by Tamara Leigh
She frowned. "The baby—"
"Will come into this world hale and screaming," he assured her, grinning lopsidedly.
She looked unconvinced. "Gilbert, if anything should happen to me—"
Swooping down, he seized her lips, capturing her words as he urgently drew the honey from her. "Now," he said, when she had succumbed completely to his persuasions, "we must needs be rising." Smiling, he rolled away and stood from the bed.
Disappointed that they had not made love again, Graeye pulled the covers up to her chin and watched as he moved about the room.
"Do you hurry," he said, glancing up from knotting he breeches. "I will have cook pack us some food and we will go for a ride. Would that please you?"
She struggled upright. Not since her arrival at Penforke had she been outside the castle walls. "Truly?" An expectant smile wreathed her face.
At his nod she swung her legs over the side of the bed and dropped to the rushes. Then, chattering her excitement, she hurried to the chest that had been moved to the solar yestereve.
Seeing her fully naked in the light of day, burgeoning with the evidence of his child, Gilbert nearly withdrew the invitation. Though not unwieldy, she was past her seventh month of pregnancy. Was it safe?
He shook his head. Whatever had possessed him to offer? The answer came immediately to him. He had wanted to please her.
They would not go far, he decided, knowing how great her disappointment would be were he to renege. Just to the stream. And they would take an escort, for he still did not trust his lands to be free of Charwyck's brigands.
***
Gilbert had chosen a lovely spot, Graeye thought with pleasure. The winding stream, though deep enough only to dip one's feet in, ran clean and sparkling beneath a sun risen to the top of the sky.
In some ways it reminded her of the river at the abbey. In others, of the falls where she and Gilbert had first met. That last remembrance sent a flush of color over her face and set her palms to tingling.
Dismounting first, Gilbert held up his arms to lift her down. With a hesitant smile she came into them.
"Still like a feather," he said as he set her to her feet.
She made a face. "Surely you jest, my lord."
"Mayhap a little." He dropped a kiss upon her brow, then took her hand and led her to a grassy mound beneath a tree. Spreading his mantle, he urged her down beside him.
"I am ravenous," he said, eyeing the sack she held. She laughed. "Of that I am certain." Settling her back to the tree, she picked loose the string holding the sack closed and peeled the cloth away to reveal a fine selection of bread, cheese, and fruit.
"Would that your men could join us," she said, glancing at the knights he had posted about the periphery of the clearing. "There is so much here."
The square of cheese Gilbert carried to his mouth paused midair. "I had hoped you preferred my company to theirs."
She had not intended to imply otherwise. Peering up at him from beneath her lashes, she glimpsed vulnerability in his face before he masked it with a lift of his eyebrows.
"Aye," she said, "That I do. It just seems such a waste—"
"Do you not worry," he said. "I will eat whatever you cannot. Now, feed my son."
"Or daughter," she could not resist saying, though she was as certain as he that it was a boy child he had planted in her womb.
Conceding with a careless shrug, Gilbert popped the cheese into his mouth and followed it with a swallow of wine from the skin at his belt.
The silence hung easily over them for some tame before Graeye finally asked the question uppermost in her mind. "You will be disappointed if 'tis not a son?"
Slicing a wedge from an apple, Gilbert held it out to her, obviously in no hurry to answer. She accepted it, but did not eat it.
"Though I would like a son," he said, turning his dagger to catch the glint of the sun, "if you give me a daughter, I will love her the same."
Love? His admission shocked Graeye so completely, she felt faint for a moment.
"And if 'tis a girl," he continued, "mayhap the second will be a boy."
"The second?" she repeated, turning disbelieving eyes upon him. "Think you I would bear you another bastard child?" Her voice rose with indignation.
He moved closer, his thigh brushing hers. He caught the lock of hair that had escaped its braid and rucked it behind her ear. "You think I would let you out of my bed now that I finally have you in it, Graeye Charwyck?"
