Everlasting

by Charlene Cross

  Viewing Paxton, who was searching the sky and distant landscape for the falcon’s prospective prey, Alana felt that familiar warmth flood through her once again.

  In the three weeks since they’d returned from the ringwork, the month of June had faded. July was now upon them. And in those three weeks, Alana could rightly say she had experienced the most wondrous time of her life.

  Love.

  She never thought the emotion could be so magical, so energizing, so all-consuming. But it was.

  And all because of Paxton.

  As she continued to watch him, she was struck by a twinge of melancholy. If he only loved her as well, she thought, hoping that perhaps one day he would.

  “There, girl,” he said, moving his arm in the direction of the pinpointed prey. “A nice fat grouse.”

  Paxton plucked the hood from the falcon’s head. With keen eyes, the hunter spied her target, then launched herself into the air. On rapidly beating wings, she took aim from above her prey, then swooped with unimaginable speed. Talons sank into the startled grouse, then the falcon was headed back their way.

  “She lures well,” Paxton commented as the falcon dropped the limp grouse at his feet, then perched on his raised arm. He replaced the hood and leashed the jess, which was attached to her leg. “Who manned and trained her?”

  “I did,” Alana said, retrieving the grouse from the ground, placing it into a leather bag with the three others that had previously been snared. When she rose from the waist, she found Paxton staring at her. “Are you surprised?”

  “Nay, sweet. Nothing about you surprises me. Not anymore. Though, I must confess, ofttimes I do find myself extremely delighted—enchanted, in fact.”

  Knowing he referred to their lovemaking, Alana blushed. Then she noticed that certain gleam in his eyes. He wanted her. Again! Amazed by his stamina, she wondered if he ever tired of their sexual play, which went on several times a day, and sometimes half the night through.

  “Do you ever think of anything else?” she inquired as an unexplained bout of shyness overcame her.

  “Not recently,” he said, grinning. “And certainly not while you’re around. It seems, my lovely wife, that I cannot get enough of you.”

  His gaze darkened to a midnight blue, marking his desire, and Alana’s flush deepened as her heart tripped a little faster. To cover her embarrassment, she blurted, “Well, I say you should quell your lust for now.” She raised the bag. “We need to get our catch back to the fortress, so it can be cleaned.”

  “In good time,” he said.

  Paxton urged the falcon into the small cage sitting beside him. He tossed in a scrap of raw meat as a reward for the bird’s excellent performance, then secured the door.

  Removing the heavy gauntlet, he wiped his hands on a scrap of cloth, afterward announcing, “Presently I have other plans.” He reached for her, pulling her into his arms. The game bag dropped at their feet. “And they all have to do with you, sweet.”

  Small tremors of joy were quaking through her, for his lips were traveling the side of her throat. “You’re very bold, sir,” she said. “Had you ever thought that someone might see us?”

  “Let them,” he said, his hand inching her skirt up to her thighs.

  She caught his hand. “Paxton—not here. We’re fully in the open.”

  He drew back to look at her. “Then let’s find ourselves a nice big tree to hide behind.”

  Alana uttered not a word as he began leading her from the bluff, down into the wood. She had no objection to his loveplay. In fact, she welcomed it. But she had the oddest feeling they were being watched.

  A large oak stood in front of them. “Is this acceptable?” he asked, drawing her around its thick trunk.

  “Aye,” she said.

  “Good,” he returned as he pressed her against the rough bark. “For I doubt I could have gone another step farther without at least tasting your delicious lips.”

  His mouth was instantly on hers, and Alana marveled at the mastery of his kiss, just as she always did. As their tongues mated, she felt his hand lifting her skirt. Soon his fingers were between her thighs, ardently exploring her. She moaned into his mouth as he elicited a sudden flow of moisture from within her.

  Alana felt the evidence of his arousal against her belly as he leaned into her. Not one to be greedy, she lowered her hand and found him. She would have preferred to touch him, to feel his hard hot flesh in her hand, but the way they were positioned prevented such, so she stroked him through his tunic instead.

