by Tamara Leigh
He did not look assured, but he said no more.
"What is to become of my father, Baron Balmaine?" she asked, touching the thread to her tongue before making a second attempt at forcing it into the small eye.
"You would ask that before laying a stitch to me?" he barked.
Her second attempt failed, and she frowned. "I assure you, your answer will have no bearing on my handiwork. 'Tis what you are implying, is it not?"
"What is your relationship with your father?" he asked, leaving her question unanswered.
She stilled and met his eyes. "He is my father."
" 'Tis not what I asked," he snapped.
Beside her Groan growled low in his throat, swiping his tongue from one corner of his mouth to the other as he regarded Balmaine.
Graeye paid little heed to the dog, though she was reassured by his presence. "Nevertheless, 'tis the only answer you will have from me," she muttered, returning her attention to the task at hand. "There!" Triumphant, she held the needle up for him to see, the thread dangling from it.
Balmaine suppressed a groan.
"So, what is to be my father's fate?" she persisted as she bent over his shoulder again.
"Stitch first, then we will talk," he said in a voice that brooked no argument.
Swallowing hard against her growing trepidation, Graeye pressed the two pieces of flesh together and pushed the needle in with a hand that refused to remain steady. Miraculously, it easily slid in and out, the only sign of the baron's discomfort witnessed by the rigid hold of his body.
With great concentration, and an easing of her restless stomach, Graeye continued.
"The stitches need not be so small!" Balmaine snapped when she was only halfway through. "Space them farther apart."
Frowning, she lifted her head and looked into his fiery eyes. Her breath caught in her throat as an ache shot through her chest. Quickly, she looked back to the wound.
"You would not want there to be a great, ugly scab, would you?" she asked, continuing with the spacing of her stitches.
"One more will do me no harm. Now do as I say."
It was bold of her, but she ignored his order, and was surprised when he did not pursue the matter.
When she finished, she straightened and flexed her shoulders to ease the tightness that had settled there. Still evading Gilbert's stare, she set the needle aside and opened the pot of salve. The next minutes continued in silence as she finished with the wound.
Once he was properly bandaged, she retrieved his clothing and dropped them onto his lap. "Now I would ask again that you tell me of my father's fate."
Gilbert lifted the garments and inspected the damage to the linen. Then, without warning, he tossed them at Graeye.
Reflexively, she caught them.
"Hold them open over my head," he commanded.
Reluctantly, she stepped near him and lifted the garments high.
Suddenly, his arm snaked out and pulled her between his thighs. She let out a yelp of surprise that had Groan rushing to her defense, snapping and growling.
"Back!" Balmaine roared.
As if he understood the danger this man represented, Groan came no closer, but neither did he retreat.
Recovering sufficiently to see the task through, Graeye held the garments and waited for Balmaine to raise his arms into them, but he did not accommodate her. Instead he urged her more deeply into the vee of his thighs.
Her heart beat so heavily, Graeye thought it might burst. "How—how long do you expect me to hold these for you?" she managed, determinedly fighting the sensual effect he was having on her.
He was silent so long, she finally felt compelled to look at him. It was a mistake. Staring into wide pupils rimmed with incredible blue, she was taken back to the night past. Briefly, she closed her eyes to savor the desire melting her insides.
A deep, rumbling laugh that made her cringe with shame surrounded her a moment later. A man with no heart, she thought, staring into his triumphant face.
Abruptly, his laughter laded. "Has Sir Michael ever touched you as I have?" he taunted. The hand he held her with stroked the small of her back.
Telling herself she felt nothing, that the flames he ignited were only the result of her outrage, she strained back against his hold. "Let me go," she demanded.
His mouth turning grim, he pulled her closer, his hand moving lower to the curve of her buttocks. "Has he touched you?"
She knew there was no escape from this giant's hold, so she grudgingly answered his question. "You know that is not so."
"Do I?" His hand slid to her waist and began a maddening exploration up her side. "I know only that he did not gain your virtue." His fingers splayed wide to brush the side of her breast. "Has he never touched your soft skin nor tasted your lips, sweet Graeye?"
Angry, she met his gaze. "Methinks you are jealous, Baron Balmaine," she retorted.
His eyes narrowed. "You have not answered me."
"And I will not."
He held her stare a long moment, then smiled and lifted his arms.
Grateful, Graeye lowered the garments, then jumped away lest she suffer any further assaults upon her wayward senses.
Balmaine stood and smoothed his tunic down, then retrieved his belt, keeping her waiting as he refastened it about his waist. Then, without a glance her way, he walked to the door.
"What about my father?" she sputtered.
His hand on the frame, he turned and raked his gaze overheed "Ah, yes," he sighed. "Your father." He flexed his injured shoulder. "I have been thinking on that,"
"And?"
"I have not decided,"
Her mouth dropped open. "You kept me waiting for that?"
He shrugged. "I must needs think on it some more, but for the offense he has committed, it would not be undue punishment to take his life." He let that sit a moment, then continued. "Of course, there are other ways to assure he never troubles me again."
She looked away. "Then I pray God lightens your heart," she murmured.