Nay, he would not, she knew. And worse, she did not think she could leave it. She looked away from those disturbing eyes and stared down at the yellowing slice of fruit. "Will you ever wed?" she asked in a small voice.
She felt him stiffen.
The fire so recently doused returned. "I did not mean to me, Gilbert Balmaine! Nay, I speak of another—one who would bear you legitimate heirs. Who would see my child cast aside in favor of hers."
Remorse flashing across his face, he cupped her chin and lowered his mouth to hers, gentling her temper with his kiss.
She hesitated only briefly before leaning into him, feeling his arm go around her as she desperately met each thrust of his tongue. She wanted to believe this was his answer and that it was what her heart needed to hear—though he would not marry her, neither would he wed another. But why couldn't he simply say it? Because he would be lying?
She pulled out of his embrace. " Twill not do," she said firmly. "I will have my answer."
His breathing ragged, Gilbert plowed a hand through his thick hair. "Nay, I will not wed," he said, meeting her gaze. "Be you assured none other but you will share my bed."
Though it was the assurance she had been seeking, what she had gained seemed terribly shallow. She was still his leman. And if he did not too soon grow tired of her, would remain just that. But what more could she ask? Legitimate or no, her child would be his heir. And he had said he would love it. Love ...
She closed her eyes and held to the love she felt for this man who would never allow himself to forget her deceit. Who could not overlook that she was tainted with the same blood that had run through her half brother—Edward Charwyck's blood. How sad that she loved a man bent on pursuing a vendetta that excluded all matters of the heart.
"Graeye, are you well?" he asked, his voiced edged with genuine concern.
Her lids fluttered up. Though she tried to hide her pain, she doubted she was successful. "Have you ever been in love?" she asked.
With a harsh sigh he put an arm around her and pulled her back against his chest. She did not resist, simply settled herself against him as if it was where she had desired to be all along.
"Love. 'Tis a fanciful notion," he said, "and years ago I did think myself in love."
Graeye felt a jealousy she knew she had no right to feel. "Who was she?"
He pressed his lips to the crown of her head and spoke into her hair. "My betrothed, Lady Atrice—a beautiful woman inside and out."
"What happened?"
"Shortly before we were to be wed, she fell from her horse. She lingered a few days, then died."
Graeye's jealousy faded as quickly as it had risen. In its place came a great sadness—not only for the young woman who had died, but also for herself. Here was yet another obstacle between her and Gilbert. To do battle with the hate he harbored against her family was one thing, to compete with the memory of one he had loved and lost, quite another.
Not until Gilbert pronounced it time to return to the castle did either speak again.
"Will you bring me tomorrow?" Graeye asked as he lifted her onto the saddle.
He shielded his eyes against the sun and met her imploring gaze. "So soon?"
"Or the day after."
Laying his hand on her leg, he smiled up at her. "I will bring you every day if it so pleases you."
She smiled. " 'Twould please me immensely."
Chapter 21
It was no simple task to enter the great fortress of Chesne, home to Lizanne and Ranulf
Wardieu. Though he came with the peasants, the porter at the gate subjected him to much scrutiny before finally allowing him within, and only then after thoroughly searching him to ensure he carried no weapon.
It was a humiliation Edward Charwyck intended to repay on the first unfortunate soul who crossed his path.
Toting his basket of bread to be baked in the lord's oven, he followed the others across the outer bailey. Since he appeared to be but an old peasant man outfitted in rags, none paid him any notice when, after leaving his bread at the ovens, he slipped behind the granary to study the comings and goings of the castlefolk. There would be a pattern, he knew, if he could but find it.
Sometime later a large man with pale-blond hair crossed the inner drawbridge, making for the stables with his knights in tow. Edward knew he was the lord of the castle, Ranulf Wardieu.
It was not easy to contain the impulse his mad mind urged him to, but the piece of sanity he had left reminded him he was without weapon and would be heavily outnumbered even had the man come alone.
