by Nicole Locke
She was terrified of his brother and ran from him. Ian hadn’t been innocent, but while he’d been dying he had wished his wife to be told that he’d loved her.
Had his brother truly loved his wife, his sons? How could he, if he’d left them behind and defenceless against his parents?
Séverine was running and living a life never meant for her, but she was raising two children and faced odds that he could only guess at. And she did it while helping Ian’s servants, by helping him.
He was a coward, but he could give her some truth. He could tell her about the parchment and legend. Maybe, if he was fortunate, she’d hate him for the reason he’d followed her. Then it wouldn’t matter if he could never forget how she’d felt in his arms.
She’d be done with him, and safe. He needed to keep her safe.
* * *
‘I thought I’d find you here.’ Séverine walked up to the man slowly. He was in the stables, and there was hardly any light, but he was leaning against a railing used to hold blankets and stared at one horse in particular. Everything about him was relaxed, at ease with the world. The tension he’d been carrying for the last few weeks had gone. She had the urge to slide her hand against his lower back and rest her head on his shoulder. Instead, she stood to his left and matched his pose.
Then almost laughed. The horse he stared at was no doubt the one he rode. It was also the largest, strongest, most obstinate one she had ever encountered. Hardly anyone ever rode it, and for good reason.
‘Did you get some food? I never saw you.’
He looked down at her. ‘I did. Why did you think I’d be here?’
She was grateful he’d kept things polite between them, that he didn’t mention why he hadn’t returned after he’d stormed from her home. She didn’t need games, or a man who kissed her. She needed to keep her sons safe.
‘Because you Warstones always liked to celebrate your victories,’ she said.
He looked back at the horse. ‘It doesn’t take much to impress you if you think staying seated on a horse is a victory. Should I let you know I can tie my own boots now, too?’
‘Balthus,’ she said. She was trying to ease the tension between them but somehow had made it worse.
‘Ah, now it’s you who acts like my name is an answer.’
Mockery when he deserved to feel some pride for his accomplishments today. Did she dare tell him that she was proud? It probably revealed too much of her admiration of him, but she couldn’t allow him to think he was less of a man simply because of losing a hand.
‘Your one hand isn’t the reason you should be gloating over a poor horse,’ she said. Sharply aware of his feelings and her own in this matter, she purposefully kept her tone light.
‘You think I’m celebrating because of a horse?’
She had to tell him the truth. ‘Many people get hurt, but some don’t get up again. Some stop trying.’
His brows drew in. ‘It’s just a horse, Séverine.’
‘And your hand is just the result of a horrific accident or something done to you on purpose. Something you haven’t told me yet.’
‘I don’t—’
She waved him off. ‘I don’t need to know unless you want to tell me.’
He gave a curt nod, but his eyes held no answers. She’d thoroughly confused him. Did he not understand? Couldn’t he see what she was doing, what anybody would if they just stood in front of him long enough? To realise that though he looked like a Warstone, he wasn’t like them. He held secrets that were no doubt dangerous. He wasn’t safe, but that, oddly, gave him strength, and in turn made him feel safe...at least to her. He wasn’t the family she fled from. There was something true about him.
‘Whatever happened to that hand,’ she began, ‘you still suffered horrible agony, recovery, fever, only to suffer it again. Then to look at the world differently, or enough to want to try it again? It’s not the task, it’s the man who’s impressive. The victory is you.’
She knew instantly she’d said too much. His hand unclasped the railing, his fingers splayed as if he was reaching for her. His eyes widened then hungrily roved from the hair she’d ruthlessly plaited to her hunched shoulders to her hands clasped on the coarse wool blanket, then back again.
She could get lost in those eyes, and for that she needed to push him away.
‘And it’s probably gloating over a horse, too,’ she said, her voice completely flat.
He cleared his throat, shifted his stance, so he was facing the horses again. For the longest of heartbeats neither of them said anything.
‘Your boys are incredible,’ he said.
She released her held breath, feeling relieved that he’d changed the subject.
‘I watched them today.’ His voice was a little hoarse. She wasn’t certain she had one.
‘Both of them?’ she whispered.
‘It was Clovis who helped me with my shoes.’
‘Oh.’ She tried to understand that. How could a boy help a man with one hand? And yet...she could see her son, with his serious face being exact on how to do it. What flummoxed her was that Clovis had helped Balthus. He’d been avoiding him.
Balthus gave a half-smile. ‘Now, that feels like an answer.’
‘Clovis helping anyone is an answer,’ she said.
He turned and leaned his hip against the railing. The casual movement defined this man. He wasn’t Ian. His shoulders were much broader, the ease with which he smiled much more ready, but the other emotions were there as well, like his vulnerability just now when she’d told him how she felt about his hand, his strength, about him.
He also let her see that he understood her.
‘You’re worried they’ll turn into Warstones,’ he said.
‘Always.’ It was a relief to say it.
‘Even away from their family?’