"Were you true, and virtuous, Lady Graeye, I might feel compelled to believe prayer alone could do that. But I fear you will have to look elsewhere for a means
of convincing me to have mercy upon a man such as Edward Charwyck."
Graeye did not rise to the bait, though her heart felt as if it were breaking into a thousand tiny pieces that she would never be able to put together again. Turning her back on Balmaine, she leaned down to stroke Groan between the ears.
Gilbert did not immediately retreat. Instead he stood in the doorway and stared uncomprehendingly at her back, acknowledging that he did not understand this enigma who had earned his wrath by her cunning seduction.
He frowned as part of him defended her, pointing out that she appeared the kindest of souls, that the heart in her breast seemed pure and not corrupt as he was so ready to pronounce it. Had not the servants been quick to come to her defense, outspoken in their voicing of the changes she had made and the compassion she'd shown for those in need of food and shelter? Another voice reminded him that her healing touch had been gentle when it should have been anything but.
But the loudest and most convincing voice of all screamed that she was a Charwyck, his avowed enemy. Gilbert excused himself his weakness; he could not be blamed for having doubts about her, for even the servants had been taken in by her self-serving show of kindness. Graeye Charwyck was not to be trusted.
Without needing to hear his footfalls in the passageway, Graeye knew the moment Balmaine left by the easing of Groan's tense body. She turned and stared at the empty doorway, then walked to it.
Tilting her head back, she looked at the mildewed wood above her head. Never, she thought, would she have to worry about doing herself injury on that.
Directly, Graeye went to the room containing her mother's effects and, for the last time, removed the habit. Standing in her thin chemise, she held the garment and stared at the bloodstains Balmaine had put there. It would be forever stained if s
he did not see to it immediately. Resolutely, she folded it and placed it back in the chest.
Laced into the brown bliaut she had worn earlier that day, she squared her shoulders and left the room. Slowly she descended the stairs, alert to the voices in the hall below.
In the shadow of the stairway, Groan standing patiently at her side, she went unnoticed as Edward's former retainers entered into the ceremony of homage, offering their oaths of fealty to Baron Balmaine.
The last to pledge himself was the handsome Sir Michael. Graeye craned her neck to better see him when he stepped to the dais. With great sadness, she watched as he knelt before the baron and placed his clasped hands within his new lord's.
"Lord, I become your man," he said, his voice strong with conviction as he spoke the words.
Balmaine answered him, and still kneeling, Sir Michael gave his oath of fealty. "Baron Balmaine, I vow to love what you love and loathe what you loathe, and never by word or deed do aught that should grieve you."
Balmaine answered him again, then raised the knight to his feet and bestowed on him a ceremonial kiss as he had with the others.
As if on cue the servants surged from out of the shadows and began to position the trestle tables for the midday meal.
In the ensuing confusion Graeye took the opportunity to lose herself among them and leave the donjon without anyone noticing. A short time later she was once again in the outer bailey. Looking about, she was disappointed to discover that Groan had left her side.
Fickle animal, she thought, with a dose of longing for the comfortable companionship he offered. Giving a doleful shrug, she began walking.
There were only two recurring thoughts in her head. One, to search out her father, and the other, to escape to the falls. She was debating the merits of each, her feet inadvertently carrying her to the postern gate and the world beyond the castle's walls, when the knight whom she had encountered earlier at the watchtower appeared at her side.
She faltered, but when he did sot attempt to detain her, she continued walking. He kept pace with her. 'With a sidelong glance she looked at his profile and thought him only passing attractive. He had none of the dark attraction of Gilbert Bal—
Abruptly, she halted her thoughts. Among the multitude of men who surrounded her, why had she chosen the heartless baron to measure others against?
Piqued, she drew herself to a halt and turned to face the man. "What do you want?" she demanded.
His brows shot up. "The baron thought you might need an escort," he explained. "He feels obliged to offer you his protection until you are returned to the abbey."
Graeye drew a deep, steadying breath. "And when will that be—today?"
"Nay, 'tis too late now for the journey. I would guess 'twould be first thing on the morrow."
So she was given the remainder of the day to put her plan into motion. Perhaps there was still a chance for her to see it through. "Sir ..."
"Lancelyn," he supplied.
"I do not require an escort and would ask that you allow me my privacy."
"Would that I could," he said, an apologetic smile upon his lips, "but I must follow my lord's orders."
It was on the tip of Graeye's tongue to tell him exactly what she thought of his "lord," but all her training as a novice came back to her and silenced her words before they fell from her lips.
"Then I will not see you put out, Sir Lancelyn," she said, turning back around. Head high, she retraced her steps.
She had thought the man might let her go her way, but it soon became obvious he had no intention of allowing her out of his sight.
"Truly, is this necessary?" she asked, her irritation evident.
He drew alongside her. "Simply a precaution, my lady." He nodded his head toward the donjon. " Twould not be unseemly if you joined the others for dinner."
"If you are hungry, Sir Knight, do satisfy yourself," she said, "but I have no such appetite that would compel me to share a meal with your lord."
"You are working very hard at being a true Charwyck, are you not, Lady Graeye?" he tossed back at her.
