A Time for Love

by Lynn Kurland

  “Could you not,” she ventured, “be persuaded to be mine?”

  He seemed suddenly to have difficulty swallowing. Supper had been delicious as always, so she couldn’t credit the fare for his trouble. Perhaps ’twas that he was suddenly confronted with something he’d tried to deny. She’d seen the condition in other men, and it usually meant they were overcome by some strong emotion. Could it be affection for her? Perhaps he wasn’t as unmoved as he seemed.

  “Hmmm,” he said, looking as if he were giving her proposition serious thought, “I would need to think on it.”

  “You were my champion once,” she said, hoping to spark a bit more enthusiasm from him. “You could perhaps be that again.”

  “Your champion?” he echoed. “Of course it would be only that. What else could it be?” He started to turn away.

  This was not going at all as she had expected.

  “Champion, husband, ’tis all the same to me,” she said in exasperation. “The point is, ’tis you I love and ’tis you I would wed.”

  He froze. Then he turned to look back at her. “’Tis me you love,” he echoed, blinking at her.

  “Aye, and now ’tis your task to accomplish my rescue and carry me off to a priest.”

  “But . . .”

  “I know you can do it. I’m quite familiar with your exploits.”

  “But,” he spluttered, “I cannot wed you.”

  “Of course you can. You said you might somehow be persuaded to want me.”

  He waved a hand impatiently. “That isn’t what hinders me.”

  “Then you do want me.” She smiled. She’d known it. Only a man who wanted a woman badly could have ignored her as thoroughly as Rhys had.

  “Of course I want you,” he said in an angry whisper. “I’ve wanted you from the moment I bloody clapped eyes on you.”

  He sounded none too pleased about it.

  She smiled happily. “How lovely—”

  “But I can hardly have you,” he interrupted. “Or have you forgotten that your father would never give you to me?”

  “He would if he could. He said as much to my mother not six months ago.”

  Rhys pursed his lips. “Words prompted, no doubt, by a visit from your betrothed.”

  “Alain slipped rather heavily in his cups and vomited upon my father’s finest mattress.”

  “I see.”

  “’Twas a most unpleasant se’nnight.” She shrugged. “My mind, however, was made up long before that. And even though my father’s hands are tied, mine are not.”

  “And you think your sire wouldn’t tie your hands and lock you in your mother’s solar until the wedding if he knew what you have proposed this night?”

  Gwen would have liked to think not, for her father was enormously patient with her antics, but she wondered if Rhys might have it aright. She settled upon another course of action.

  “We won’t tell him,” she said.

  He fell silent. Gwen looked up at him and felt hope begin to spring to life in her breast. He was giving it thought, she could see that. He’d said that he wanted her from the moment he’d clapped eyes on her, never mind how irritated he’d sounded over it. ’Twas obviously a powerful love indeed, for she remembered vividly her liberation from the pigsty and how she must have smelled.

  He was what she wanted, she was certain of it. Memories of the gallantry and kindness of a fourteen-year-old lad were forever emblazoned upon her memory.

  He looked down. Gwen watched as he slowly reached out and took her by the hand. He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand slowly, as if he sought to memorize how it was shaped.

  “You’ll see to it, won’t you?” she asked.

  He said no word, but continued to look at her hand. Gwen would have prodded him further, but she was too distracted. His fingers were callused and warm against her skin. How odd. His touch was far different than she’d imagined it might be. She’d held her father’s hand often enough; he had calluses from wielding a sword and his hands were warm.

  Rhys, however, was not her father and the touch of his hand on hers was entirely different. Shivers went up her arm and scattered themselves over the rest of her poor form.

  She watched, mute, as he lifted her hand and brought it to his lips. The touch of them upon her skin sent a rush of something through her she’d never felt before. Not even almost falling down the barbican steps after having snuck up on her father’s garrison captain to see if he performed his duties sufficiently well had sent such tingles of fear through her.

  Only, somehow, she thought what she was feeling wasn’t fear.

