Virgin Bride

by Tamara Leigh

  Forcing his mind from its wandering path, he bowed, then removed the travel-weary parchment from his belt and handed it to the woman. "You wished to discuss this matter of Lady Graeye with me," he prompted.

  Smiling faintly, she took the document from him and lowered herself to the bench. "Umm, yes," she said, perusing her own precise handwriting before looking back up at him. "First, though, I must apologize for having begun to question your sense of responsibility, Baron. You see, I expected you much sooner, and when you did not come ... well ..." She shrugged, gracefully lifting her hands palms up.

  Lips twitching with irritation at the thinly veiled reprimand, Gilbert crossed to the window and stared down at the small procession of nuns walking across the courtyard. They kept to a line so straight and unwavering, he could have been watching a military parade.

  "As I was not at Medland when your message arrived," he said, " 'twas delayed until it could be delivered to me at Penforke."

  "Ahh," Mother Celia breathed. She was somewhat placated by his explanation, but she wondered at the black mood emanating from him. She had expected he would be less than pleased by her missive, but had never guessed he would feel it so deeply.

  "You are here now," she said, hoping to draw him back from the window, "and we've much to discuss. Come, sit beside me." With a sweeping hand she indicated the length of vacant bench.

  He did not move from his position at the window, apparently preferring the distance he had placed between them, but he did give her his full attention.

  " 'Twould seem there is much to discuss," he agreed. "But where is Lady Graeye?"

  The abbess nodded toward the window. "If she is not there yet, she will be shortly. Always after dinner she feeds the birds."

  Gilbert glanced down into the courtyard again. For the first time he noticed the mass of birds that walked the flagged stones and flitted from ledge to ledge as they waited patiently for their-promised meal. But he saw only the backs of two nuns as they passed from sight between two buildings. Shaking his head, he looked back at the abbess.

  "Shortly," she said in a reassuring tone that set his hair on end.

  Did she think him anxious to catch sight of Graeye? he wondered. His lips compressed tightly as he rejected such an absurd idea. Nay, it was mere curiosity as to her whereabouts that bade him search her out.

  "I would have expected her to accompany you," he said, forcing as much indifference into his voice as he could manage.

  "Oh, nay." The abbess shook her head vehemently, as if to impress upon him the error of his assumption. "I assure you, Lady Graeye knows naught of your coming, Baron."

  "Then?"

  The abbess clasped her hands and pinned him with a serene gaze. "Upon discovering Lady Graeye's condition, I took it upon myself to contact you. You are responsible, are you not?"

  Drawing a deep breath, Gilbert leaned an arm against the wall alongside the window. "She has said I fathered the child she carries?" It was more a statement than a question.

  What looked to be a self-satisfied smile flitted across the woman's face. "Nay, but I have guessed correctly, have I not?"

  If the abbess was to be believed, and Gilbert was reluctant to extend his doubt of God to this woman, then his conclusions about Graeye's character lost much of their credibility. It unbalanced him to hear she had not laid claim to him as the father, and that she was unaware he'd been sent for.

  Still, he offered a nonchalant shrug before answering Mother Celia. "There is a possibility the child is mine," he said, "but only that."

  The abbess let go a deep, unexpected sigh of relief. "Then 'tis certainly yours."

  Gilbert's eyes narrowed on her. "I do not know that," he said, wondering what sly trickery she was attempting to work upon him.

  "Long have I known Lady Graeye—though I admit, not well. I was but a sister of the order when she first came to us ..." The abbess paused and calculated the period of time since elapsed. "Eleven years ago." She offered Gilbert a fleeting smile that lit her features and made her considerable number of years dwindle to insignificance.

  Gilbert blinked, and when next he focused upon her, she looked her age again. Settling himself in for the duration, he folded his arms over his chest and nodded for her to continue.

  "Graeye has always kept to herself ... a very sad child when she came to us," she said with regret. "Most of the children sent to us do visit their homes, though it may be infrequently. But it was not that way for Graeye. Not until her father sent for her last autumn did she leave Arlecy since she first arrived as a child— and never did she receive any visitors here, 'tis not an easy life she has had."