Struck speechless by his unexpected words, she stumbled to a halt and stared at him. Then, lifting her skirts high, she mounted the steps two at a time and entered the hall.
Sir Lancelyn followed at a more leisurely pace.
Her rashness had been a mistake, Graeye realized immediately, for all eyes turned to watch her progress along the perimeter of the room. Though she did not intentionally seek out the baron, her startled gaze fell straightaway to his.
Brows lifted, a mocking smile upon his lips, he nodded at her.
Coloring brightly, she lowered her chin and lengthened her short stride. A great wash of relief swept her as she reached the stairs, for not only was she free of those curious stares, but Sir Lancelyn did not continue in his pursuit. It did not please her that she had afforded the dreadful man the opportunity to join the others in the meal, but she was grateful to have him trailing her no longer.
Leaving the commotion behind, Graeye went, directly to the small chapel and closed herself in it. It was cool there, for the uncovered window allowed the breeze outside to stir the air within.
On her knees before the altar, she assumed the familiar position of prayer. Instead of setting herself to that most exalted task, though, she became enmeshed in the plans that would see her and her father clear of Medland before sunrise. It had to be this night. Tomorrow she would be returned to the abbey, and likely her father put to death. Aye, tomorrow would be too late for either of them.
Chapter 7
For endless hours Graeye feigned sleep upon her bench in the hall. And was miserable for it. As best she could, she kept her breathing deep and even, going so far as to mumble incoherent words when she found it necessary to shift upon the hard surface. She felt guilty for it, but there was simply no way around the deception she practiced upon the man set to keep watch over her—Sir Lancelyn.
He had positioned himself on a straw pallet not far from where she was stretched out. She resented his interference, and the man who had ordered him to it. If not for the night vigil he kept over her, she would surely have found her way to her father hours ago. Perhaps they would even be free of the castle by now. It was beyond irritating. It was infuriating.
Detecting a decided change in the man's breathing, she slowly turned her head and listened for several minutes to assure herself that he had, indeed, fallen off to sleep. Her patience wearing thin, she confirmed, his state, then lifted her blanket and quietly rose from the bench.
With the exception of the wimple, she had gone to bed fully clothed, with even her shoes upon her feet so that she would not inadvertently call attention to herself in her search for them. Now, as a last-minute thought, she took up the blanket and draped it around her shoulders for the extra warmth it would provide against the cold night. Lifting her skirts to her knees, she stepped cautiously around Sir Lancelyn's sleeping form.
From beneath her bench a low-pitched moan arose that drew her to a tense halt. Breath held, her hands clenched, she waited to discover if Groan had awakened the man. Blessedly, Lancelyn's breathing did not change. Letting go a sigh of relief, she continued across the hall.
Rather than risk the main entrance, Graeye slipped down the corridor through which the servants carried the food from the kitchen in the inner bailey. As she had hoped, this door was unguarded, and she had only to lift the bar to let herself out.
Outside, the air was brisk with the threat of an early winter, lifting her hair and stirring it about her face. For a moment she wished she had thought to bring the wimple.
Grimacing, she gathered the fine strands together and pushed them into the neck of her chemise. Then, pulling the blanket over her head, she hurried to the front of the donjon. Keeping to the shadows afforded by cloud cover, she made good progress and crossed the inner drawbridge to the watchtower, whence the faint glow of a lantern lit the lower floor.
It was quiet when she finally summone
d enough courage to step within. She did so with caution, her gaze sliding around the room in search of any obstacles. She saw only one guard near the stairs, only just retaining his seat upon a stool, his head slumped onto his chest.
Sinking her teeth into her bottom Up, she took a step forward and peered closely at him. In his present state he was harmless, but she knew he would prove difficult if he awoke. It took some time for her to accept the only solution to her dilemma, for it seemed such a terrible thing to do to another human being.
Repenting as she went, she walked quietly to the only other stool in the room. She allowed the blanket to fall from her shoulders as she lifted the stool. Finding it weighty enough to do the job, she stepped back to the man. She offered up a last, hasty prayer and brought it down upon his head.
With a grunt he crumpled sideways and fell to the earthen floor.
Graeye dropped the stool and knelt beside the man to assure herself he still breathed. Confirming this, she patted a thankful hand to her heart, then scrambled to her feet. She pulled the lantern from its hook and ran for the stairs, taking them as quickly as her legs would carry her.
Going directly to the room where she was certain she would find her father, she pushed back the bolt on the door. Then holding the lantern before her, she opened it and stepped within. She immediately saw Edward curled upon a straw pallet against the far wall.
Placing the lantern on the floor, Graeye crouched beside him. "Father," she called, gently shaking his shoulder.
Edward came instantly awake, shooting up from the pallet and into a sitting position in a flurry of movement. It took him a few moments to orient himself, his wild-eyed expression finally dimming as he focused on Graeye.
"What do you here, daughter?" he asked, his voice hoarse as if he had been abusing it for some time with his ravings.
"I've come to release you," she answered, sitting back on her heels. "We must leave this place ere morn comes."
He looked past her to the empty doorway. "And how did you get in here?"