Everlasting

by Charlene Cross

  As the mists of medieval Britain seem to swirl through her pages, bestselling author Charlene Cross recreates the splendor and passion of a glorious era. In “historical romance at its best” (Harriet Klausner, Affaire de Coeur), she carries readers into the castles and hearts of unforgettable characters. Now, beyond the wind-swept Welsh marches, murder and desire await a Norman knight, and the lady who is both his enemy and his beloved…

  Alana of Llangollen rejoiced the moment she was widowed… but her jubilation swiftly turned to fear. Proudly Welsh, she had married Gilbert Fitz William, one of King Henry II’s Norman vassals, to safeguard the land that was her birthright, thus ensuring peace for all her kinsmen. The union proved disastrous. With Gilbert dead through his own treachery, the threat of vengeance from King Henry loomed before Alana. She was forced to lie about his vassal’s death, knowing that if she ever divulged the truth it would destroy them all.

  Alana’s world nearly shattered on the day a commanding Norman knight rode through the castle gates. Paxton de Beaumont both intrigued and frightened her—but he had come at his king’s bidding to secure the old Norman fortress and to prove Alana a murderess. That Gilbert had drowned seemed doubtful. Yet Paxton was captivated by Alana’s beauty, and, though her tears of bereavement shook him to his core, he questioned whether he could trust her. A stranger in this wild, hostile land, he was soon enraptured by a woman he must one day see hanged…or commit treason to love.

  DON’T MISS THESE THRILLING HISTORICAL ROMANCES FROM

  CHARLENE CROSS

  DEEPER THAN ROSES

  LORD OF LEGEND

  ALMOST A WHISPER

  SPLENDOR

  Available from Pocket Books

  “I Want to Know Why You Lied to Me,” Paxton Announced.

  Alana grew very still. Had he somehow learned the truth about Gilbert’s death?

  “You’re taking too long to answer, Alana,” he remarked, then moved toward her.

  “Stay where you are!” she commanded, clasping the wet bath sheet closer. To her amazement, he didn’t obey.

  He halted less than an arm’s length away and gently captured her chin. “Tell me what I want to know, and I won’t have to hound you like this.”

  The timbre of his voice had deepened. Her breath caught when he released her chin, his knuckles brushing lightly upward across her cheek.

  “I understand why Gilbert was enchanted with you. Your skin—it’s as soft and smooth as a babe’s.” His hand moved to her hair. “Like silk,” he whispered.

  Alana could do naught but gaze at him. His eyes were fully dilated, glistening onyx ringed by a heavenly blue.

  “You’re temptingly beautiful,” he murmured. Before Alana could react, his lips were on hers. His kiss was hot and searching, and to Alana’s regret, far too brief. He pulled away and examined her face.

  “How could a mouth that sweet be at the same time so very deceitful?” he questioned. “You have the ability to lure a man, even unto his death. Tell me: Is that what happened to Gilbert?”

  Please turn the page for critical acclaim for Charlene Cross.…

  Booksellers Love Charlene Cross’s

  SPLENDOR

  “Splendor is all it implies and more. Absolutely wonderful! Charlene Cross is truly a superb author. Five stars!”

  —Donita Lawrence, Bell Book & Candle

  “Outstanding! I didn’t want the book to end. I can always count on a good book from Charlene Cross.”

  —Mary Bracken, Book Depot

  “This is a superb medieval romance that has you riveted right from the beginning.”

  —Joan Adis, Paperbacks & Things

  “Another wonderful story from a fine author! I couldn’t put it down.”

  —Donna Harsell, Windflower Books

  “The best medieval I have read in a long time. Ms. Cross has a place of honor on my ‘keepers’ shelf.”

  —Jackie Skimson, Pages Etc.

  “Splendor is an absolute treasure! Definitely a keeper. I will be selling a lot of this book.”

  —Bobbie McLane, Basically Books

  “A fast-paced, surefire winner! An exceptional book, by an exceptional author. Destined to be one of the best Romance novels of 1995!”

  —Kevin Beard, Journey’s End Bookstore

  “Wow! Charlene’s done it again—a true attention-grabber, one that keeps the reader involved from beginning to end.… Her readers want her to ‘write faster, faster!’ ”

  —Merry Cutler, Annie’s Book Shop

  “This is Charlene’s best to date. I loved this book, the characters jumped out at you and held you throughout.”

  —Adene Beal, House of Books

  “The gradual awakening of love among the ravages of war and political manipulation is beautifully written by Ms. Cross. I thoroughly enjoyed this book.”

  —Tanzey Cutter, Old Book Barn

  “What a wonderful story! I loved the characters! I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough to see what would happen next! This book will fly off the shelves.”

  —Kay Bendall, The Book Rack

  “Splendor is simply splendid! Charlene is a great storyteller!”

  —Kathy Cross, Paperbacks Plus

  “Splendor is filled with passion, intrigue, betrayal, and romance. A magnificent medieval to capture the heart. Bravo!”

