by Tamara Leigh
“Not your brother.”
She searched his face, wishing and not wishing to see a lie there. When only one wish was granted, she asked again, “What have you to hide?”
“My father loathes your family. Such a feeling I would not have loosed upon you. And his illness…especially not that.”
“With what is he afflicted?”
“That which only allows him to watch from his windows as his grandson grows into a man. Leprosy.”
She took a step back. “But your—” Nay, she had given his daughter her word she would not tell.
“Thomasin has told you then. So the question is why do I allow my daughter to visit him.”
She caught her breath. “You know.”
He inclined his head. “By the time I learned she defied me, she had been stealing abovestairs for a year. Since she had not been taken with the disease, and her grandfather’s improved state of mind seemed a result of her visits, I agreed she could continue, providing my father kept a reasonable distance and allowed her to believe I remain unaware.”
Quintin looked at the space between them. It was not much. “I see.” But did she see right? And was it enough to absolve him of Bayard’s abduction? Certes, it was not enough to absolve his father.
“I am sorry, Quintin.”
She tilted her head back against the door. “For?”
“All your losses.” He stepped nearer and laid a hand on her jaw. “Save one.”
His touch felt so right she longed to lean into it. “One?”
“Verdun. I am fair certain you no longer belong to him.”
Not if Godsmere was forfeited, rendering an alliance with her family unnecessary. Thus, if Griffin did to her what she believed he wished to do, no Serle would he be. If she allowed it. “That does not mean I belong to you, Baron.”
“It means you belong to yourself and are free to do what you will. So what will you do, my lady?”
This, she longed to say. What you wish to do.
He lowered his mouth near hers. “What will you do?”
She was not breathing, though she did not miss that fullness in her breast whilst it held the fullness of him being so near and promising so much she had believed she would never want.
“As you told the night you asked me to stay,” he said low, “what does it matter now?”
It did not. With a cry that could not be her own for how desperate it sounded, she pushed onto her toes and pressed her mouth to his.
This, she told herself as she wound her arms around his neck. This, as he drew her nearer. This, as she strained against his chest. This she wanted.
“Quintin.”
And that. Her name breathed into her.
“Griffin.”
He deepened the kiss, and his hand in the middle of her back moved to the small of it.
She shuddered. But a moment later, the door was holding her up more than Griffin. Wondering what had become of the press of his mouth and chest, she peered up into his face. Arm braced against the door above her head, his eyes were closed and nostrils flared.
“Griffin?”
His lids lifted. “Here we must stop, else we will not,” he said raggedly. “And this does matter.”
“This?”
He stepped back. “Lady Quintin,” he titled her as if to remind her she was a lady, “I will not claim your virtue.”
She drew a sharp breath. “What makes you think I offer it?”
“’Tis obvious you want this as much as I. Mayhap more.”
It was not true. Was it? A kiss did not a harlot make. Did it? Regardless, he thought it—that had he not stopped, she would not have. But she would have, though when and where and how she did not know, having never before felt such turnings. She would not have lain with him!
Moved by anger she had last felt so strongly when she had stopped his laughter with the Wulfrith dagger, she pushed off the door. “I want it? Want you?” There again, the dull ache in her head. “What I want is my brother’s release and to return home, and if I have to suffer your attentions to gain it, so be it.”
He jerked, not as if slapped hard, but slapped nonetheless. “We are past this, Quintin.”
“We are not!”
He expelled a half-growl, half-sigh. “Quintin—”
Footsteps sounded, and as he glanced over his shoulder, a voice called, “My lord?”
“What is it?”
“You are needed.”
He opened his mouth, surely to inquire further. But as if realizing here was an opportunity to escape her, he gestured for her to enter the room.
She swung around, thrust the door open, and forcefully closed it behind her.
The slide of the bolt. Footsteps on the stairs and passageway. Silence.
