by Tamara Leigh
A muscle in his jaw convulsed. “Speak!”
Beneath the table, Arturo growled.
“Seat yourself.” Griffin gestured at the chair Boursier stood alongside.
“I shall stand.”
Griffin shrugged. “If Edward permits the delay in marrying my daughter, I shall return Lady Quintin to you—my new son-in-law.” The least desirable course, and his enemy’s singular gaze told he found it as distasteful. “However, if he orders a legitimate marriage between you and Lady Elianor…” He tilted a smile at Boursier. And wondered if he imagined a lessening of the man’s distaste. Though it could not sit well with him to legitimately wed the lady who had made a fool of him, she was beautiful, and as told by Constance’s betrothal stolen from Serle, he liked his women most fair of face.
“Thus, if Edward determines the house of Boursier should join with the house of Verdun through you and Lady Elianor, your sister and I shall wed shortly.” It was the same as he had suggested outside the walls, but this time it was not meant to provoke. But it did.
“For what do you think my lands will not be declared forfeit?” Boursier bit.
The solution. And possibly viable. “Consummation, which was once said to make a marriage—providing both parties consented.”
Did Boursier’s gaze waver? If so, because what was proposed could save his lands? Or…
Griffin assured himself of the position of his feet should it be necessary to gain them, beneath the table moved his hand to his sword hilt, against his calf felt the wolfhound quiver in anticipation. “I wager you have had Elianor of Emberly to bed.”
The muscles in Boursier’s hands on the table strained as if to hold him where he stood.
When Griffin was fairly sure his enemy possessed enough control not to risk his life, he said, “You know Edward will conclude the same. And though ’tis true I would be satisfied to see you forfeit, I know you will not do so willingly—as I would not. Hence, Lady Elianor has handed me an opportunity I gladly accept. I shall suffer marriage to your sister providing my daughter does not suffer marriage to you.”
Other emotions scrambled amid the anger mottling Boursier’s face, but though too fleeting to name, Griffin was certain they reflected serious consideration of the proposal that might be his only chance to retain his title and lands.
Then Boursier’s mouth curved. Not a smile, but satisfaction of a sort. He pushed off the table, reclaiming his impressive height. “If Edward does as you believe he shall, I wager you yourself will regret choosing my sister over forfeiture.”
Griffin feigned puzzlement. He had knowledge aplenty of the difficulty of taking Quintin in hand, but the experience of having her in hand held promise that could outweigh the effort required to claim her.
“I shall take my men with me when I depart,” Boursier said, “but I will depart only if Sir Victor remains behind to keep watch over my sister.”
Griffin was not surprised, but neither did he like having Boursier’s man underfoot. “No harm will she suffer.”
“Let us be certain, hmm?”
Griffin inclined his head. “Very well, he may remain.”
“One more thing. As you bore witness to Elianor of Emberly’s deceit, I would have you add your words to those Father Crispin will compose to inform the king of what transpired that caused me to wed one other than your daughter.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
Boursier narrowed his one eye at Griffin. “Now, I must speak with my wife.” He turned on his heel.
His wife, indeed. God—and King Edward—willing.
Boursier strode to his knight and his priest, conversed low, and peered across his shoulder. “Deliver my sister to the keep, De Arell. For so joyous an occasion, I would have her present.”
Griffin smiled, and across the distance saw that just as Quintin found his expression offensive, so did her brother—a man who might soon call his enemy, the Baron of Blackwood, brother.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Elianor of Emberly was not beautiful. Perhaps to men who looked only with lustful eyes, but not to Quintin, who seethed as her brother once more sacrificed himself on the altar of Verdun treachery. His loss of an eye to Constance’s cuckolding had been horrific, but it seemed a small thing compared to what he might lose now that he was wed in truth to the woman who had imprisoned him—a gamble that could further bruise his soul.
Hands cramping, the force of her fists causing her arms to quake, Quintin splayed her fingers and startled when those of her left hand brushed another’s.
“For your brother’s sake,” whispered words swept her ear, “sheathe your claws.”
Then there was Griffin, who stood at her side as if already they were bound to each other. And they would be, providing the king agreed that consummation sealed by this ceremony—as suggested by Griffin, to her surprise—fulfilled the decree.
With Godsmere’s priest a blessing away from concluding the ceremony, his solemn voice appealing to God to safeguard the union, Quintin reflected that what she had urged Bayard the day of his abduction—that he wed Lady Elianor and she wed Griffin—had come to pass.
Holding in laughter that would be an ugly thing at this time and place, she looked up at the one who might now be her betrothed and thought his mouth much too firm. For some reason, she longed to see that arrogant smile he had not slanted at her since her escort to the keep.
Because I would rather foment over that smile than the hateful Lady Elianor, she told herself.
“Your claws, Quintin.” He raised his eyebrows.
It was her mouth that moved with what felt like a sorrowful excuse for a smile.
His eyebrows jerked.
Her hand that once more splayed to brush the back of his.
His eyebrows lowered.
Her fingers that slid into the grooves of his and pressed their tips to his fingertips.
His eyebrows gathered.