She wanted to ponder on the use of his words. He was a Warstone and yet he wasn’t offended, or threatened to twist her fingers because she didn’t like their ways. The way he’d said the sentence was as if he wasn’t a Warstone. She didn’t know what to make of that.
‘I am their family, but blood is blood, and sometimes that rules out anything else.’
His eyes eased. ‘Clovis has mannerisms so like his father’s. Does it make your heart ache?’
He did understand. There were moments when it absolutely hurt to keep them away from their father, but how could Balthus understand that? After all, he had the company of Ian whenever he wanted.
‘It’s when he straightens his tunic or his hair,’ she said. ‘Nothing out of place. I don’t know where Pepin gets his mannerisms from.’
‘You’re telling me you didn’t roll in pig mud while chasing a gosling?’
She laughed low. ‘No, the moment I knew what a needle and thread were for, I was lost. I wanted to find the meaning behind everything. Even the simplest pattern could make something beautiful, and I was obsessed with wanting to find how that was possible. When I learned to read, well...you can imagine what that did. A whole world of beauty to discover.’
Balthus stared.
At the warmth in his eyes, she flushed. ‘I’ve told you too much.’
There was a curve to his lips, but he merely shook his head. ‘I think I should warn you, then.’
A slight coldness slid down her spine despite his still teasing gaze. ‘What?’
‘When I was Pepin’s age, I purposefully hit a hornet’s nest simply because Guy said I couldn’t do it.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, I could so see Pepin doing that!’
He stilled beside her, his gaze nothing but burning, hunger and silence.
Glancing away, she cleared her throat, but she could still feel the tension in him, a vibration almost against her skin that sent goose-pimples along her arms.
He, too, looked away, exhaled roughly. She
also felt him shift just that bit further away from her. She was relieved, except she didn’t like the sudden coolness where only heat had been.
Balthus was grateful for the railing he was leaning on. Humbled by the woman who stood next to him. There was a strength to her that could never be locked up. Had it been there all along or had her trials along the way brought it into being?
He ached, knowing she wasn’t his, but also in part because he was certain his brother had never known his wife like this. He wouldn’t have dared. It would have made him too vulnerable. A man could easily love Séverine, but for a Warstone she’d be a liability.
When he’d first seen her she had been studying a tapestry. Now to know she was always searching for beauty? No, if she was always this way, maybe Ian had had a hint of who she was when he’d locked her in that wreck of a keep. Maybe he’d wanted to keep her safe. If that was so, he wasn’t his brother. No matter what madness had plagued him, he could never have let her go.
What must Ian have thought to rip out his own heart, to cause himself further pain, anguish, to accelerate his own madness to save the woman he’d loved and his own sons?
Balthus didn’t have that strength. He couldn’t do it. He knew he couldn’t, because even if he had any goodness in him, he’d tell her that her husband was dead so she could have her freedom, the one that Ian had ridden across the country for and defied his parents for. For that was what had happened. He’d packed them away and set them up in Forgotten Keep against his parents’ wishes.
Just thinking about her, about Ian, about knowing he could never truly be with her...to know she searched for beauty...that wasn’t him. He was broken. It was too much. Too much hurt.
‘I didn’t approve of how you were raising them,’ he blurted.
She jerked. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Taking them away from wealth, and their status. That neither of them knows anything about becoming a knight.’
The horse in front of them shifted as if it felt Séverine’s agitation. ‘I think I’ll say goodnight.’
‘Wait.’
She raised a brow.
‘I was concerned you were raising them as servants.’
She let go of the rail.
‘I was worried that when our life was thrust upon them again, they wouldn’t have the skills to protect themselves from my parents or whoever set out against them.’
She frowned. ‘Their father was supposed to have done that, and never did. Further, there is nothing wrong with how they are being raised. Sarah and Imbert are good people.’
‘No, I know that now. I have Henry, remember?’
Her anger eased, but he could see she was still waiting to run.
‘Let me say just a few words.’ When she stayed, he continued, ‘You’re not raising them exactly like Sarah and Imbert, either. You’re teaching them how to read, write, their numbers. When they eat, their serviette is placed over their shoulder as all nobility does.’
‘I don’t need you to tell me how to raise my children. Who are you to do so?’
‘I’m nobody, but I know what it’s like to be made into someone neither here nor there. There are many nobles, but being a Warstone makes you different. Being the youngest that much more. I wouldn’t inherit the world like Ian, or torch it like Guy. I wasn’t to be anything other than a Warstone, which made me have no purpose. And even different for a Warstone.’
She leaned back against the rail. ‘What are you telling me?’ she said.
He grinned. ‘You believe me now.’
‘I think you know we’re past that,’ she said.
Such hope, but they weren’t past it. He was still lying to her.
‘Is this what you wanted to tell me about, my children?’
He shook his head. ‘Grant me a bit more.’
‘You shouldn’t be granted any leniency when it comes to them.’
‘I think I understood that when you ran away from us.’