  —Yvonne Zalinski, Paperback Outlet

  Books by Charlene Cross

  Masque of Enchantment

  A Heart So Innocent

  Deeper Than Roses

  Lord of Legend

  Almost a Whisper

  Splendor

  Everlasting

  Published by POCKET BOOKS

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 1995 by Charlene Cross

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-671-79433-7

  ISBN: 978-1-4516-8275-5 (eBook)

  First Pocket Books printing July 1995

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  Cover art by Lisa Falkenstern

  For Andrea Kane—whose friendship I treasure and whose encouragement made this book possible. Thanks, pal, for always being just a fax away.

  Thank you for purchasing this Pocket Books eBook.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  CHAPTER

  1

  Northern Wales

  April 1157

  It was inevitable.

  The realization came to Alana of Llangollen with absolute clarity.

&n
bsp; To say that she had been unwise to hope the news of Gilbert’s death would bring no more than an expression of sympathy from his king was a misstatement at best.

  Downright foolish would qualify far better!

  Still, her expectations had been high.

  And Henry’s response had been made altogether plain.

  Some four dozen mounted men presently waited beyond the palisade, their leader demanding entry to the Norman castle that had been erected long ago on the land of her forefathers… land that was now part of her inheritance.

  Alana turned from her chamber window to her trusted servant Madoc. “Is Henry among them?” she asked.

  Madoc shook his graying head. “I don’t think so, milady. The one who is at the fore calls himself Paxton de Beaumont. He bears a pennon with a golden dragon on a crimson field. States he knew Sir Gilbert; says they were old friends. Even if he hadn’t mentioned such, his knight’s trappings and his arrogant demeanor indicate he is one of Henry’s vassals. Looks to be Norman as well.”

  Madoc’s contemptuous tone wasn’t lost on Alana when he’d cited what he thought was Paxton de Beaumont’s lineage. She understood her servant’s hatred; shared in it herself.

  Since the time of William the Conqueror, her countrymen had fought against the unprincipled invaders who sought to lay claim to her homeland. Almost a century later, the struggle continued, both sides perpetually gaining and losing ground.

  Though Alana could in no way predict the future, she held an inherent fear that one day her small country would be swallowed by a marauding force too powerful to turn aside. As it was, her kinsmen may already have met their vanquishers, even looked into their eyes.

  Isn’t that why she’d sought to marry Gilbert? To ensure, whether the victors were Norman or Welsh, that her descendants wouldn’t be driven from their home soil?

  And a fine plan it was. Except Gilbert was now dead and she had no issue.

  “You say there is a priest with them?” she asked.

  “Aye.”

  “I wonder why.”

  Madoc shrugged. “Perhaps this Paxton de Beaumont considers himself a religious man.”

  “Or mayhap, like Gilbert, he thinks we are a passel of heathens whose souls are in great peril.”

  To Alana that was the more logical rationale as to why a priest would be in the company of such a small band of Normans. When would they understand that Christianity had come to her homeland long before their kind ever had?

  “Where is Sir Goddard?” she asked, referring to the knight who was currently in charge of the isolated stronghold.

  Madoc’s dark eyes flashed with scorn. Contempt once more rang in his voice when he said, “As usual, he imbibed far too much wine last night. Midday has come and gone, yet he still sleeps, as do most of his companions.”

  Alana nodded, then again faced the window to stare at the woodland beyond the palisade.

  Between the breaks in the trees, their new growth unfurling under the rays of the warming spring sun, she glimpsed the rippling river that snaked through the valley below. Today its waters were almost placid, far from the raging torrent of six months before.

  Time swept backward to that fateful day.

  From afar, she saw herself falling through space, experienced the breath-robbing plunge when she sank beneath the frigid waters, felt herself tumbling helplessly along the rain-swollen eddy, her body crashing against the rocks projecting from the river’s bed.

  Deprived of precious air, her lungs threatened to burst. Somehow she clawed her way to the surface, where she gasped and sputtered, only to be dragged to the bottom once more.

  As Alana remembered, the cycle continued for no less than an eternity. That she hadn’t drowned was a veritable miracle.

  And Gilbert—the blackguard…

  “Milady?”

  Alana blinked, her trance broken. “What is it, Madoc?”

  “Should I tell those at the gate to turn this Paxton de Beaumont away?”

  She circled around. “Nay. We have no choice but to allow him entry.”

  “But—”

  “We must. Otherwise he’ll grow suspicious. We can ill afford his mistrust. Besides I’m certain he has come to secure what is rightfully Henry’s.”

  Madoc’s lip curled beneath his mustache. “Rightfully Henry’s?” he repeated with a snarl. “These Norman dogs are far too brash. They invade our homeland, claiming it as their own. But just as with your dead husband, they also will know the wrath of our countrymen.”

