“Please come with us to Keighley,” she begged softly. “I want you to come.”
Before Elizabeth could reply, Colton suddenly threw himself on his mother’s lap, whining for sweets. Aubria, distracted from the glass, also came over to her mother and tried to climb up in her lap as well. They were demanding attention, which wasn’t unusual, but this time they had cut Elizabeth’s reply short.
Amalie was in the process of explaining to the children that their behavior was rude when Weston appeared in the doorway.
Chapter Seventeen
The children squealed when they saw their father and rushed to him. Weston was weighed down in full battle armor, complete with weapons slung about his body, and he couldn’t pick up both children simply because of the bulk and sharp edges. But he did manage to collect Aubria, his dark blue eyes blazing at his wife.
“What are you doing in here?” he demanded. “You were supposed to come to the bailey.”
Amalie stood up from the chair, disturbed by his sharp tone. “The children and I came to visit your mother,” she replied steadily. “I have asked her to come with us to the tournament.”
Weston just stared at her as Aubria tried to get his attention and Colton whined at his feet.
“That is not your decision to make,” he told her. “Come with me now.”
Amalie grew defensive. But in that defensiveness was defiance. “Gladly,” she snapped, turning to Elizabeth. “Will you gather your cloak and attend us, Lady Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth looked startled and terrified. Her gaze moved between Weston’s enraged features and Amalie’s lovely face. Before she could reply, Weston barked again.
“If she is coming, then Sutton can bring her,” he grasped Colton’s little hand, noticing the sword in it. His features slackened. “What is that?”
Amalie moved towards him. “It was your sword when you were a child,” she said, somewhat softer. “Your mother gave it to him. She has been saving it all this time.”
Weston stared at the sword, his jaw ticking furiously. When Colton lifted it to show him, it was all he could do to fake a smile at his son. But he couldn’t say anything about it, not when the little toy brought back so many painful and wonderful memories. He used to fight his father with the toy for hours on end, Marston always pretending to let him win. He could still see Marston going through exaggerated death throes before falling in the dirt. The longer he stared at the dulled blade, the more powerful the emotions became until he finally looked away.
“Come along,” he said. “We must leave.”
He was out in the hall but Amalie wasn’t following; she was standing in the doorway. “But what about your mother?” she wanted to know. “Weston, I would like for her to come. Please?”
He paused to look at her, Colton in one hand and Aubria up in his arms. His jaw was still ticking.
“Not today,” he snapped softly.
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“Please, Weston. Do not be unreasonable. There is no reason why she cannot….”
“If you keep arguing, I will leave you behind as well.”
Amalie’s fury soared. Outraged, the extreme emotion surged her nausea again and she marched up on him, pulling Aubria from his arms. Snatching Colton’s little hand, she glared furiously at her husband before leading the children down the flight of stairs. Weston’s gaze lingered on her a moment before following. He didn’t give his mother, standing in the doorway of her chamber, as much as a hind glance.
Amalie took the children outside but instead of heading towards the caravan now poised for departure in the bailey, she entered the keep. She began calling for Neilie, as the woman was older and did not travel well, and was therefore not attending the tournament. By the time Amalie hit the third floor of the keep, Neilie appeared and took the children from her.
With the children tended, Amalie continued to the fourth floor chamber she shared with Weston and slammed the door, throwing the bolt. Then she promptly went to the basin and proceeded to vomit up all of her breakfast.
Sick and heaving, she heard someone try the door latch. She knew it was Weston but she continued to heave until there was nothing left in her stomach. She could hear Weston knocking on the other side of the door.
“Go away, Weston,” she shouted, miserable and sick. “Go to your tournament and leave me alone. You are mean and insensitive and… and… cruel!”
She was still bent over the basin when the door suddenly exploded. Weston came barreling through, crashing through the splintered wood and iron; he had kicked the door so hard that pieces of wood had literally flown all over the room. Momentum carried him to the other side of the chamber before he could regain his balance.
One of the pieces from the flying door struck Amalie in the hand and she gasped as she pulled the knife-sharp shard. Blood began to stream immediately.
Weston saw the blood right away, ripping off his helm and tossing it to the bed as he made his way to his wife. But his gesture had terrified Amalie and she tried to get up and run away from him, but ended up stumbling. Cowering, she began to weep loudly as blood streamed down her arm.
Weston came to a halt when he saw how frightened she was. His fury instantly abated and he put his hands to his face, wiping at it, struggling to compose himself.
“Ammy, I am sorry,” he said softly. “I did not mean to injure you. Let me see your hand.”
Amalie yanked it away from him as he tried to grab it. “Why… why….,” she sobbed. “Why did you do that?”
He looked back at the remains of the door, realizing he had burst in like a mad man. But he had been angry and disoriented and hadn’t thought on his actions. His jaw ticked heavily as he reached down to grasp her, pulling her up off the floor even as she wept and struggled.
“I am sorry,” he repeated. “I… I let my anger get the better of me. I should not have and I am sorry.”
