by Tamara Leigh
As if he saw the emotions on her face, his own face—rough with several days’ growth of beard—softened.
They stared at each other, then he called, “Tell your brother to whom you belong—whose wife you would be, my lady.”
Bayard laid a hand over her two clasped atop the embrasure. “The morn will be soon enough to discuss his ride on Adderstone.”
She shook her head. “Let him in. He is our ally.”
“Not yet.”
“As you yourself allow, Bayard, no matter the past, in this present Baron Verdun and you retain your lands in large part due to Baron de Arell’s words on your behalf.”
His jaw shifted. “You are at stake, Quintin, not Godsmere.”
“Pray, let him in.”
“You no longer hold him responsible for your mother’s death?”
“I have not for months.”
His lid narrowed. “Do you wish to be his wife?”
“I do, though he may not when he learns…” She looked down her front. “But I would belong to him.”
“Then I should not have asked the king to release you from the decree?”
“Only for Griffin’s sake.”
He looked nearer upon her. “Do you love him?”
“I…” She moistened her lips. “…do not know.”
He returned his gaze to Adderstone’s visitor, murmured, “Mayhap you are not the only one who does not know if they love.”
A laugh escaped her. “Certes, Griffin desires me.”
“Mayhap as I desired Elianor as I grew toward her in love, hmm?” He raised his eyebrows, then stepped away and signaled a man-at-arms to order the lowering of the drawbridge.
“Quintin!” Griffin called.
She leaned farther into the embrasure. Surprised by how light she felt in that moment, though aware later moments would reveal that which could turn him from her, she said, “You are an eager groom, Baron. I suppose we shall have to let you in.”
The smile that had dropped from his mouth whilst she conversed with Bayard returned, and she knew he remembered her appearance outside his own walls when he had suggested she was an eager bride and she had retorted she would rather put herself through with a blade. How her feelings had changed!
“I am pleased this bears closer discussion,” he furthered the game, reminding her of when he had said the same to her from atop his wall, denying himself another bite of the apple he had chewed while they conversed.
“Alas, had I only an apple, Baron de Arell.”
His laughter warmed her, then it was muted by the drawbridge’s chains.
Avoiding her brother’s gaze, Quintin descended the wall on his arm and remained at his side while he ordered a squire to alert Lady Elianor that refreshments would be required. Then the portcullis rose and Griffin and his men guided their mounts over the drawbridge.
Other things besides her feelings for Griffin had much changed, she reflected as one and a half score of Blackwood men entered Adderstone’s walls. When she had entered Castle Mathe, she had been allowed only six and Bayard fewer. And her brother was just as cautious as Griffin, meaning he believed an alliance between the Boursiers and De Arells had been forged even in the perceived absence of marital vows. But lest he erred, his knights and men-at-arms on the ramparts and around the bailey were prepared to loose arrows and swing swords.
As Griffin advanced, the lightness that had supplanted Quintin’s worries over their reunion returned to the shadows. There were too many months between this night and the night he had returned her to Adderstone. And so much to be told and, God willing, forgiven and accepted.
She shivered, and Bayard leaned near. “Should I not have let him in?”
“You should have, and I thank you.”
“I have waited for you to speak of what goes between you two. Will you now?”
She swallowed. “Soon.”
He straightened and widened his stance to receive the man who drew near. “You are welcome at Adderstone, Baron de Arell,” he said when Griffin reined in.
Though Quintin’s husband gave the greater part of his regard to Bayard, he looked to her, and how she wished this were the day she had donned the dark blue gown. But though the one she wore was simple, it fit well. Best of all, it was not black.
As she smoothed its cream-colored skirt, Griffin said, “I am pleased, Baron Boursier, especially since the tidings received this day from the Baron of Emberly indicated you and I are no longer at peace.”
Bayard released Quintin’s arm and took a stride forward, becoming a barrier between her husband and her. “My sister assures me we are at peace. Hence, I invite you and your men to refresh yourselves and gain a night’s rest in my hall.”
“We accept.” Griffin gestured for his men to dismount, swung out of the saddle, and crossed to Bayard. “We have much to discuss, Baron Boursier.”
“So it seems.”
Griffin looked to Quintin. “My bride awaits her groom. May I pass?”
After a hesitation, during which her brother’s gaze surely shone with warning, Bayard stepped aside.
Mouth and throat so dry her tongue cleaved to her palate, Quintin could only stare when her husband halted before her.
He reached to her slowly, as if sudden movement might set her to flight, and closed a hand around hers that gripped her skirt. Then he eased her fingers open and carried her hand to his mouth.
“It has been long, my lady.” He kissed her knuckles, turned her hand, and put his lips to her wrist. “Much too long.” As sensations tripped over themselves in their eagerness to be better known to her, he added, “I pray you feel the same,” and lowered her hand.
Though Quintin’s tongue had loosened, her voice barely made it past her throat. “I am glad you have finally come.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You make it sound as if I am responsible for delaying our marriage before all—indeed, for seeking to absolve us of marriage altogether.”
She momentarily closed her eyes. “Forgive me. The delays are of my doing, but I would have you know that until your arrival this day, I was not aware my brother sought my release from the decree.”