  For an unguarded moment the walls around Gilbert's heart began to soften. He rebelled by dragging forth the crumbling memory of Graeye's deception.

  "Although I have never met the man," Mother Celia continued, "I have heard much of Baron Edward Char—"

  "No longer baron," Gilbert was quick to inform her.

  The woman nodded. "However, this I do know. Though the blood that runs through Lady Graeye's veins is that of her father's, she is not of the same ilk."

  Determined to maintain his beliefs about Graeye, Gilbert simply stared at the woman. He did wonder, though, what enlightenment she might use next to persuade him of whatever it was she aspired to.

  "I had great hopes for her in your world, Baron," she said some moments later, her gaze direct. "You see, I have always known 'twas not in her heart to join the sisterhood—"

  "Then why did she consent to taking the veil?" Gilbert interrupted, though he felt regret for having stepped again upon the woman's words.

  The abbess let his rudeness pass without reproach. "There was no other option for her, and 'twas her father's express wish that she become a nun."

  "Why?"

  Mother Celia shrugged. "The mark she bears." She touched a finger alongside her own eye. "Though I know it only to be a mark of birth, there are others who would say 'tis of the devil. That was also her father's belief, and methinks he thought to appease God by offering Graeye to Him."

  Turning this over in his mind, Gilbert looked out the window and down into the courtyard where a single figure had appeared. Though covered from head to foot in a long black mantle, her back to him, he knew it was Graeye. Without realizing he held his breath, he watched as she attempted to coax a reluctant bird down from its perch atop a roof. Unable to resist her offering of a large crust of bread, it was not long in coming down.

  Gilbert felt not only a softening of his heart as he stared at her, but a decided crumbling of the walls that guarded it. Again his mind threw up her deceit before him, but it was useless. It would seem she had not set out to trap him into marriage as he had convinced himself, but she still had used him so that she would not be forced to take vows into sisterhood. After an internal struggle so fierce, he felt he'd taken on wounds as fearsome as the one that scarred his leg, he finally conceded to a standoff between heart and mind. But it was a confusion he could not afford—a tumultuous mixture of antagonism and yearning that he could see no way to mesh.

  "How many months is she with child?" he asked, frustrated by his inability to glimpse the shape of Graeye's body beneath the layers of winter clothing.

  "It approaches five months since she returned here," the abbess stated as she stood and walked toward him. "So she is at least that far along. No less, I assure you."

  Gilbert's jaw worked, alternately tense and slack as he followed Graeye's progress about the courtyard. He willed her to turn around so that he could get a better view of her and see again the delicate beauty of her face. He was sorely disappointed when, a minute later, she unknowingly fulfilled his desire and turned. He could not even glimpse her hair or features, completely hidden as they were beneath the spacious hood.

  "She does not belong in a cloister of nuns," the abbess murmured, having come to stand beside him. "Lady Graeye is of your world."

  "Aye," he heard himself concede. "She does not belong here."
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br />   Moving nearer, the abbess captured his gaze with hers. "Then you will wed her and give her child your name?"

  There was no hesitation in Gilbert's response to that ridiculous proposal. " Twould be impossible for me to many her," he declared.

  Frowning, Mother Celia stepped back from the baron. "I do not see the difficulty," she said, secure in the knowledge gained from her recent inquiries into his personal life. "I am told you are without a wife. Mayhap you are betrothed?"

  She watched as he threw a wrathful glare down at Graeye, who once again had her back to them. "Nay," he ground out, turning the fire in his eyes upon the abbess. "Were I of a mind to wed with a Charwyck"—he fairly spat the name—"there would be naught to prevent me from doing so. But as I would never entertain such an idea, I fear 'tis not the solution you seek to this dilemma."

  It was Mother Celia's keen perceptiveness that had elevated her to her position at the abbey. She used that talent now as she studied the baron. "I know naught of your dispute with the Charwycks, Baron Balmaine," she said, "but I would ask that you not visit the sins of Lady Graeye's family upon her. She is hardly responsible for any wrongs done you by their hand."