Oh, how you lie, Quintin Boursier, she silently yielded. As much as you hate Bayard wedding the Verdun woman, you are hardly tormented their union draws you nearer to joining with this man who, moment by moment, proves he is not his father.
On the last of the breath she eased past her tight throat, she said, “Sheathed.”
His mouth twitched, but still no smile.
He did not trust her intentions any more than she trusted them. The only things of which she was certain were how glad she was to have him at her side and that the ache in her head had receded.
When Bayard turned Lady Elianor to lead her from the chapel, Quintin snatched her hand back. Clasping it with the other, she tried not to miss the pads of Griffin’s fingers as she watched the woman who was now Lady of Godsmere progress toward her.
Lady Elianor’s eyes settled first on Thomasin, whose expression was more staid than heretofore seen.
And Quintin was ashamed she had not considered how affected the young woman might be to witness her betrothed’s marriage to that thief. However, when Thomasin turned to watch husband and wife move past, Quintin glimpsed light in eyes as blue as her father’s.
Was she merely behaving? Unconcerned that now she might wed the one who was to have been Quintin’s husband? Magnus Verdun was said to be as handsome as his sister and niece were beautiful.
Quintin shifted her regard to Bayard’s wife and glared when the woman’s eyes met hers.
Without falter, the lady continued past. And so, to the wedding feast.
Quintin did not believe the meal could be more tense, nor Arturo more aware where he roamed beneath the high table, occasionally brushing her knees, at times growling. However, Lady Elianor caused relations to strain further when Griffin turned to where she sat on the other side of Bayard and said, “I have sent word of your marriage to your uncle, my lady.” He raised his goblet toward his mouth. “Of course, such tidings will not likely give him ease.”
“As it gives you ease to know you will soon wed a Boursier?” the lady retorted.
Knowing herself
to be that Boursier, Quintin struggled to swallow words she wanted to spit. All were here now because of what this woman had dared. What she had done. If not for her, it would not fall to Griffin to—
Wed me, she silently acknowledged as she glanced from where he had stilled, to where Bayard had stiffened.
But Griffin is not completely averse to taking you to wife, she reminded herself. Were he, never would he have shown you such regard, nor been so intimate. And again she assured herself, He already has his heir.
But what if he wished more children? Many were the sons and daughters taken by illness and accident. He had only Rhys and Thomasin.
Griffin cleared his throat. “’Tis unfortunate for all, Lady Elianor, that we are forced into such marriages.”
Unfortunate for all, Quintin reflected. But at least for Griffin and her, not as unfortunate as he made it sound. Or so she hoped.
The Verdun woman narrowed her lids. “Marriages that would have been unnecessary had you not laid ruin to six months of peace by raiding and burning the village of Tyne.”
“Still, I maintain that was not the work of me or mine.”
She drew breath to respond, but Bayard leaned near Griffin, blocking his wife’s view of their host. “As you maintain you had naught to do with burning my crops last summer, De Arell?”
“I did that—after you slaughtered a score of my cattle.”
A lie. Recalling the Baron of Blackwood’s accusation against the Boursiers, Quintin’s ire began to shift to Griffin.
However, with what was surely great effort, Bayard let it be. His wife did not—or would not have, had her husband allowed her further argument. Whatever words he spoke to her did not carry, nor her response, but it was obvious neither was pleased with the other.
When the meal ended, Lady Elianor held her head high as she followed Father Crispin across the hall to ascend the stairs to the chamber where she would be put to bed to await the groom.
Quintin was glad to see her go—and appalled to feel a tug of sympathy. Despite the lady’s proud carriage, she exuded fear as of one being led to the noose. Were Bayard a different sort of man, she would have cause, but as she ought to know from having suffered no abuse following her imprisonment of the man who was now and evermore her husband, he would not raise a hand to her. Of course, her sins would be tenfold worse if the king determined his decree had not been fulfilled. That was certainly something to fear, though Quintin knew even then Bayard would not abuse his wife.
“I shall escort you to the tower, Lady Quintin.”
She looked up at Griffin, then past him to her brother who watched them over his goblet. She started to summon a smile, but fearing its insincerity would concern him more than its absence, she nodded at Griffin.
He took her arm. As he assisted her out of the chair, she wondered if she imagined the possessiveness with which he did so—as if she already belonged to him.
Bayard did not like it, as evidenced by his grim mouth when he lowered the goblet. But perhaps that was Griffin’s intent. Regardless, she allowed his gesture, knowing any objection would encourage her brother to intervene.
Griffin retrieved her mantle from the chair’s back, draped it over her shoulders, and, to her surprise, guided her to Bayard.
Quintin kissed her brother’s cheek. “All is well. And all will be well.”
He nodded. “We depart on the morrow.”
“I will be ready.”
Something further disturbing his mouth, he laid a hand over hers and gently squeezed. “Good eve, Sister.”
“I pray yours is as well.” This time she did try to smile, and it felt passably true.
“So, ’tis done,” she said as Griffin and she crossed the night-fallen bailey beneath the regard of patrolling men-at-arms.