He led her over to the bed but she was still trying to pull away from him. “Why did you do that?” she sobbed angrily. “What if I was standing by the door? You would have killed me!”
He was coming to feel very foolish, very disturbed. “I knew you were not standing by the door,” he told her. “I could hear you retching.”
She finally managed to pull away from him, stumbling onto the bed and holding up her bloodied arm up as if to defend herself from him. “I have never seen you do that.”
He sighed heavily, laboring for calm. All he could do was shake his head. “I do not like being locked away from you,” was all he could say. “I will never be kept from you, not ever.”
“You frightened me.”
He could see that; her bloody arm was still up and she was leaning away from him in fear. Now he was coming to feel overwhelming pain.
“Do you truly need to be frightened of me, Ammy?” he asked softly. “Have I ever hurt you? Have I ever threatened to hurt you?”
She shook her head and the arm came down. Then she fell on the bed, sobbing into the coverlet. Weston stood over her with his fists resting on his hips, feeling like the biggest lout in the world. He did the only thing he could do; he lowered himself to his knees and took the non-bloody hand into his massive glove.
“I cannot apologize enough for frightening you,” he murmured, kissing the fingers. “I explained my reasons, weak as they are. Please know that I am deeply sorry. I would sooner throw myself on my sword than hurt you in any way.”
She lay there and wept and he finally stood up, going to the basin and collecting a linen cloth that they used to dry their hands with. He went back to the bed, wearily, and began to wipe the blood off her hand. By the time he started to wrap it, she had stopped weeping and was gazing up at him with red-rimmed eyes. He kissed her hand as he wrapped it.
“You told me that you were going to leave me behind,” she sniffled. “Would you really?”
He puckered his lips contritely. “Nay,” he admitted. “I was angry.”
“But w
hy? What did I do?”
“You did not come out to the bailey. I had to hunt you down. And then you pressed me about inviting my mother and it angered me.”
She was quiet as she watched him finish off the wrapping. “Do you realize that every time I come within close proximity of your mother, you bark at me as if you hate me as well?”
He didn’t say anything; he continued to hold her hand, staring at it, and she sat up. Her free hand went to his face, stroking his cheek tenderly.
“You told me that you were not disturbed with my contact with your mother but it is clear that you are,” she said softly. “We never have harsh words but with the introduction of your mother, now we have. I do not like it.”
He grunted. “Nor do I,” he agreed. “I do not know why I behave that way. I know you do not mean harm. It has nothing to do with you. Every time I see my mother, I feel such rage. That is all I have ever known with her.”
Amalie gazed at him, thinking of the revelations his mother had told her. She began to seriously doubt if he would ever ask his mother the truth of what had happened all of those years ago and she was fairly certain that if he ever found out she had withheld such information from him, it might damage the trust between them. Although Amalie had promised Elizabeth she would not tell Weston, she didn’t think, in good conscience, that she could keep such monumental information from him. He had a right to know.
“But that is not all you have ever known with me,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around his neck. He responded by enfolding her in his warm embrace, his face in the crook of her neck. “Please do not speak so harshly to me when I have done nothing to deserve it.”
He nodded, his lips against her collarbone. “I will not do it again, I swear it,” he murmured. “I am so sorry, Ammy. Please forgive me. I did not mean to upset you so.”
She hugged him tightly, ignoring the poking of the armor. “You are forgiven,” she kissed his cheek. “But I have something I must tell you. I must be honest.”
His face was still pressed into the crook of her neck. “What about?”
She sighed faintly. “Do you trust me, West?”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, he pulled back to look at her as if confused by the query. “What manner of question is that?”
“Please answer me.”
“Of course I do. I would trust you with my life.”
She put her hands on his cheeks, gazing into his amazing and handsome face. “Given the dynamics of your family and your feelings towards your mother, I had a serious conversation with her,” she said softly. “I did it because I love you, West, and I am greatly concerned with your attitude towards her. I do not want you to be on edge for the rest of your life, living in the same keep with a woman that you hate. It is not good for you, or for us. You see what that hatred does even to you and I. So I asked her to tell me the truth of what happened and she did. Will you hear me explain it to you?”
He looked at her, feeling the familiar anger rise, struggling to keep his composure by reminding himself that Amalie only asked out of love and concern. Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely angry about it. He suspected she would sooner or later. He couldn’t think of a good reply so he simply kissed her and released her from his enormous embrace, rising to his feet.
“Perhaps someday,” he said quietly. “But not today. I have a tournament to focus on and I do not want to be distracted.”
She nodded. “I understand,” she murmured, climbing off the bed to stand next to him and unwrapping the careful wrap around her hand in the meantime. “But will you allow me to say one thing about it?”
“If you must.”
She grasped a huge glove, gazing up into his dark blue eyes. “Then I will say only this; you do not know the entire story and until you do, I would ask that you show at least some measure of consideration towards your mother. Please, West; it is important.”
“I do not know if I can.”
“Can you do it for me? It would make me very happy.”
He sighed heavily and tried to avert his gaze but she would not let him. She pressed herself against him and put her hands on his face, forcing him to look at her.