Were all spawns of the devil fair of hair? he wondered, thinking of the one carrying Balmaine's bastard whelp. Nay, Balmaine and his sister were dark. How could one be certain, then? Not all carried the mark of the devil clear upon their faces as his daughter did.
Slurping the excess of spittle from his sagging cheeks, he pressed himself deeper into the shadows and waited to discover whether or not Wardieu was going to make it easy for him. Within minutes he had his answer.
"So 'tis to be easy, hmm?" he muttered when the falcons were brought from the mews. A wicked smile curved his mouth as the hunting party mounted their horses.
By the time they rode out beneath the portcullis, the old man was trembling so with excitement, he feared his heart might burst. Rubbing a hand to his chest, he stepped from the shadows, his empty basket concealed beneath the patch-cloth mantle hanging lopsided from his shoulders.
He entered the donjon via the kitchen. When a serving wench asked him why he was there, he knocked her unconscious—perhaps even killed her—and hid her in the pantry.
"Meddling bitch," he muttered, then peered around the corner at the enormous hall that put the one at Medland to shame. There were a few servants about, but none noticed him as he crept along the walls to the stairway.
At the landing above he heard the women's laughter before he came upon them. He skulked down the corridor, pausing outside the room the voices emanated from.
The door stood open a hand's width, giving him .a view of the backs of two women bent over an embroidery frame—one dark-headed, the other fair like the lord of this place. There were others there, too, but he could not see them.
"Nay, daughter, 'tis too large a stitch you make," the pale-headed one laughingly admonished.
There came a heavy, frustrated sigh. Unladylike. "Give me a sword, a bow, a sling, but pray do not give me a needle!"
Youthful laughter from those he could not see followed the heartfelt declaration.
"And who will teach Gillian the ways of a lady if 'tis not you, Lizanne?"
Edward's heart lurched as he experienced again the impulse to slay his enemy. He thought of the knife he had taken from the kitchen, but once more his tentative grasp on sanity prevailed. Aye, in good time he would have her flesh, but not this day.
"Ah, Lady Zara, 'tis a waste of time," Philip's murderer said.
Edward pressed himself back against the wall, his gaze darting along the corridor as he wondered behind which door the child lay.
The woman chuckled. "You have already told Ranulf of your gift. What will my son think when you do not deliver it, hmm?"
"Much better of me if he does not feel obliged to wear it. Just look at tins—'tis more like a pig than a horse!"
"You must needs only make its legs longer."
A shriek. "Then 'twill look like a pig with long legs!" The sound of a stool scraping across the floor had Edward gripping the knife handle. Mayhap he would have her flesh this day, after all.
"And where do you think you are going? You promised me an hour—a full hour, Lizanne!"
The feet approaching the door faltered. "It has been at least that long."
"Nay, it has been less than half that."
A groan. "You would hold me to it?"
"Aye, that I would."
"But Gillian—"
"Is sleeping. Now, sit down, Lizanne."
A long silence followed before the woman won her daughter-in-law's grudging capitulation.
Regaining his breath, Edward slipped past the room and headed for the door at the farthest end of the corridor. It would be the lord's solar, and if he guessed correctly, there he would find that which he sought.
Easing the door open, he pressed his face to the crack and swept the room with eyes grown greedy and reckless. Though taken aback by the presence of a maid seated alongside the sleeping infant, he was not disappointed.
The girl was humming to herself, holding a small garment close to her face as she pushed a needle through its bodice.
Subduing the half-sighted maid was simple. However, preventing the child from awakening when he lifted its small body and placed it in the basket proved trying.
Wedging a sheet around the fitful baby, Edward stared at the abundance of flaxen hair covering its head. Aye, though it was a girl child, worthless in his estimation, they would still come for it. And when they did, he would be waiting to exact his revenge, gaining for himself the child he really wanted—the Balmaine heir.