“As thought, and upon which the baron and I must needs talk.”
His hold on her eased, but she gripped his fingers. “Pray, let there be no ill between Bayard and you. He only did what he thought best for me.”
“’Tis not best for you—for us. But fear not, providing he makes no further attempt to deny me my prize, we shall remain allies.”
There was anger and bitterness in the word to which Sir Otto had referred to her, and she did not doubt much was directed at himself for entrusting his daughter to that knight. Otto was fortunate he was destined for the king’s prison rather than Castle Mathe.
Moving his hand to Quintin’s elbow, Griffin turned to Bayard. “We shall follow, Baron Boursier.”
It was staggering what had been accomplished in the short time given Lady Elianor to prepare her hall. A half dozen tables had been placed before the dais and set with goblets to which servants applied pitchers as the first platters of viands arrived.
“Baron de Arell,” the Lady of Godsmere called as she crossed the hall, and beyond her shoulder Quintin saw Rollo, the big man-at-arms who was as protective of his lord’s wife as he was of his lord’s sister, slip into an alcove. Such was his habit, deferring to Bayard to protect the ladies of Adderstone when the baron was present.
“Lady Elianor.” Griffin released Quintin, accepted the hand extended him, and kissed it. “I thank you for your hospitality, but if it is not too much trouble, would you have food and drink delivered to the solar where your husband and I can converse in private?”
Uncertainty flashed across her face, but after a glance at Bayard, she said, “Of course.”
As she moved away, Griffin turned his attention to Quintin’s brother. “Be assured, ’tis best we speak behind closed doors.”
Obviously on the matter of Bayard’s attempt to release Quintin from m
arriage. But did he intend to reveal that was impossible regardless of the king’s determination?
Griffin returned to Quintin and bent near. “It remains between us. For now.”
She turned her face up. “I must needs speak with you.”
“If not this eve, on the morrow.”
This eve, she hoped, the morrow too distant now he was so near.
He pivoted. “I shall follow, Baron Boursier.”
As his men settled in to satisfy their appetite, Quintin watched her husband and brother ascend the stairs. Though she also wished to depart the hall—to make herself ready should Griffin come to her, she set herself to aiding Godsmere’s lady with their guests.
An hour later, as Bayard’s men bedded down in the hall among the castle folk, Griffin and Bayard had not reappeared.
“Join me at the hearth?” Lady Elianor said, moving toward it.
“I thank you, but I shall gain my bed.”
The lady retraced her steps, smiled softly. “I do not know if you are ready for me to call you Sister, but you are that to me, and I hope if I am not that to you, I shall be.”
Quintin did not know how to respond, and when she remained mute, Elianor said, “I pray you will find with Baron de Arell what I have with Bayard.” She stepped close and kissed Quintin’s cheek. “Sleep well, Sister.”
Quintin moved toward the stairs, halted, and looked around. Her sister-in-law’s hand on her abdomen nearly checked Quintin’s words, but she chastised herself for not first feeling joy for the blessing that awaited Elianor and Bayard.
And I shall be the little one’s aunt, she reminded herself.
“You are that to me, Elianor,” she said and ascended the stairs. As she neared the solar, she heard the muffled voices of the two within but continued to her chamber, hoping she would be awake when Griffin retired to the chamber down from hers.
To her surprise, Hulda awaited her. To her further surprise, the maid held out the parchment she had been instructed to burn. “You will tell him, my lady?”
Quintin curled her fingers around the missive. “I shall.”
“Then all will come right, lamb.” Hulda moved past and exited the chamber.
A quarter hour later, Quintin sat robed on her bed. This night, she determined, once she was certain Bayard and Elianor were abed, she would go to her husband. And reveal all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
They were in accord, and Boursier’s encounters with the miscreant, who Griffin believed to be Simon Foucault, made it certain that the one who had fathered Otto, likely murdered Lady Maeve, abducted Lady Elianor, ordered the assault on Thomasin, slain Thomasin’s attackers to present as wedding gifts, and led the raid on the Verdun party en route to Adderstone was the same who had this morn taken Otto from Castle Kelling.
Simon Foucault was not dead. He had become Sir Francis Cartier. And for his aid in securing the young king’s crown, the mercenary had the trust and favor of England’s ruler.
The Baron of Godsmere had expressed regret that his attempt to prevent what he thought an unwanted marriage had ruined Griffin’s plan of openly transferring Otto to Castle Mathe to draw Cartier there. Ulric being the only one of an age to recall the visage of the Baron of Kilbourne’s son, he was to have confirmed that what remained of the man’s face belonged to Simon Foucault.
Then Boursier had pointed out that had Griffin included Verdun and him in setting the trap, he might now have his prey in hand. Having concluded the same, Griffin had tried not to take offense.
Well before the end of his meeting with Boursier, it was agreed the three families would unite to expose Cartier. Meaning that just as their fathers had done more than twenty-five years past, the sons would gather to plot against a Foucault—this time to hold on to their lands.
Near the middling of night, Griffin thanked Lady Elianor for delivering him to the chamber he had been given near the chapel.
She nipped her lower lip and said in a rush, “I am glad you came, Baron de Arell.”