  “Aye,” he said, taking her hand and resting it against his faintly scratchy cheek, “I will.”

  Gwen blinked at him. “You will?”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “See to it?” She was so overcome by his nearness, by the sheer height and power of the man that she could scarce remember her name, much less what they’d been discussing. He smiled and the sight of that almost sent her pitching backward off the wall. By the saints, he was beautiful.

  “I’ll see to the rescuing of you from Alain’s nefarious marriage designs upon you,” he reminded her.

  “Oh,” she said, nodding. “That.”

  “Aye,” he said, with another smile, “that.”

  His smile faded. He closed his eyes and sighed. Then he opened his eyes and looked down at her. The longing in his gaze was like nothing she’d ever seen before on any man’s face, not even those men who came to look at her mother knowing they would never have her. That a man, much less Rhys de Piaget, should look at her thusly was a marvelous thing indeed. She studied his look intently that she might call it to mind during the next few months while he was conceiving a way to have her as his.

  And then before she could ask him to turn a bit more to the left that the moon might light his features the better, he had taken her face in his hands, bent his dark head to hers, and kissed her very sweetly upon the lips.

  Gwen was certain the stones had moved beneath her feet.

  “Oh,” she managed as he lifted his head and looked down at her.

  He looked as dazed as she felt.

  “Aye,” he said hoarsely. He shook his head, as if to clear it. “We should return below, lest someone see us.”

  But he didn’t move.

  Neither did she.

  All she could do was stand there with his rough hands upon her cheeks, the remembered warmth of his mouth lingering upon hers, and his beloved form standing but a hair’s breadth from her, and wonder if any maid in the annals of time had ever had such a man willing to champion her.

  Or to kiss her, for that matter.

  Before she could ask him if he wouldn’t be so kind as to do the like again, he had taken her by the hand and pulled her along behind him down from the roof.

  “We must return,” he said over his shoulder.

  “But—”

  “Short of snatching you away in the night, I don’t know how I’ll manage this,” he muttered as they descended the steps.

  “But—”

  “Bribery, perhaps,” he mumbled. “Very expensive, but you’re well worth the price, I should think.”

  “Well, thank—”

  “Aye,” he said as they reached the bottom of the steps. “I will take up my journey to France and there frequent a tourney or two.”

  Gwen jumped in before he could interrupt her again. “And then you’ll return? Well before I’m to wed with that fool?”

  He turned around to face her. “Well before, with bags of gold in hand.”

  “Then—” Perhaps another kiss, she started to say as she leaned up on her toes and aimed for his mouth with hers, but a bellow from down the hall interrupted her.

  “Gwen!”

  The sound of her father’s voice echoed down the passageway. Gwen gasped and pulled her hand from Rhys’s. A look of intense alarm fixed itself upon his features.

  “Do something,” he whispered fiercely, “
lest he cast me into the dungeon and then there will be no hope for us at all!”

  Another ruse. She sighed. She was destined to be called upon to think them up.

  “Why, Sir Knight,” she exclaimed, putting her hands on her hips and affecting a look of outrage, “how dare you!” She threw him a look that she hoped said ’Tis the best I could think of, and pulled back her fist. “Father, I’ll dispatch him myself,” she called down the passageway, then with an unspoken plea for forgiveness, firmly and with deadly accuracy, let fly her fist.

  Very ungently into Rhys’s nose.

  6

  For the second time in all the years he had known Gwennelyn of Segrave, Rhys clutched his nose and cursed. He’d thought that four years ago would be the first and last time he would have to endure such a smacking from her.

  “Damn you, Gwen,” he exclaimed, “why must you always do that?”

  “For the same reason I did it the last time,” she said. “That we might not be discovered!”