  “That may be so, Madoc. But until we are able to drive these ‘dogs’ from our soil, we must temper our pride and act as though we accept them as our masters.” Alana knew that was especially so if she hoped to keep the events surrounding Gilbert’s death hidden from his king. “Since Sir Goddard is indisposed, order the gates opened and allow this Paxton de Beaumont and his men entry. Offer them food and drink. I will soon be down to bid them welcome.”

  Once Madoc exited the chamber, Alana moved to a small chest that sat against the opposite wall and took hold of her comb. At each stroke through her hair, the mass gathered forward across one breast, she wondered why their visitors had so boldly crossed the marches and Offa’s Dyke into Cymru. Wales, she corrected, knowing the Normans also used the longheld Saxon term for her country.

  She thought of the man who’d declared himself their leader.

  Paxton de Beaumont.

  His name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t remember Gilbert’s connection to the knight or even in what context her late husband may have mentioned the man. But then, Gilbert had told her little about his past or his prior friendships.

  Alana wasn’t surprised by the fact. Little more than six months into their marriage he had begun to converse with her less and less. The ensuing three years became a study in silence.

  Yet, Gilbert did manage to communicate in other ways.

  Though their relationship was strained, he craved his husbandly due. Save for the last four months of his life, he came to her bed each night, expecting her to submit, which she did.

  Alana shuddered as she recalled how without preliminaries he would mount her. After several thrusts and a few grunts, followed by a lengthy groan, he rolled away and left her side. Freed of her obligation, she considered it a blessing sent from on high. Other women might believe differently, but to Alana, lovemaking was a loathsome act, something she hoped never again to endure from any man.

  A knot had formed in the pit of Alana’s stomach, marking her distaste. What was past was past, she told herself, vowing not to think about such things again. Right now, there were more pressing issues to consider.

  With one last stroke of the comb, she plaited her hair, then wrapped the lone braid around her head and secured the coil, afterward donning a headrail. She smoothed her hand over her tunic, then drew her mantle around her shoulders. Taking a steadying breath, she left her chamber.

  At the top of the stairs leading down to the great hall, Alana affected an expression of bereavement. Over time, she’d learned to perfect her widow’s mask and could execute it at will. She could even summon forth tears at the mention of her late husband’s name. A ruse, yes. For when she’d first learned of Gilbert’s death, she almost jumped for joy.

  Presently Alana worried little whether her feigned grief was taken as genuine or not. It was Paxton de Beaumont who concerned her.

  The knight’s presence, she suspected, was at Henry’s bidding. He’d traveled across the marches and into what most considered hostile territory in order to secure the castle for his king. But Alana doubted that was his sole reason for showing outside the gates.

  She had a strong feeling Henry disputed her account about Gilbert’s drowning. Suspicion of foul play was the underlying motive that brought his vassal to the secluded fortress overlooking the small tributary which flowed into what the English called the River Dee. She’d swear on her parents’ graves this was so.

  As Alana descended the stairs, she began to fr
et. Of all those who resided here, only two people knew what had actually transpired on the day Gilbert died: Madoc and herself.

  Alone together in her bedchamber, they had prepared her husband’s body for burial once it had been recovered from the river. By her own insistence, everyone else had been barred entry. Otherwise the telltale wounds marring his flesh would have alerted whoever saw them that the frigid waters hadn’t been the cause of Gilbert FitzWilliam’s demise. Nay. It was the plunge of an angry blade, many times over, that had ended his miserable life.

  For her sake, and the sake of those whom she protected, Alana prayed Paxton de Beaumont never discovered the truth.

  The bloodred pennon with its prancing dragon snapped in the wind above Paxton’s head as he waited for the gates to be opened to him and to his men.

  A strange land this Wales, he thought, glancing around him, his interest piqued.

  With its rugged, slate-sided mountains, its forests of pine and oak, its open hillsides sheeted in purple blossoms of heather, the vapory mists rising from its frigid streams, the country displayed an eerie sort of beauty, one he’d never beheld in all his travels.

  Wales, this land of strangers, puzzled him, especially its people.

  An unruly lot, he decided, drawing on all he’d been told about the Welsh. If not bent on destroying their enemies, they were bent on destroying each other. For certain, no Welshman could be trusted. He wondered about the women.

  Alana of Llangollen, Gilbert’s widow—what was she like? As treacherous as her male counterparts? More to the point, was she the cause of Gilbert’s death?

  The last correspondence he’d received from Gilbert FitzWilliam was written on the eve of his friend’s union to the lovely Alana. That was how Gilbert had described his bride in his letter, the missive arriving a good six months after the couple had wed. Lovely she might be, but Paxton would reserve opinion on Gilbert’s widow until he met her himself.

  For now, all he knew about Alana of Llangollen was she’d been offered in marriage by her kinsmen to the new lord who had been sent to fortify the motte-and-bailey castle that had long since been abandoned beyond the fringes of the Welsh marches. It appeared she was a token of peace. Or so Gilbert had implied.