“All that can be done by mere mortals. Now we wait to see if King Edward counts himself among us or ignores what has been set aright.”
She peered up at him, thought how kind torchlight was to one whose face was more weathered than Bayard’s. “Is it set aright? My brother has wed that…woman.”
“Now your sister-in-law, regardless of what the king decides.”
She stared at him, grateful his guiding hand assured her footing across the frozen ground. “It sounds as if you do not dislike her.”
“I do not. Indeed, given time I might become fond of her.”
After the words that had passed between the two at table? Quintin halted, and as he turned to her said, “You jest.”
He arched an eyebrow. “I do not hide that I am fond of you.”
It was too dim to read the blue of his eyes, but she felt the desire to be found there. “What has your fondness for me to do with Lady Elianor?”
“Methinks she may be your equal.”
She would have taken a step back had he not held her. “What say you?”
“Like you, she is bold.”
“Bold? She is criminal. With much forethought, she drugged and imprisoned my brother to steal his birthright!”
He gave a one-shoulder shrug she realized was nearly as common as his one-sided smile. “Very well, she is more bold than you.”
She who had put a dagger to his throat without forethought. Did he truly admire Lady Elianor’s conniving? “You find bold women appealing?” she demanded and, beyond him, saw two men-at-arms look around. She lowered her voice. “I thought most men preferred their women meek.”
“I was wed to a meek woman—a good woman, who gave me a healthy son, but meek I would not wed again.”
“Then you are to be pitied for having lost so bold a woman to my brother.” As soon as the words were out, she knew they were bait.
And from the turn of his mouth, he knew it as well. “Methinks I would have been satisfied with Lady Elianor as a wife”—the hand he laid to her cheek was so warm she realized how cold her face had become—“providing you had not first set yourself at my walls.”
He said what she wished to hear, and it made her heart hurt.
“Griffin,” someone whispered, and she realized it was she when he looked to her mouth. She thought he might kiss her, but he lifted his gaze up the keep, then returned his hand to her arm.
“Come, ’tis cold.”
Though tempted to look where he had looked, she faced forward as he led her to the gatehouse, and with every step imagined hostile eyes on her back. His father’s? Did the leprous old man watch from a window?
Upon reaching the door to her room, Griffin said, “Let us return to the matter of Lady Elianor.”
She did not try to hide her surprise, nor her aversion. “As it will not change that she is wed to my brother, I see no reason for further discussion.”
“All the more reason, then.” Before she could object, he said, “I have given more thought to her trespass against your brother and do not believe she did it only for her gain.”
Quintin huffed.
“Had she, I would have been the one imprisoned so I could not take her to wife. Instead, she set herself at my daughter’s betrothed. Why, do you think?”
“Should I care?”
“Quintin, this woman shall ever be part of your life. You do not have to like her, but ’twill ease your brother’s burden if you can tolerate her.”
She stared at him, wanting to argue but too speechless that he yet again tossed her hate back in her face. Griffin was not of a great age, and yet beyond his goading smiles and careless shrugs, wisdom dwelt.
“I am listening.”
He glanced at the door as if he wished to be invited inside, but he put a shoulder to the wall. “Most know your brother’s reputation as a man who beat his wife.”
“He did not! ’Twas a lie Constance told to justify—”
He held up a hand. “I am inclined to believe you, but I do not think Lady Elianor does.”
“Why?”
“You know that just as I am a widower, she is a widow?”
“I know.”
“When the king issued his decree, I
took it upon myself to discover more about the two women who might be my bride and, hence, mother to my young son.”
Quintin supposed she should not be surprised, and was grateful so few knew of her secret pain.
“Unfortunately, it was difficult to learn much beyond the little I already knew about either of you. I was most curious about Lady Elianor’s life after she wed Murdoch Farrow. What I did learn was that she bore her husband no babes and was reclusive, never leaving the castle and rarely the keep.”
Griffin paused as if to allow her to catch up on the path down which he led her. “Does the one who drugged and imprisoned The Boursier seem one to huddle indoors like a frightened child?”
Grudgingly, she shook her head.
“The only one with whom she seems to have had any relation outside of Farrow—a pig of a man, I am told—is Agatha of Mawbry.”
Quintin caught her breath.
“What is it?”
“Pray, continue.”
He stared at her, but finally said, “After your family ousted that woman from Godsmere, she returned to the Verduns. A year into Lady Elianor’s marriage to Farrow, Magnus Verdun sent Agatha to serve her.”
“So that is how it came to be.”
“What?”
She hesitated lest she furthered the humiliation Bayard suffered, then determined the particulars of what it had taken to lay low the warrior would better serve him. “I am guessing my brother did not share with you that Lady Elianor was not alone in imprisoning him—that Agatha aided her.”
His eyebrows rose. “He did not.”
“They were only able to take him from his bed after drugging his wine, and then not far. He was imprisoned in Castle Adderstone’s underground passages—was beneath my feet the entire time. And that is where Agatha is now, chained to the wall as they chained him.”
After a long quiet, Griffin said, “It seems a good place for her, away from Lady Elianor who, likely, was too much in her company.”