  Rhys felt his nose gingerly and wondered if it was worth it. He couldn’t argue that it hadn’t been the last time. William of Segrave had stood at the end of the passageway and watched with ill-concealed amusement as the blood dripped down Rhys’s face. He’d only nodded to Rhys as Rhys had escaped past him to the safety of the garrison hall. Rhys had fled the next morning after having begged leave of Bertram. His request hadn’t been refused and he’d been fortunate enough not to encounter Gwen’s sire again.

  He hadn’t exchanged any words with Gwen, either. She’d only watched him ride out with a look of perfect trust and confidence. It had been enough to send him straight to France with only a brief stop at Ayre to collect his few belongings.

  And now, against all odds, he stood staring down at the woman he’d spent the past four years working to buy. It hardly surprised him that he didn’t have the peace or privacy to greet her properly. Then again, he was close to having enough coin at his disposal to offer for her, so what should he care what her betrothed thought?

  “I wonder if it really matters what you reveal,” he said, dabbing at his face with his sleeve, “for in a few more months I’ll have plenty of gold—”

  “A few more months?” Gwen echoed, whirling on him. She jabbed with her finger toward where Rhys could see Alain’s white stallion approaching rapidly. “I’m to wed him within the se’nnight!”

  Rhys stopped dabbing and gaped at her. “You aren’t. You can’t. You weren’t to wed him—”

  “Until I was a full score and one, aye, I know! But who is to stop him? My sire is dead two years now, and my guardian cannot wait to rid himself of me.”

  Rhys had known of her sire’s passing but hadn’t dared return to comfort her. Besides, the news of it had taken half a year to reach him. He’d grieved for her and hoped she would know as much.

  But Lord Ayre was still alive, and Rhys knew his foster father wouldn’t allow her wedding to happen before the agreed-upon time. Gwen had been convinced incorrectly by her guardian as to the date of her nuptials.

  Nuptials which, of course, wouldn’t take place with Alain of Ayre.

  “Bertram will see to it,” he assured her. “He sent for me less than a month ago, which is why I am here and not in France still filling my coffers.” He smiled at her. “Fear not, Gwen. He will not allow this to happen yet.”

  Rhys wasn’t sure why, but she seemed not at all reassured by that. She looked over her shoulder, then turned back to him. “This may be the last time we have speech freely together.”

  “Surely not—”

  “You’ve no idea what has transpired.”

  Rhys looked at Alain’s rapidly approaching figure and cursed the inconvenience. “I’ll see to it all,” he said confidently. “We’ll just tell this fool here to be off—” He stopped at her warning look. “Very well, we’ll keep up the ruse a bit longer. Shall I clutch my nose again to please you?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it. Rhys would have been more satisfied with some kind of declaration of affection, but obviously ’twas not to be. Whatever catastrophe had occurred, he felt certain Alain was responsible for it. It could be solved, if they could just avoid displaying before the entire garrison of Ayre their true feelings. Rhys fingered his nose gingerly. It might not be so difficult after all if the alternative was another fist in his nose.

  He suddenly had no more time to contemplate the significance of the last few moments of his life, for he was standing surrounded by Alain’s men. He watched Alain expertly cut Gwen off from Rhys’s own horse. Rhys had never doubted Alain’s skill with horseflesh. It was his skill with handling the souls about him that Rhys had never felt sure of. Alain sat there, his chest heaving, and stared down at Gwen for several moments, likely trying to choose the appropriate word to voice his obvious displeasure.

  “Bitch,” he said finally. Then he bit his lip, looking faintly appalled at what he’d just said.

  “Fool,” Gwen shot back.

  Alain only stared at her, his mouth working a bit. Rhys surmised that Alain’s mind was not keeping pace, for no sound came out. Perhaps an impasse between thought and utterance had been reached already.

  Alain seemed to gather his wits about him. Then he looked at Gwen in faint disbelief. “You ran from the keep,” he managed finally.

  “Aye, I did,” she said.

  He scratched the side of his head with the leather crop he held. “Why?”

  “To escape you, you halfwit!”

  “Halfwit,” he echoed, gaping at her. “Halfwit?”