Quintin crossed to the bed and dropped onto it. Staring at the ceiling, she touched fingers to her mouth. She was full-lipped, but never this full. Sensitive, but never this sensitive.
Though she told herself to think elsewhere, she closed her eyes and thought of where Griffin and she had been. So that was a kiss. That was what moved men and women to go beyond it. Would she have responded as ardently had it been one other than Griffin? The handsome Sir Otto?
She wanted to believe it but did not. She wanted to blame Griffin for all that had happened between them but could not. True, he had tempted her, but she had put her mouth to his and her arms around his neck. And not with the hope of gaining Bayard’s release.
She snatched her fingers from her lips. Had it been a sacrifice she made for her brother, she could be forgiven. But Griffin was right. She had wanted to be that near him—and nearer yet. Thus, she had abandoned the possibility he was as much an enemy as ever.
Determinedly, she reminded herself of what had brought her to Castle Mathe. The De Arells had better reasons than any to abduct Bayard. Even more than keeping Thomasin from wedding their enemy, they would have the satisfaction of seeing Godsmere forfeited, and might even gain it for themselves. As for the old baron’s leprosy…
It could be a lie, enabling Ulric de Arell to continue to work foul deeds that, for twenty-five years, had fed the feud between the three families.
Promising herself that what had happened between Griffin and her would not happen again, she muttered, “Cur. Knave. Miscreant.” And found her fingers once more seeking her thoroughly kissed lips.
She groaned, flopped onto her stomach, and feeling the ache behind her eyes, dragged a pillow over her head. And prayed she would be spared the blessedly rare reminder of the day she had thought to keep Serle de Arell’s blade from her brother.
The one known as The Boursier had come, as told more by his size and the red of his hair than the colors he flew—and the eyepatch that would ever bear witness to Serle’s sin.
Sir Victor at his side, the knight having ridden across the melting meadow to receive his lord, the Baron of Godsmere guided his horse ahead of the men he had brought with him. Amid smoke from the encampment’s fires, those who had accompanied his sister to Castle Mathe gathered to greet him. But his regard was mostly for his enemy’s walls.
As well it should be, Griffin mused. He had ordered them more heavily manned than when Lady Quintin had come, the enemy having grown by dozens and now led not by an impetuous lady but a warrior worthy of respect—and all the greater for the anger he exuded. Unless by some miracle he still held Godsmere, he was no longer a baron, and now his sister was a prisoner.
“Archers, mount up!” Boursier shouted, and as a dozen retrieved bows and horses, he continued past the tents and across the land before the castle.
A hundred feet from the raised drawbridge, he halted his horse and called, “De Arell!”
Griffin pushed off the wall he had put a shoulder to and leaned into the embrasure atop the gatehouse. “Boursier!”
His enemy’s singular gaze landed hard on him. “I have come for my sister!”
Griffin smiled, then a bit more knowing the turn of his lips would offend the brother as it ha
d the sister. “For what do you think I would give over my prisoner—a woman who, in the presence of all, tried to murder me?”
Boursier reined his destrier around and walked it to a hooded figure mounted among knights. Setting a hand on the man’s forearm, he leaned near. Words were exchanged that did not carry, then he reached up and swept back the hood.
Not a man. A woman.
“I have your daughter, De Arell,” Boursier called. “Now deliver my sister to me!”
Ignoring the gasp of the one to his left, Griffin narrowed his gaze at the blond woman who was beautiful even at a distance and recalled the tidings received this morn. Could it be?
Wanting to laugh, he straightened and looked to Thomasin where she stood alongside the archer in the next embrasure. Wide-eyed, wearing a wondrous smile, she stared at her father.
He shook his head before she spilled words that were surely caught between tongue and palate. “Remain here and out of sight,” he said low, then shouted, “Archers, make ready.”
As they stepped deeper into the embrasures the better to be seen and mark their targets, Griffin descended to the outer bailey and called for his horse.