Something flashed in her eyes before she looked over his shoulder. He granted whatever silence she needed, especially since that allowed him to simply look at her. Even for a short time. That bump on her nose, those lips such an unusual colour, her high cheekbones and the abundance of hair. She handled that hair several times a day, perhaps trying to control it. If he wasn’t so fascinated by the way she did it, he’d tell her not to try.
‘What is it about them, then, Balthus, about the boys? I... I wonder a thousand times a day if I did the right thing. I know if I died, they’d be at someone’s mercy. They don’t even know who they are, and Sarah and Imbert would keep them away, but in the end there’s been the certainty they’d be with your family again. I was simply hoping to last long enough so they could know there’s another way.’
He couldn’t not touch her, and when his hand clasped hers, she jerked but he did not let go.
‘There is another way of life. I’m just now realising that. You did well to take them away.’
‘What does Ian think?’
He released her hand. Ian...her husband. ‘I can’t say.’
‘Surely he’s talked to you.’
‘Hardly ever.’ When he saw her expression, he continued, though he’d be skirting the truth. There was always a part of him that feared Ian had guessed his feelings about Séverine, and had purposefully kept him in the dark, but that was not what he could ever tell her. ‘You know how our parents kept us apart. It’s not as if we’re close.’
She looked at his hand, then rested her own against the railing and looked at the horse, who was fast becoming his favourite. He wondered if he could pay someone for him. Then remembered that his purse wasn’t what it had once been, but it had been...enjoyable to be with them.
The days he spent in the boys’ company he found fascinating. Would he have turned out like this if he had been born to different parents? Free to run across a pig pen to chase a gosling, to laugh with the utter freedom of jumping into a pond? And their hair, dark like a Warstone’s, but when the sun came out from behind a cloud, that highlight of red that was unmistakably from their mother was obvious.
But so much more shone through them than mere hair colour. It was her influence that allowed them to be happy.
‘The boys will do fine,’ he said. ‘Swinging their sticks, helping in the fields, have made them stronger than most. And it has given them arms capable of swinging a sword someday. They may right now be between worlds, but you’ve given them the chance to choose which one they want. It’s far more than they ever had before. You’ve given them a chance at happiness now.’
‘Oh!’ she said, then burst into tears.
Balthus clasped her to him, his damaged arm bound to his chest so he could only hold her with one arm. Her sobs shook against his chest, her tears dampened his neck. She clung to him as if the world was falling apart, and he held on. Just held her.
To be held like this. Not simply by a man but by Balthus. To be held as if it meant something, which she knew it couldn’t, but she could pretend at least. It felt like he meant it. She was a mess, but no one had said the words she needed to hear about her children. However, no one could except a Warstone. She never would have expected it from her husband. No, if it came from any Warstone at all, it would be Balthus. The one who displayed emotions, and was rough around the edges but so full of merit it made her heart hurt.
The burst of tears was quick.
‘I didn’t mean... I don’t want you ever to cry.’
She rubbed her face with her hand, pulled back. She’d soaked his tunic. ‘It’s not you.’
‘It sounded like it was. I said some things, and—’
Resting her hand on his chest, she patted him a few times. ‘What you said was thoughtful, that is all.’
He clasped her hand against his chest, hard, and his expression changed. Nothing about him was any different. It shouldn’t h
ave been, and yet something altered. Grey eyes locked on hers, his hair waving down and covering one of his ears, the ease of his posture apparently in a state of relaxation, but he seemed tense, ready to pounce, as if the slightest provocation would alter him from a man who was comforting her to revealing his true nature. Not safe. Something dangerous.
No, something fierce and significant.
She couldn’t blink. There was a tightening her chest, and the hand pressed firmly against his heartbeat grew damp. His eyes tracked her reaction, and he blinked, let out a long exhalation and released her hand.
She wanted to lower it, tried to, but it was almost stuck until it fell back down to her side.
Strange man, strange reaction.
‘Sorry,’ he said, a hint of remorse and too many other emotions he seemed to want to express. ‘I’ve never been told I was kind before, at least not by someone who meant it.’
After her conversations with his mother and father, she knew what he meant. ‘I did mean it.’
His eyes never leaving hers, he shook his head. After a moment when time seemed suspended, he cleared his throat and leaned against the horse blankets on the rail.
His stance was much the same as it had been when she’d entered. It was a bit darker, the horses far more settled, and she could hear no more sounds from outside except for the occasional scurrying of animals or perhaps it was some trees in the cool night wind.
It was odd that they had this time to themselves, without her children or interruptions. Her life hadn’t been quiet for so long. When she allowed it to be so, the danger of her predicament usually encroached. But that had no place here.
Because of this man, no doubt. Whatever she feared from her husband’s family, he was part of it. So the consequences of her actions were already here.
‘I need to tell you something that you won’t like.’
All the heat left her, and she braced her hand on the blankets. ‘What is it? Did Henry send a message and Ian will be here tomorrow?’
‘No.’
‘What have you done?’
‘It’s what’s already done.’
His eyes were serious, though his stance was casual. She didn’t find it endearing, and instead of wanting to slide her hand around his waist she wanted to shove him away and flee.