  A scant moment later, Paxton dragged his lips from hers. “Sweet Jesus, I want you.”

  “Now?”

  “Aye. Now, Alana.”

  As eager for their joining as he, she nodded.

  Paxton eased his hand from between her thighs and started to pull her away from the tree, intending to find a soft spot of earth for their bed, when a flash of color caught both their eyes.

  Startled, Alana gasped. Beside her, Paxton froze.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude,” Gwenifer said as she kept to her place, which was no more than twenty feet away.

  Glancing at Paxton, Alana noted his harsh frown, along with the tic in his clenched jaw. She understood his anger, for she felt the same herself. Simple courtesy dictated that if a person came upon an intimate scene, such as the one she and Paxton were sharing, the person would withdraw as quickly and as quietly as possible. It was apparent that her cousin didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  “What is it you want, Gwenifer?” Alana asked.

  “I came searching you out to tell you that I’ll be departing from here for Clwyd on the morrow. It’s time I returned home. I was hoping we could perhaps visit for a while this afternoon. I had no idea that you were—well, I’ve embarrassed the two of you, as well as myself. I’m sorry.”

  She turned to go, and Alana looked inquiringly at Paxton. Seeing his nod, she called out, “Gwenifer, wait.” Her cousin halted, and Alana walked toward her. “Go on back to the fortress. Paxton and I will be along soon. First we need to collect the falcon and the kill.”

  “I do hope he’ll allow you to spend some time with me,” Gwenifer said. “I’ve hardly seen you these past three weeks.”

  Alana had been surprised by Gwenifer’s announcement that she was leaving. Yet, in truth, she knew she’d been a terrible hostess since her marriage. Still, it couldn’t be helped. When it came to her husband’s needs versus her cousin’s, Paxton was the one who would win out every time. And so it should be, Alana acknowledged.

  “I’m sure he will,” Alana replied, now certain it was best her cousin left. “Run along, so I may speak to him.”

  With a nod, Gwenifer began her trek back through the wood toward the trail. When she disappeared, Alana gazed up at Paxton, who’d made his way to her side.

  “I believe she’s angry with us for ignoring her as we have.”

  “She couldn’t possibly be half as angry as I am with her. I should thrash her soundly for prying as she did.”

  “I’m sure she was too stunned by what she saw to manage a coherent thought. She is a virgin, after all.”

  Paxton snorted. “That is most questionable.”

  Alana gaped at him. “Do you have firsthand knowledge that she’s not?”

  “If you are asking if I bedded her, the answer is no.”

  “Then how can you say she’s not intact?”

  “A man knows these things.”

  “How so?”

  “The look in a woman’s eye… the way she comports herself—your cousin has far more knowledge of what transpires between a man and a woman on an intimate level than you realize, my naive wife.”

  Alana sputtered in protest. “Just because you perceive a certain look or a particular mode of behavior to mean a woman is unchaste doesn’t mean it is so.”

  “If that is what you want to believe, especially about Gwenifer, then you have my permission to do so. God’s wounds, Alana! She threw herself at me constantly
.”

  “Only because I asked her to.”

  Alana nearly bit her tongue in two once the words were out.

  “May I ask why?” Paxton queried, his expression one of amused certainty.

  Alana couldn’t face him. “’Twas when Father Jevon told me about Henry’s edict. I asked that she stick close to you to see what she could learn.” She met his gaze. “So if you believe she was throwing herself at you for purposes other than gaining information from you, which she brought directly to me, you are wrong.”

  Paxton chuckled. “You’ve confirmed my suspicions, Alana. I was sure you had set her on me. Although what you had hoped to learn, I haven’t the slightest inkling. Yet, that doesn’t explain her actions prior to your learning about our ordered nuptials.”

  Alana’s eyes narrowed. “You still persist in denigrating her. Why?”

  “’Tis only a feeling I have.”

  It was Alana’s turn to snort. “A feeling? Is that all you can muster in way of proof?”

