaking not of her father, but of Tristan. She recognised that she was still angry at him for believing her father’s lies, for not finding her and marrying her as he had promised. Yet, would she have even returned with him? By the time she had made her escape, she was too embittered to even contemplate returning, whether Tristan had wanted her or not.
Tristan must have heard her anger building and he laid a soothing hand on her shoulder. It gave her strength, somehow, in spite of her reluctance to accept aid from him, and she let it rest.
“Mayhap he was ashamed of his actions, too ashamed to own up to them. I believe he thought I would look for you if I knew you were alive and then his deceitful actions would have been revealed.”
She considered this before she curled marginally into him. Her body tucked into the side of his and she found herself unable to withdraw, his presence providing a comfort she could not bring herself to reject.
“And would you have looked for me?” She hated the feebleness that crept into her voice.
Tristan twisted her around to face him, his hands on her shoulders. “Of course, why would you ask such a thing? Madeline, if I had known you were alive I would have hunted until the end of my days to find you.”
Aye, of course he would. He had seen her as his duty and naught could come between Tristan and duty. His eyes blazed into hers with an emotion she couldn’t identify. Desperation? Anguish? She wasn’t sure.
Unable to confront such emotion, she sighed. “I am weary. Let us return home.”
Tristan watched her with concern but said no more, frustrated by her denial of his feelings and mostly her denial of him.
***
The next sennight was taken up with rediscovering her township and coming to understand her duties. Her father had devoted little time to instructing her in the ways of a noble lady and thus she was little prepared for the tasks that befell her. While most young girls would be preparing for an advantageous marriage and readying themselves for running a busy household, Madeline had either been cosseted away or blindly ignored, depending upon the whim of her father.
Tristan proved to be a knowledgeable and patient teacher, guiding her through each task - from the accounts to dealing with neighbourly disputes. It became obvious to Madeline that he thrived in such a role and Ashford would most fortunate when he took over his father’s role. Certainly, Woodchurch had not suffered for his presence.
As he led her around the fief on horseback, the villagers greeted her pleasantly and she wondered when she would truly feel at home. Over the previous days she had gradually become accustomed to being in Tristan’s company. Not that she was exactly relaxed around him, for he still created a humming tension within her, but they had a pleasant routine and she drew comfort from the constancy.
Reining his destrier to a stop, Tristan waited for Madeline to draw up beside him as he motioned to the fallow fields, currently being ploughed. Hay making and sheep shearing had just begun and the small village was bustling with activity. Aware the industriousness of the settlement was all Tristan’s doing, she determined that she would ensure to thank him for his work.
Madeline smiled to herself as he animatedly explained the work done, and she could not help but admire his commitment. Oh yes, he would make a fine lord.
A slight pain struck her heart as she recalled the dream of a different life - a dream in which she would have been his lady.
Trailing off as he noticed her sudden melancholy, Madeline questioned how it was that he was so attuned to her feelings. Particularly when she considered herself so practiced in the art of concealing them.
“Madeline, what troubles you?”
His concern almost undid her and she fought the temptation to tell him all, to unload all her fears and doubts upon him. But she maintained her silence, knowing little could come of such revelations and unwilling to burden him with her foolish troubles.
Instead she smiled reassuringly, “Oh, naught. ‘Tis a warm day, it not?”
He accepted the diversion, likely knowing her words were just that. He was too astute not to.
“Are you too hot? I would seek you some shade if you wish.”
“Nay, I am well enough. Pray let’s continue.”
Tristan considered her for a moment, before giving a brisk nod. “As you will.” He motioned to a field nearby. “Many fields were left fallow by your father.”
She stiffened slightly at the mention of him. “Aye…it seems I was not the only one to suffer neglect by my father’s hand. Will the harvest see us through the winter?”
“I know not. We have had to work hard to make up for your father’s negligence, but I think that if we are careful it should see us through. At least the fields can be fully planted through the next two summers, for there will be no need to leave them fallow for the next crops.”
Madeline observed as the villagers tended the hay, turning it so that it would dry. “You have done much for Woodchurch. I find I have great deal to thank you for.”
“Pray I do not expect your thanks, Madeline. ‘Tis my duty. My father has no wish to see the villeins starve any more than I do.”
“Still ‘tis more than most would do.”
He shook his head and ignored her as she rolled her eyes at his modesty. “I’ve also introduced bees to Woodchurch,” he revealed with some pride.