  "And what of wrongs done me by her hand?" he rejoined, his anger obviously mounting.

  "I know not what wrongs you speak of, Baron, nor can I guess at what Lady Graeye might have done to earn your ire. But if you condemn her, I would first have you consider your own conduct." His head snapped back. "My conduct?" he roared. "Aye." She nodded curtly, indifferent to his vibrant rage. In truth, she was too concerned with controlling her own emotions to worry overly much about his.

  "The lady was chaste when she left the abbey, and spoiled without benefit of marriage when she was returned to us. That you would set yourself to seducing an innocent young noblewoman is beyond reproach— and then restore her to the Church with your child growing full in her belly!"

  Gilbert almost choked on that, his face darkening as he met her reproachful gaze. So it was he who had done the seducing, eh?

  "Then she has accused me of having seduced her," he snarled, clenching his fists so tightly, his nails dug into the toughened skin of his palms. "Truly, it doth surprise me she did not think to call it rape."

  The abbess's lids fluttered momentarily before lifting again. "Nay, as I have already told you, Lady Graeye accuses you of naught, Baron Balmaine. Though I had initially thought otherwise, she made it most clear she had not been ... forced."

  But she had made it clear she'd been seduced, Gilbert concluded. And it was obvious the abbess did not believe Graeye capable of any deception. Bitter laughter, accompanied by denial, very nearly made it to his lips before he forced it back down. Regardless of what lies the wench had told, he would not reveal to anyone the true circumstances surrounding her impregnation— though she certainly warranted no such consideration.

  Mother Celia's voice broke into his thoughts. "I would ask that you reconsider and marry the lady Graeye."

  "She is a Charwyck," Gilbert bit off, "and every bit as deceitful as her brother and father. Nay, look elsewhere, for I would not bind myself to that one."

  In an instant the abbess abandoned all efforts to keep her composure intact. "Then your taking of her virtue was merely a ploy by which to have revenge upon the Charwycks?" she asked blundy, annoyed at this man's continued obstinance.

  The baron appeared taken aback by her question. "Nay," he said after a moment. "I assure you, revenge did in no way enter into it."

  Mother Celia regarded him a long, thoughtful moment. Then, turning on her heel, she set herself to pacing the room. This was not going as well as she had planned....

  Gilbert turned his attention back to the courtyard, certain that simply voicing his convictions had strengthened his resolve to stay free of the treacherous silken bonds the abbess would have him accept. Disappointment swept him upon discovering the place empty save for a few remaining birds that foraged for any scrap that may have been overlooked by the others.

  Where had she gone? he wondered, his anger beginning to ease.

  "Then if you will not marry her ...," the abbess said.

  Gilbert did not turn to face her, watchful lest Graeye return. However, when minutes passed and she did not reappear, he turned to consider the abbess and her resolute stance.

  " 'Tis simple," she said with a tight smile. "You must find another who would take her to wife."

  Frowning, Gilbert crossed the room to stand over her. She was not such a tiny thing, though, so he did not tower above her as he did Graeye.

  " 'Tis not as simple as you say," he said. "Ere she was returned to this place, I did find a man eager to wed with her, but she refused him." He did not tell her that, had Graeye accepted Sir Michael, he probably wouldn't have consented to the match. Even then, when he had most deeply felt her deception, the thought of any other man having her had infuriated him.

  The abbess did not appear intimidated by his nearness. Placing a finger to her lips, she pursed her mouth, "Then 'tis apparent her heart is somewhere else, do you not think?"

  Suspicious, Gilbert stared at her.

  Her eyes twinkling with what he was certain was mischief, she reached out and patted his arm. " 'Tis a great burden you must carry, Baron Balmaine," she said, "but if you set yourself to discovering who Lady Graeye has given her heart to, then there is the husband she would have. And all your problems will be solved."