  Paxton shrugged. “Sometimes it is enough. However, I will tell you this: If it had been you who was bedeviling me with your feminine charms the way Gwenifer had attempted to do, you would have been beneath me in a trice. Such brazen coyness from a woman rarely goes unrewarded, unless the man is not attracted to her. I wasn’t attracted to Gwenifer. But you, sweet, have intrigued me from the start. Which reminds me. I believe we were in the throes of passion before we were so rudely interrupted. Are you ready to begin anew where we were made to leave off?”

  Alana sighed. “I promised Gwenifer we would return to the fortress.” She caught his hand. “She’s leaving tomorrow, Paxton. Can I not spend the afternoon with her? I may not see her for a very long while.”

  He smiled at her. “Aye,” he said, fingers smoothing an errant strand of hair from her face. “You may spend the afternoon with her. But only after you’ve seen to me first. Once we return to the fortress, we will go to our chamber. Spare me one half turn of the hour glass and the rest of the day is yours. Agreed?”

  Pleased by his proposal, Alana smiled in return. “Agreed.”

  Paxton had just deposited the falcon at the mews, afterward handing the kill over to one of the castle cooks whom he saw in the yard, and was now striding into the hall, eager to find Alana.

  On entering the outer gate, he’d sent her on ahead, promising to join her once he’d finished with his tasks. Not seeing her anywhere below, he assumed she had gone to their chamber.

  Paxton’s thoughts took flight as he envisioned her nude, lying abed, waiting for him. He loped toward the stairs. At their foot, he met Madoc who had just descended them.

  “Is your mistress in her chamber?” Paxton inquired.

  “Nay, she’s in the kitchens.”

  “Why there?”

  “One of the women sliced her thumb a good one. My mistress is tending it while I fetched the medicinals.” He raised the chest high for Paxton to see. “It was left in her room from when she minded your cuts and bruises.”

  Her room. The connotation nettled Paxton. That Madoc would denote his and Alana’s chamber as such meant the man still had not accepted their marriage. But Madoc was not the only one. It would be a while before the Welsh trusted him. This Paxton understood.

  “When you see her,” he said, “tell her I’ve gone upstairs.”

  Madoc grunted and moved aside; Paxton took the steps two at a time. Admittedly he was rather puzzled by his enthusiasm. In fact he felt like the lad of five-and-ten that he was when he’d had his first sexual encounter. But then with Alana everything was a new awakening.

  Once inside the chamber, Paxton removed his sword and stripped from his tunic, then headed for the basin to prepare for Alana’s return and their interlude of love.

  After washing himself, he rubbed his cheek, making certain it was still smooth from his shave that morning. His bruises were gone, the cuts healed, Rhys’s punishment all but an annoying memory.

  Next Paxton took up a piece of green hazel and cleaned his teeth as the Welsh did and as Alana had showed him. He then wiped them with a small scrap of wool.

  Halfway to the bed, he unbuckled his spurs and pulled off his boots. The spurs fell to the floor, while one boot landed in the corner, the other near the door as they flew from his hands. Dressed in naught but his braies, he dove toward the bed.

  The ropes groaned, the siderails threatening to break, as he landed in the center of the mattress on his belly. As he rolled to his back, he spied a scrap of cloth stuck to his chest. He hadn’t noticed it before because it was nearly the same shade of yellow as the bedcover.

  His brow furrowed as he pulled the cloth from his chest. The square of wool, he decided, was in sad shape: the edges burned, holes in the center, stained with grass and mud. What caught Paxton’s eye, though, was the silk embroidery that ran from top to bottom and side to side, nearly covering the swatch.

  The design appeared familiar. Turning the square toward the window and the light, he traced the pattern several times.

  Paxton sat up with a jerk.

  A salamander?

  He stared at the wool.

  The creature’s head and tail were missing, but the curved body, flames shooting away from it, was intact. Indeed, the embroidered portion was a salamander. Which meant this piece of cloth once belonged to Gilbert, for it was the emblem he wore on his tunic and carried on his pennon.

  Paxton plunged a finger through one hole then another. Cuts from a dagger? He inspected the stained edges. Blood. Faded but evident.