“Where? I’ve not seen the hives.�
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How silly of her not to realise as she had eaten honey just that morn and had not even thought to question the source.
“We have erected apiaries to the north of the village.” Tristan paused as some of the village children scurried up next to them, greeting them both with open delight. Their flame haired mistress had proved a fascinating diversion to their chores of late.
“Some of the children were scared by the noise of the bees, so we had to keep the hives well away from the cottages. Isn’t that so?” He looked at the children with a teasing grin and laughed as they all shook their heads indignantly and made noises of protest.
She was aware of a wistful expression coming across her face. As the thoughts of a future lost still resonated within her, the realisation struck her that it was not just Tristan she had lost. Somehow it had never occurred to her that she had also given up on the opportunity to start a family.
Madeline watched as Tristan bantered easily with the children. With his fair and loving manner, Tristan would be a wonderful father.
Would it be worth it? Would this seclusion she had placed herself in be worth the loss of the chance for a loving family? There had only ever been one man she had even considered a future with and now that she had denied him, it was hardly likely any other man could seem worth the risk. But at least she would be safe from pain.
Tristan turned to her with an easy smile. “Shall I show you the hives?”
Madeline nodded and found a smile creeping across her own face in response. Internally she grimaced. Aye, she told herself, it would be worth that. It would be.
***
Tristan started guiltily as Alice sidled up behind him. He stood in the manor doorway, watching Madeline attend to Cariad. She showed the animal such care - speaking to her with whispered words - that it appeared to Tristan that his Madeline had indeed returned, even if just for a short moment.
As he observed the horse revel in the attentions, he could not help but wish it was he receiving her care. He was sure he was slowly getting through to her, but it frustrated him that as soon as he appeared to make progress, she would retreat back from him.
Since their intimate moment at the feast, she had allowed him little opportunity to build upon it and he was aware that he had promised her only friendship. It was a daily struggle to keep to his pledge to be patient and offer only what she was comfortable with. He had to acknowledge that he had little intention of sticking to his promise forever. Sooner or later, his restraint would snap and he just prayed she would be ready for his renewed attentions.
“She loves ye, ye know?”
Love? He could but only hope. “I know not. You have not seen the coldness that exists within her, Alice. ‘Tis deeply rooted. Mayhap even love is not enough to thaw such a frozen heart.”
“Ye would be a fool to lose hope now, milord. Ye’ve pined for her for five years, surely ye can bide yer time and win back her trust. Even me old eyes can see ye two are made for each other.”
He watched as Madeline nuzzled into Cariad and smiled at the sight. “I know not how much longer I can wait, Alice. Lord Reginald wishes me to take a bride and I have been remiss in doing so for too long.”
“Ye’d be miserable with anyone else,” Alice said determinedly.
He chuckled at the old woman’s words, Alice was far too perceptive. “Aye, that I would. Pray tell then, cunning Alice, how shall I win the maidens heart?”
Alice chortled. “Just keep being yer handsome self, milord. ‘Twill not be long before she yields, I promise ye.”
Tristan shook his head, if it only it were that easy. “I shall hold you to that promise. Now be off with you and cease your gossiping.”
She gave him an affectionate pat on the arm before leaving him to his thoughts. Was Alice right? Did she really love him? If she did, then there had to be hope for them. Sensing his observation, Madeline looked to the house and visibly jolted as her eyes locked onto his. She offered a slight smile and Tristan found himself grinning. Aye, there was definitely hope.
***
The silvered moon filtered in through the thin arched windows, shrouding her room in a metallic radiance. A gentle wind swept over Madeline’s heated skin but could not cut through fiery thoughts that devoured her.
Tristan.
Sleep eluded her as she tossed on the creaking mattress, her linen sheets snarling between her legs. A light film of perspiration painted her skin and her chemise clung to her. In a bid to find some relief, she threw off her sheets, giving up on the notion of sleep. Her mind teased as she moved over to the window, words and images besieging her, all of which comprised of one person and one person alone.
Tristan.
She let out a frustrated cry. A sound from the next room startled her and she clamped a hand over her mouth. Tristan’s room adjoined hers – the top floor of the manor being laid out so that each room opened into the next. Her room was the rearmost so that her father could keep her sequestered away at his will.