  She shrugged. "And if you cannot find it in you to do that, then look for another more acceptable to her. But I warn you to be careful lest you choose a man unworthy of raising your child. And do not forget she is always welcome at Arlecy should you find it too burdensome to take responsibility for finding your child a father."

  Knowing the abbess dangled bait before him, Gilbert resentfully took the hook, though he did not for one moment believe the words he spoke. "You are implying that the Lady Graeye fancies herself in love with me?"

  Mother Celia laughed. "Nay, Baron, I would never think to suggest such a thing, especially now that I have met you and seen for myself the embittered man you are. It must surely be another she has given her heart to."

  Though thoroughly irritated by the woman's effrontery, Gilbert did not rise to the bait a second time. She was correct, after all. He was not an amiable man. His every day was shadowed by constant reminders of the wrongs done him and his family by Philip Charwyck. Still, he was resentful of the abbess's meddling and wanted nothing more to do with it.

  Swinging away, he snatched up his mantle and deftly secured it with a simple brooch. "I will be taking Lady Graeye from here," he said. "See she is ready to leave within the hour." He threw wide the door and started to step through it, but was pulled up short by the abbess's next words.

  "Her sanctuary is here at Arlecy, Baron Balmaine."

  He turned in the doorway and leveled his gaze upon the woman, waiting with great impatience for her to finish.

  "If Lady Graeye does not wish to go with you, there is naught neither you nor I can do to remove her from this place. Hence, you may have to set yourself the task of convincing her otherwise."

  In his eagerness to be gone he had not considered the possibility of Graeye choosing to remain at the abbey.

  He truly did not think she would. But if she did, he knew he could not simply subdue her and carry her away. The protection afforded her by the Church took that right from him. And though he would willingly risk its wrath, he would not risk the king's.

  "Come," the abbess said. "I will take you to her now."

  Gilbert stepped into the corridor and allowed the abbess to precede him from the guest house. In silence she led him across the courtyard and to the gardens where she clearly expected to find Graeye, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  "Wait here." Mother Celia waved to an arbor enclosed on three sides. "I will send for her."

  Nodding, Gilbert stepped into the shelter, but declined a seat upon the Bench. How would she receive him? he wondered, feeling his pulse qu
icken with the thought that any moment she would be standing before him. It was not all bad, he told himself, for at long last he had the opportunity to exorcise the lady from his every waking thought and finally find some measure of peace.

  Shortly, the abbess reappeared. "She is in prayer," she said, "but I have asked Sister Sophia to send her along anyway."

  "She will know the reason for her summons?"

  The abbess shook her head. "Nay, I have not given any reason for asking her to meet me. Twill be soon enough that she knows of your presence."

  Gilbert made no comment. He simply turned toward the walkway so that he could see Graeye's reaction upon discovering him in this place.

  When the time dragged by and she did not appear, his impatience quickened. "She is not very punctual," he remarked, looking at the abbess, who stood beside him.

  "As I have told you," she said, "this is not her world."

  He scowled.

  "Too," she added, "the babe has been troubling her some—"

  "Something is wrong?" He pounced on that, a sudden tension falling upon him.

  Mother Celia nearly laughed at his show of concern, but managed to hide her pleasure behind a twitching smile. "I do not think so," she said. " 'Tis just a malady of pregnancy that many women experience."

  Carefully picking her way over the frozen ground lest she lose her footing, Graeye stopped upon hearing the abbess's voice that carried across the long, narrow strip of garden. She was with someone?

  Quickening her pace, she admonished herself for having forgotten her gloves in the chapel. Though her hands had grown cold in the short time she'd been outside, she continued to hold them before her as a precaution should she slip.

  As she rounded the corner, a soft, insistent fluttering in her belly reminded her of the necessity to slow her pace. Smiling, she pressed a hand to that subsiding movement and took the last steps with even greater care.

  Two people were standing within the shelter of the arbor—one well-known, the other striking an unsettling chord of familiarity within Graeye. Curious as to the identity of the handsome, dark-headed visitor, she stepped nearer, searching the clean-shaven face, then the eyes that lifted to meet her gaze. Startling blue they were....