There he donned the chain mail hauberk he had sent his squire for after leaving Quintin in the tower and learning a scout had returned from patrol to report a great number of Godsmere men rode on Castle Mathe. Griffin had been fair certain one of those men would be Bayard Boursier.
Mounted, he ordered the lowering of the drawbridge and guided his destrier to the portcullis. Amid the clatter and grind of chains letting out, he stared through the iron bars as the descending drawbridge revealed first the sky, then the bordering wood, next the men outside his walls. Not surprisingly, Boursier’s archers had also made ready—arrows nocked, bows raised, strings taut to loose missiles.
When the great wooden planks thumped hard to the ground, the portcullis began its ascent. While Griffin waited for it to complete its journey, he watched Sir Victor converse with his lord, who was clearly displeased with whatever was told him, and more so when the woman joined the conversation.
Once the portcullis cleared Griffin’s head, he walked his horse onto the drawbridge.
In response, Boursier took control of the woman’s reins, and the two left their escort to advance on the castle.
Halting his horse at the end of the drawbridge, Griffin settled his hands on the pommel of his saddle and his gaze on the imposter who might be near in height to Thomasin, but that was all. His daughter was lovely in her own way, but she was no beauty. How interesting—and amusing—that Boursier, who had surely been informed of what to expect of his betrothed, had been fooled. Twice in a sennight, Griffin was intrigued by a woman.
Baron Boursier—were he yet so titled—halted the two horses half a dozen paces from the drawbridge, and Griffin met the gaze of the man who had taken Serle’s sword arm and seen him further punished with a pilgrimage from which he had not yet returned.
“Tell me, Boursier,” Griffin said, “are your lands forfeit or nay?”
“Nay.”
Griffin afforded the woman a glance. “Then you spoke vows with my daughter?”
A muscle convulsed in the other man’s jaw. “As ordered by the king, the alliance was made.”
“Bayard,” the woman said, “he—”
“Now you will release my sister.”
Continuing to deny the smile that sought to reveal all of itself, Griffin said, “I would, but should the king through some beneficence accept your marriage, it will fall to me to wed Lady Quintin.”
Boursier leaned forward in the saddle. “It falls to you to wed Elianor of Emberly.”
Griffin moved his gaze to the woman. “That is no longer possible, is it, my lady?” He lifted an eyebrow. “I am right about you, am I not?”
She inclined her head.
“I cannot say I am displeased.” No limp smile, this. “Word came early this morn that you had gone missing from your guardian’s demesne. Thus, he has ridden to Ellesmere Abbey to search you out.” Griffin returned his regard to the man beside her. “Mistakenly, of course.”
“What game do you play, De Arell?” Boursier demanded.
“Not I, though your wife makes my family part of hers by taking the name of one dear to me.” Griffin looked over his shoulder. “Show yourself, Thomasin!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The archer between the battlements moved aside and Thomasin stepped forward.
“There is my daughter, Boursier. Younger than your wife by several years.”
The formidable warrior stared, and Griffin almost pitied him for the dark emotions moving the muscles of his face, throat, and hands. Dangerous emotions that made Griffin calculate the time and space required to set his sword before him.
Boursier looked to the woman. Desperation also shone from her, though of a different sort from the man who, it seemed, had yet to name her.
The bitter, bloody rivalry passed to Griffin by his father and fed by Serle’s losses surfacing, he said, “At last, the mighty Boursiers, ever taking what is not rightfully theirs, brought to heel. And by a woman, no less.”
Boursier closed his hand around his hilt.
“Bayard!” The woman looked to the archers whose arrows were trained on him.
Not until Boursier loosed his hilt did Griffin address her again. “You took my daughter’s name.”
Her throat convulsed. “As ’twas assumed I was she, I did not dissuade Baron Boursier. I had to protect my family.”