  Cursing, Paxton was on his feet, his thoughts whirling in disbelief.

  Impossible! But then he was attacked by his own words: ’Tis only a feeling I have. Sometimes it is enough.

  He had ignored his instincts and had thrown caution to the winds, thereby allowing himself to believe that Alana was not the treacherous witch that he’d first deemed her to be—all because he lusted after her. All because he thought he was falling in love with her.

  But the truth could no longer be denied. The proof was here in his hand. The irregular square of wool, with its scorched edges and stains of grass, mud, and blood; the lacerations in the cloth, along with the telltale emblem, brought everything into complete clarity: This was part of the tunic that Gilbert wore on the day he died.

  Paxton heard the latch release on the door; his narrowed gaze shot toward the panel. Flushed, breathless, and smiling, Alana stepped inside their chamber.

  “I’m sorry I was delayed,” she said, closing the door. “One of the women cut her thumb quite badly. Madoc and I had to attend to it forthwith before she lost too much blood.”

  Paxton’s eyes were hard upon her, for as she spoke she was reaching for the hem of her bliaud. Should he allow her to strip? Should he then pin her to the bed and take her with the force of all the fury that was roiling inside him—just this one final time?

  “Hold!” he commanded sharply.

  About to pull the garment over her head, Alana stilled. She stared at him in obvious confusion. “What is it?” she inquired, releasing the hem. “What’s wrong?”

  He thrust the woolen scrap forward. It dangled from his fingers. “This is what’s wrong.”

  Her confusion increased, the furrows in her brow deepening. “What is it?”

  “Come see for yourself, Wife.”

  With cautious steps, Alana came forward. As she reached for the square, Paxton’s jaw clenched to the point of snapping. He examined her as she looked it over. In an instant, her fingers began to tremble. Her face suddenly went pale. Her wide gaze jumped to his.

  The truth was written in her eyes, yet Paxton wanted to hear it from her own tongue. “Gilbert didn’t drown. He died by the blade, didn’t he?” Tears sprang to her eyes, but Paxton ignored them. When no response came forth, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her as his voice thundered through the room, “Answer me, woman! ’Twas by the blade, wasn’t it?”

  A sob broke from his wife’s lips and so did her reply, �
��Yes!”

  Paxton’s body grew taut. One name came to mind. All he needed was confirmation. “Who killed him?”

  There was silence, then he felt her shoulders square beneath his hands. Her gaze met his, firm and steady.

  “I killed Gilbert.”

  CHAPTER

  19

  “Liar!”

  The word jolted through Alana as Paxton shook her anew. She thought to hear a thousand other slurs from his lips but not the one that came forth. Frightened by the fury in his eyes, she pushed at his chest. “I told you I killed Gilbert. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “I want the truth.”

  “It is the truth,” Alana insisted, perjuring herself again.

  “You couldn’t have possibly inflicted that many wounds on Gilbert, let alone one. He was stronger and larger than you. He was a knight—a skilled warrior. Now tell me who killed him and why it was done.”

  Alana swore he’d not receive the indictment he sought. He could beat her senseless, but she’d not say the names. “I killed Gilbert,” she repeated.

  With a growl, he shoved her from him and spun away. Alana tripped back two steps. Her eyes fast upon him, she watched as he thrust his fingers through his hair in obvious frustration. Apace, he turned on her again.

  “It was Rhys and your cousins who killed him, wasn’t it?”

  “Nay!”

  “Christ, woman! Why are you protecting them?”

  Because they were defending me!

  Though the words screamed through her mind, she held them inside. Even if Rhys had disowned her, she’d not allow him or his sons to suffer the devastation that would befall them, a product of Henry’s anger. It was her fault. If she hadn’t married Gilbert, unwisely hoping to secure her inheritance, none of this would have taken place. And if justice prescribed that a life be given for the life taken, it would be hers and no other’s.

  “Paxton, hear me. I killed Gilbert. I did so because he tried to kill me.”

  “Kill you—why?”