Turning to the bound maid who squinted up at him and mumbled something behind the gag he'd shoved into her mouth, he placed the knife against her cheek.
Her eyes grew round, her body shaking with fear.
"Tell them this," he rasped, leaning near her so she could better see him. "The child's life for Philip's." Then, in one swift motion, he cut a half circle in her flesh.
She screamed her pain against the gag, but it was too choked for any but Edward to hear. Smiling, he tossed the bloodied knife upon the sheet alongside the child, then concealed the basket beneath his mantle.
Whether or not he made it outside the castle's walls to where his men awaited hardly mattered now. The child and the knife it shared its bed with ensured he would have his revenge, be it this day or a fortnight hence.
***
Lizanne did not walk from the sewing room. She ran. Her eyes crossed, her fingers stiff, her rear end sore from sitting too long on that damnable stool, she hurried down the corridor.
At that moment she wanted only two—nay, three— things. To find a comfortable chair. To place Gillian to her heavy breasts. And to discover a way out of the commitment she had made to take up the needle.
At the door to the solar she paused, straightened her bliaut, and took a deep, calming breath. Then, not wanting to disturb Gillian if she was still sleeping, she quietly entered the chamber.
Her expectant smile was wiped away at the sight of the young maid lying among the rushes, struggling to free herself from ropes that bound her hands and feet.
It came to Lizanne at once.
"My baby!" she cried, rushing forward to stare down into the empty cradle. Frantically, she pushed aside the covers, searching for the tiny body that had long been gone.
Her scream brought all within earshot running.
Lady Zara was the first to make it to her side. "Dear God," she exclaimed, beginning a search of the empty cradle herself.
Shaking free of the paralyzing fear, Lizanne grabbed Zara by the shoulders. "Ranulf," she gasped. "Send for Ranulf." Pushing her mother-in-law toward the door, she caught sight of the steward standing there.
"Seal all entrances to the castle," she ordered. "Allow none within or without until my husband returns." Nodding, the man turned and ran.
Lizanne dropped to her knees, beside the maid and pulled the girl's head onto her lap. Wincing at the sight of her poor, ravaged face, she removed the gag with hands that trembled violently. "Marian, where is my baby?"
"Who? Who took her?"
Marian shook her head. "Do not know. Old man. He said—"
"Yes?"
She coughed. "The babe's life for ... Philip's?"
Lizanne's eyes widened, her mouth going slack as the implications fell around her like a pelting rainstorm.
Dear God, no. It could not be.
Her gaze flickered to the cut on Marian's face. Though there was too much blood to be certain, she knew. Whimpering, she lifted the skirt of her bliaut and, as gently as possible, wiped the crimson away.
"Charwyck," she choked, her eyes tracing the crude C she'd revealed. With a broken sob she covered her face with her hands and began to pray as she'd never done before.
It seemed the world would end before Ranulf returned from his hunting. In fact, it was less than a half hour before he flung himself from his horse and sprinted up the steps to the hall.
Immediately, Lizanne was in his arms, letting loose the flood of tears she had been trying so hard to keep in check.
"Gone," she wept as Ranulf held her. "He has taken my baby."
Knowing every second that passed took Gillian farther away, Ranulf pulled back and lifted her chin. "Who, Lizanne? Who has taken her?"
She muttered something unintelligible and began to sob louder. "Strength," he said, giving her a shake when she crumpled against him. "Where is your strength,|warrior wife?" He shook her again, and this time she met his gaze.
"Charwyck," she spat, dashing her tears away with the back of her hand. "Tis he who has taken our Gillian."
Only once before, when he had believed Lizanne lost to him, had Ranulf felt such pain and rage. Roaring it aloud for all to hear, he pulled her to where his mother stood beside the maid who had cared for the babe.
"Everything," he demanded, slamming a fist on the table the girl was slumped over. "You will tell me everything—and be quick about it!"