  Rhys wondered just what response Alain might find to that insult in the recesses of his overworked brain when to his complete astonishment, Alain leaned over and backhanded Gwen full across the face.

  Rhys caught her only because the force of the blow sent her sprawling into his arms. He looked down into her soot-smudged face and felt a white-hot rage well up in him. His sword was halfway from its sheath before he even realized what he was about.

  And then a slighter hand came down upon his suddenly. He looked down into Gwen’s eyes and saw the pleading there. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, that releasing of his blade. And he suspected, in the back of his mind, that ’twas only the beginning of the things he would have to do to keep his desire for the woman in his arms a secret.

  By the saints, this was a difficult path they’d chosen.

  Alain glared at him. “I don’t know who you are, but you’ve a manner about you I don’t like. Release the wench, for I’ve yet more blows to deliver.”

  Rhys was the first to admit his appearance left something to be desired, but surely Alain had seen him often enough in the past to recognize him. Obviously Alain’s wits had not increased during Rhys’s absence.

  “Your sire, my lord,” Rhys said, “does not approve of the beating of women.”

  “And what would you know of my sire, you . . . you . . .” Alain spluttered furiously. He seemed to be searching again for a term foul enough to express his displeasure, when his gaze fell to Rhys’s sword and his mouth dropped open.

  Rhys knew then that Alain had finally realized whom he was looking at. Lord Bertram had given Rhys not only his sword, but a fat ruby to put into its hilt. Alain had never forgiven his father for it, for he surely hadn’t received the like. Bertram’s reasoning was that since Alain would eventually inherit everything else, he had no need of gems adorning his blade. Alain, though, being Alain and not precisely overendowed with logic, had raged over the injustice of it for years. He hadn’t, however, raged thoroughly enough to invite Rhys to step into the lists to soothe his bruised feelings.

  Rhys wondered, in the back of his mind, if he just might end up paying for his foster father’s generosity all the same.

  Alain spat at Rhys’s feet. “My sire is dead, de Piaget, which means he’s not here to disapprove—”

  Rhys felt the ground grow unsteady beneath him.

  “Dead?” he echoed. “He lived but a month past.”

 
“It came upon him suddenly,” Gwen said quietly. “He had but traveled to Segrave most recently—”

  “And I was until recently being paid attention to!” Alain interrupted angrily. “By the saints, I hate being ignored!”

  Rhys could hardly believe Alain’s father was dead and he was now staring at the current lord of Ayre. If he’d known the truth of that, he never would have left France so ill-prepared.

  “Now, brother,” a voice said from behind Alain. “Surely you should save your irritation for a more private display.”

  Rhys pulled Gwen behind him while Alain’s notice was off her and onto someone else.

  Alain looked at the man who had spoken. “She called me lackwit,” he complained.

  “Actually, she called you halfwit,” Rollan said gently, “but who remembers such trivialities?”

  Rhys could hear Gwen muttering under her breath behind him, and he wished mightily that she would cease with it. Never mind that Alain was a fool. His younger brother, Rollan, was as crafty as the devil himself, and just as ruthless. Even if Gwen’s insults eventually slipped Alain’s mind, Rollan would choose the worst time possible to refresh his brother’s memory.

  “She should be punished,” Alain grumbled. He glared at Rhys. “And you should step out of the way so I can be about it.”

  “Her guardian surely would not approve of such treatment,” Rhys said, hoping to spark some small sense of reason in the man.

  “Who are you to tell me what to do?” Alain demanded.

  “Aye,” Rollan agreed. “Who indeed, Sir Rhys? I daresay you forget your place. You have no title, no rank, no lands.”

  No lands. Well, that was always the heart of the matter, and Rhys felt the sting of it almost as keenly as he had the first time the insult had been hurled at him.

  “I am a knight,” he said curtly, his bruised pride demanding some kind of assuagement, “and therefore sworn to protect those weaker than myself.”

  “Indeed,” Gwen said, with an approving poke in his back.