Griffin returned his gaze to the one she feared. “I knew something was afoul when you did not come for Thomasin—that never would you forfeit. Thus, it came as no surprise when your sister told that you had been taken. The only surprise is the one who took you.” He offered the woman a smile of regret. “For all you tried to do, Lady—and I thank you—I doubt your uncle will be pleased.”
Boursier’s disbelief yielded to understanding that swept his heated anger across the chill air, and he narrowed his gaze on the lady Griffin was to have wed—Elianor of Emberly.
“I tried to tell you,” she whispered.
“When you were without choice!”
Griffin shifted in the saddle. “What do you think the king will do with this?” Vows had been spoken between the two, but as Boursier’s bride had done so in Thomasin’s name—a story Griffin looked forward to hearing—the marriage was invalid. How would King Edward react when he learned of it? Would he grant Boursier grace for the deception worked upon him? Would that family once more enjoy greater favor than ever the De Arells and Verduns had received?
Feeling the resentment Ulric had sought to make run as thick through his son’s veins as his own, Griffin said, “You know not how I yearned to shout from the battlements ’twas not my daughter you held. Though it would hardly please my brother that I did not, still I am satisfied.”
Boursier drew his sword.
“Bayard!” Elianor of Emberly gripped his arm. Surprisingly, he stilled.
Eyes fast upon his enemy, Griffin left his own sword sheathed and gestured for his archers to hold. “Enough, then,” he said. “I have my bit of flesh, and ’tis sufficient.”
As told by Boursier’s fiery gaze that burned through the chill air billowing white to reveal his breaths, he stood on an edge between reason and bloodlust.
Griffin believed he and his enemy were well matched, but he thought it possible that were they to come to blows, the other man would prevail.
Boursier looked to the hand on his arm. “Pray hard, Elianor of Emberly. For yourself and your accursed uncle.”
Her beautiful green eyes widened. “Magnus had naught—”
“Another lie? Regardless, your family will suffer.”
She pulled her hand from him, and he slowly lowered his blade. “I will take my sister now, De Arell.”
“She is not yours to take.” Griffin settled his restless destrier with a pat to the neck. “Your sister attempted to slay me, and for that none will deny my right t
o hold her. Thus, until such time as I determine what to do with Lady Quintin, she remains.” He frowned. “Of course, she is not much of a lady, is she?”
Boursier’s hand flexed on his hilt, but then he returned his sword to its scabbard. “A pity my sister did not kill you.”
“I would not be surprised if that was her intent,” Griffin once more goaded the man. “But worry not. As long as daggers are kept from her, she need not fear me.”
“I would see her.”
“I will allow it. Indeed, with day soon to fade, ’twould be ill-mannered of me not to offer you a night’s lodging. Of course, the invitation is extended to your wife as well.” Griffin once more gave teeth to his smile.
Boursier glanced at the lady who stared at the gatehouse roof and turned the lie she wore on her finger. The ring that proclaimed her Boursier’s bride was too large for her fine-boned hand, but it would not long remain there.
“As it would be ill-mannered not to accept,” Griffin’s enemy said, “we shall avail ourselves of your hospitality.”
“Then come.” Griffin started to rein his horse around.
“Surely you do not think I would enter your lair without a watch upon my back?”
Griffin considered him, conceded, “I know I would not,” and gestured at Godsmere’s men. “Choose a half dozen if it pleases you.”
“Three shall suffice,” he said, then to Elianor of Emberly, “Remain here.”
When it was only Griffin and the woman to whom he may or may not yet be betrothed, depending on what the king made of falsely spoken vows, she turned her face to him. In the absence of Boursier, she boldly studied the one who should have been her husband.
“So, you aspired to rid our families of the vile Boursier,” Griffin said.
Anger flashed in her eyes. “Be assured, Baron de Arell, had it been possible to rid my family of yours as well, I would have.”
He smiled, wondered if the bend of his lips offended her as much as it did Quintin. “Mayhap marriage to you would not be preferable to marriage to the Boursier woman.”
“Assuredly not, for I would have cut your throat.”