“As am I.”
“I was frightened and angry when I was a guest at your table on my wedding night. I pray you will forgive me.”
“Of course. The circumstances were…difficult, and I was a poor host in the absence of a wife to temper my mood. But soon the king’s decree will be fulfilled on all three sides, giving Blackwood the lady it deserves and securing all our lands.”
“Know that I am grateful for your aid,” she said, “not only with regard to your suggestion that consummation validated our first marriage, but that you sent to King Edward your witness of the events, without which Bayard and my uncle might have forfeited.”
“’Twas the right thing to do.”
The lady’s smile increased. “Despite the ills our families have suffered at one another’s hands and the hands of Foucault supporters, does it not strike you how delighted the Lord must be to bring us out of that darkness and not merely into the dim?”
Griffin did not mask his surprise that she shared that observation.
“What I mean,” she said, “is that ’tis surely by His hand enemies have become lovers in heart as well as body.”
“In heart?”
“I love my husband, and he loves me, though never would you have believed it possible the day you revealed to Bayard the fool I made him, aye?”
“There was much strain between you. Hence, ’tis a blessing your husband and you have proved well matched.”
“As has your daughter and my uncle. When they visited six weeks past, there was love there as well.”
It was as Thomasin had expressed in a missive sent to Castle Kelling shortly after Otto had nearly murdered her and her husband. Griffin could not have been more pleased—unless, of course, he was certain Verdun felt the same.
As if Lady Elianor knew his thoughts, she said, “’Twas mutual, methinks, though Magnus Verdun holds close what goes behind his eyes.”
“I thank you for that, my lady.”
“Now all that remains to be seen is how you and my sister-in-law fit together. What think you?”
Did she hope for a declaration of love? “I threatened a feud of my own making if your husband refused me my bride. Thus, I am assuredly of the belief marriage to Lady Quintin will be satisfactory.”
For the second time since she had escorted him to his chamber, he noted her hand on her abdomen and wondered if she was aware of the injury Quintin had sustained that would likely deny Griffin and his wife the blessing the Boursiers were expecting.
“A winter babe?” he asked.
Her hand fled her belly. But then she gave a joyous laugh. “December, a year after the beginning of Bayard and me.”
“My congratulations.”
She opened her mouth, but closed it as if the words she had nearly spoken were best left unsaid. Had she thought better of returning the kindness of wishing Quintin and him the same blessing?
“Alas,” she said on a sigh, “’tis late, and I should be abed. Good eve, Baron.”
When she was gone, Griffin considered his packs that had been delivered to the chamber—and listened for the closing of the solar’s door.
It was late, but when he had followed Lady Elianor down the corridor, he had seen candlelight beneath the door of the chamber he knew was Quintin’s from the night he had spent here after returning her to Adderstone.
Still, he should wait ’til the morrow to speak with her. Should, he told himself again as he unhurriedly completed his ablutions, giving Quintin time to come to him.
A quarter hour later, he went to her.
She did not hear his footsteps. Nor had she expected she would. He did not knock. Neither had she expected he would.
As he eased the door closed, she saw that though his tunic was belted, no sword hung from it—only a dagger—and he was without boots. The absence of both made him look more the lover than the warrior.
“I meant to come to you,” she said as he turned to where she sat on the end of the bed.
Dear Lord, he fills my eyes, she silently exclaimed, then prayed her thoughts and convictions would not further stray from the path she had set them upon. But stray they did, the sight of him making her long to be nearer this man who was tall and broad, blond and blue-eyed, and not handsome enough to appeal as much as he did.
She swallowed. “I meant to but could not.”
“Thus, I am here.” He did not move from the door.
She glanced down her robe-clad figure. “Unseemly either way.”
“Only to those who do not know ’tis as husband and wife we are reunited.”
“That is everyone,” she said, then remembered Hulda. But it would not do to speak of the maid, for Hulda knew her lady was wed only because she also knew what Quintin had lost.
Quintin shivered. Having promised herself that at the first opportunity to be alone with her husband she would reveal all, it was time.
“I would rather you be cold than frightened of me,” Griffin said, “but methinks you suffer from the latter.”
She rose from the bed and clasped her hands at her waist. “I have wronged you, and my apology is months past due.”
“Lady Maeve.”
“Aye, I should not have spoken as I did. I have no excuse other than my own weakness that the blame for not being at my mother’s side was too heavy to bear alone.”
She sniffed and wished that after all these months she did not continue to succumb to tears. Through them, she saw Griffin tense and sensed he held himself from crossing the divide between them—a divide he would learn was wider than believed.
She breathed deep. “I pray you will forgive me this one thing. And more.”
He strode forward. “Already I know,” he said, and before she could make sense of that, her face was between his hands, his mouth on hers. He kissed her hungrily, and she returned his kisses. Then his hands were in her hair, gently pulling apart her braid. “You have let your hair grow,” he said against her lips.
“For you.”
“God’s breath,” he groaned, “I have been too long without you.”
She also felt the months beyond the months of that first stay of marriage, but his words reminded her that before their long parting could be remedied, he needed to know the reason for the second stay of marriage.