Barely daring to breathe, she listened intently. She was sure she had heard a thud but all was quiet now. Stepping lightly across the cool floor, she grimaced as the rushes rustled beneath her toes. Reaching the door separating them, she placed an ear to the wood.
Naught.
Madeline moved her head back, feeling foolish, but another noise drew her attention. Could she hear him breathing? Surely not. Through the thick stone walls and solid door it was unlikely. Flexing her hand against the rough wood, she laid it flat, as if drawing the spirit of Tristan into it. There it was - she was sure. It was as if she could feel his presence regardless of what separated them.
The door swung open abruptly and she bit back a squeal as she found herself confronted by the sight of gilded flesh.
“Madeline? I head a cry…”
He trailed off as the air thickened around them, like the sultry heat before a storm.
Madeline openly stared at him, heedless of the foolishness of her expression. Stood in naught more than braies, the cold glow of nature’s illumination did little to hide every glorious dip and curve of his muscular frame. His hair was tousled and his eyes were hooded from sleep. Each little imperfection served only to enhance his masculine beauty.
Of its own will, her hand reached out hesitantly, shaking as it pressed against the smooth plane of his chest. The blistering heat that leapt through her body shocked her and, as he stiffened under her touch, she heard the sharp intake of his breath and knew he had felt it too.
“Close your eyes,” he murmured.
She did, unquestioningly. Tristan’s hand grazed over the top of hers, holding it to his chest. Stood for what seemed like eternity, and yet, not long enough, he finally spoke.
“Do you feel it?”
She could feel the heavy thud of his heart, echoing the aching thump that reverberated within hers. Their breath came raggedly now and yet he did naught, simply held her hand in place. His breath whispered over her hair and she trembled at his close proximity.
“Why do you fight this? Why do you fight us?”
Fight? Was she fighting? She felt as weak as a lamb, her limbs as liquid as oil. She opened her eyes and met his intense gaze. His eyes were dark in the shadows of the doorway but she could see the intemperate hunger that lay within. Her chest restricted painfully, her throat closing with a longing ache.
They remained in separate rooms, only their hands connecting them across the threshold. But one word and she knew he would step across and seal them as one.
One word.
But it would not come. Madeline’s eyes drifted shut again as the battle raged inside. The divide between them seemed to magnify, opening up a chasm, as reason slowly pervaded through her lust soaked mind. They were too different; no good would ever come of this. He was a lord’s son, an heir to vast lands, and bound by duty. She was bitter and broken, with naught to offer.
Tristan sensed her withdrawal, even as her hand remained. Whatever demons drove her on, they were luring
her from him, stealing her away. He kept her hand captured, hoping somehow to break through to her. Sweet lord, if she could see herself as he did now. Her hair was tied in a loose braid, trailing down one shoulder, tendrils of damp curls escaping around her smooth cheeks. One velvety shoulder had slipped out of her chemise and he ached to place a kiss to it. She was flawless.
She thought herself so out of place, so damaged, but could she not see that her place was with him? It mattered not that time had changed her; she was still the same soul. He wished she would bare her scars to him so he could help her heal, but he sensed that if he pressed forwards now he would but wreak more damage and he was naught if not patient.
So he waited, revelling in the feel of her tender fingers meeting his scorched flesh. Her lids fluttered open once more, her eyes devoid of the tumultuous ardour, the cool remoteness claiming her and casting his heart in ice along with it.
Tristan released her hand, unable to bear the thought of her wrenching hers away, and she withdrew slowly, attempting to disguise her reluctance to end their tentative connection. He could see the disappointment beneath the relief and it lent him hope.
Madeline turned silently and he understood her silence for what could she say? He too was at a loss for words, the attraction between them growing more potent by the day, but at least he understood and accepted it. For Madeline such an attraction would be harder to reconcile in her confused state.
Still not willing to let her go quite yet, he spoke, “Wait.” His voice grated out, roughened by sleep and desire.
She paused, straightening her shoulders and visibly fortifying herself, before facing him once more. “‘Tis late, Tristan, we should sleep.”
“Madeline, pray let me help you. Whatever this is, this burden that you carry, I can ease it.”
“Nay, Tristan, you cannot. ‘Tis mine to bear and bear alone. I do not expect you to understand for ‘tis in your nature to believe that aught is surmountable, but I must do this unaided. I will not hinder you with my troubles.”
A Summer Siege (Medieval Romance) Page 6