“Please, West,” she begged softly. “I know it is difficult. I know you do not want to. But I would not ask if I did not feel strongly about it. I want you to show the woman the same consideration you would show any other noble-bred lady. Be polite; that is all I ask.”
He gazed down at her, a mixture of uncertainty and refusal on his face. But she smiled at him and he could not resist; he nodded his head, once, but it was enough. Amalie put her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her level, kissing him on the cheeks sweetly.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I love you very much.”
He returned her kisses. “And I love you,” he whispered. “Now, can we go?”
She grinned, releasing him as he went over to the bed and collected his helm. She watched him put it on his head and adjust it.
“Will you do something else for me?” she asked softly.
He glanced at her as he straightened out the helm. “What is it?”
“Ask your mother to come with us. I fear she will not come if I ask her. She knows that you do not want her to attend so the invitation must come from you.”
He paused, gazing at her with big eyes as he geared up for an argument. But he didn’t get very far; the expression on her face softened him, weakened him, and he knew it would be of no use to argue or refuse. It would only upset her and he didn’t want to see her upset. He’d already upset her enough. So he nodded in resignation.
“Very well,” he grunted.
She pointed at the shattered door. “Go now,” she instructed steadily. “Ask her politely, please. The children and I will meet you in the bailey.”
He looked at her, realizing she was ordering him about. He made one last stab at controlling the situation. “I would rather collect the children and you go collect my mother.”
She fought off a grin at his last stand. “Nay,” she shook her head firmly. “Go and retrieve your mother. I will see you in the ward.”
He sighed heavily but did as he was told. Amalie watched him quit the room, shoving aside the bigger pieces of the broken door so she wouldn’t hurt herself on them. As his boot falls faded down the steps, she collected a small comb and smoothed out her hair where it had been mussed. After a final glance, and a check of the wound on her hand that was now sealed up and no longer bleeding, she quit the room in search of her children.
Chapter Eighteen
Weston realized by the time he reached the block that housed his mother’s chambers that he was considering going back on his word to Amalie. He just couldn’t fight twenty-six years of ingrained hatred. But it seemed so important to Amalie that he make the effort so he was doing this purely for his wife’s sake. His feelings did not come in to play. What he did, he did for her and her alone.
But with every footstep that drew closer to Elizabeth’s chambers, he could feel himself harden. As his boot falls echoed against the stone step that led to the second floor, that steely, morose and stiff demeanor he had when he was around his mother began to overtake him.
Torn between giving in to the comfort of his usual behavior and his inherent desire to please his wife, he suddenly realized that he was standing at his mother’s door. He lifted a hand to knock, let it drop as he pondered what he was going to say, and then finally lifted his gloved hand a second time and pounded. He had to force himself.
He took a step back as the bolt on the door was thrown, and still another step back when the door cautiously opened. Elizabeth’s timid features gazed out from the crack in the door and, realizing that Weston was in the hall, she opened the door wide. Her guarded yet earnest gaze met him.
“Greetings, Weston,” she said with a mixture of pleasure and fear. “I am honored by your visit. How may I be of service?”
He just looked at her. His first reaction was to continue his
hateful ways and he had to remind himself again that he was here on his wife’s errand. No more, no less.
“My wife wishes for you to come to Keighley,” he said without emotion. “If you will please gather your things, we are prepared to depart.”
Elizabeth looked as if he had just given her a direct order. She rushed back into her chamber, looking rather disoriented as she went for her cloak but realized it wasn’t the one she wanted, so she scooted into her second chamber and emerged seconds later with a heavy blue cloak slung across an arm.
In a rush, she went for her small ladies’ bag that held things like her coinage and a comb, but she ended knocking it off the peg and into the small glass figurines that Aubria had loved so well. The figurines scattered, some shattering on the floor. Horrified, Elizabeth tossed her cloak aside and quickly began picking up the pieces, setting the broken shards back on the table with trembling fingers.
Weston stood in the doorway, watching her pick up the glass with shaking hands. It was clear that she was rattled, now having broken some of her pretty and expensive things. With a faint sigh, he entered the room and took a knee beside her, picking up a couple of the broken figurines and setting them back on the table. Shocked, Elizabeth looked at her son with surprise and gratefulness.
“Thank you, Weston,” she said, feeling much distress at the glass all over the floor. But she stood up, not wanting to cause any further delay, and swiftly moved to retrieve her cloak. “I was hoping to give some of those glass pieces to Aubria. She seems to like them so.”
Weston could see that the woman was struggling with her heavy cloak, making nervous chatter, absolutely terrified of her enormous son and his attitude towards her. If he thought on it, he felt rather bad for causing her such distress but there was a greater part of him that resisted any sentiment towards the woman whatsoever.
I want you to show the woman the same consideration you would show any other noble-bred lady. He could hear Amalie’s words rattling around in his head and, with another sigh, one of resignation, he went to his mother and took the cloak from her. Shaking it out so the creases would smooth, he placed it on his mother’s slender shoulders.
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