by Tamara Leigh
She slid her palms up his chest and leaned back. “There is more to be told.”
Candlelight flickering across his face, he repeated, “Already I know.”
Did he? Had he seen…? Nay, he spoke of something else. She stepped back and, when he let her go, loosened the robe’s belt.
But as she parted it to reveal her bare body, his hand closed over hers. “Quintin, I know. Whilst you slept the morn after we made love, I saw the scar. And I understand what it may mean.”
She gasped. “Still you want me.”
“You are my wife.”
Her chest convulsed. “I should have told you ere we wed. Perhaps the king would have altered the decree and allowed you to marry another.”
“Regardless, I would have taken you to wife.”
He could not possibly understand. She opened the robe and touched the scar’s upper curve. “How near did you look upon this?”
His eyes moved down her, pausing on the ring strung on the necklace, then continuing to her belly. “As told, I know what it may mean.”
“But you do not know what it does mean. You believe it possible I can still bear children, as I also hoped, but now…”
“Now?”
She shuddered. “The second stay of marriage was also for grieving, but not for the loss of my mother—for the child we made.”
Griffin’s blue eyes darkened beneath lowering eyebrows, nostrils flared, hand dropped from her. “You carried my child and did not send word.”
Defensiveness soared through her, carrying with it Serle’s name and tempting her to shout that it was all the fault of the De Arells. But nay, not the De Arells. Not Griffin.
“I am sorry,” she choked. “When I realized I was pregnant, I yet mourned my mother and was still wrongly angry with you. But more, I feared my womb would fail. And it did.”
From atop the mattress, she retrieved the missive Hulda had returned to her. “The eve ere my body gave up our babe, I wrote this, but come the morn there was no longer a reason to send it—naught I could do to change what happened, naught you could do.”
As Griffin stared at the woman who had denied him knowledge of his child, an ire similar to the one he had directed at Ulric for hiding Thomasin from him gained strength. Without consideration of the consequences its release might cause, it wanted out.
“Griffin,” she said softly.
He took the missive from her. I am with child, he read. Pray, come soon that I might wear your ring for all to know I am yours ~ Quintin
She is mine, he told himself. Unless I lose her in this moment.
He touched the ring between her breasts and urged himself to think much so he would regret little. Finally, he said, “’Tis late, and I am tired.” He turned away. “We shall talk more on the morrow.”
He heard her indrawn breath, felt her hurt, and continued to the door.
“I am sorry, Griffin. There seems no end to the wrong I do you.”
Struck by the difference between the Quintin of Christmas past and the one of summer come, he stilled. Were that fiery, resentful young woman present, it was anger she would sling at him, not apology. She would defend her actions by placing the blame on Serle—indeed, all the De Arells, including her husband—and it would be understandable, for much of the blame was theirs. But though grateful she did not speak against the family that was now hers, he missed her fire.
“Pray, Griffin, know that if ’tis possible to gain an annulment, I will not oppose you.”
Think much. Regret little, he silently commanded. And yet something warned he would regret much if he left her alone with her grieving and unanswered request for forgiveness.
He pivoted and returned to his wife whose brown, gold-ringed eyes were large in her pale face. “There will be no annulment. Before God I vowed to be your husband and protector to my end days. That does not change because you cannot bear children. That is not the man I am, nor the man I would become. Aye, I wished more sons and daughters, but it was not a requirement. Indeed, had the king not decreed I wed again, I likely would not have. Thus, the only thing I ask of you is that you be wife to me and mother to our son, Rhys.”
That last made her startle.
“Aye,” he said, “our son, he who may not admit it but would have the Lady of Blackwood return.”
Griffin lifted the necklace off over her head and, as he removed the ring from the chain, said, “Our lives are entwined. Children or nay, I wish you for my wife.” He tossed the necklace on the mattress, lifted her hand, and slid the ring on her finger. “You are claimed, Quintin de Arell, as am I. And as I will not relinquish my claim, I would not have you relinquish yours.”
Tears spilled. “I am forgiven?”
“I would that you had sent word you carried our child so I also would have known the joy, brief though it was—more, that you would not have been alone in grieving our loss—but that ache and disappointment will heal. So if forgiveness is needed, ’tis given.”
She dropped her chin and began to cry—softly at first, causing him to pull her into his arms, then more loudly, prompting him to carry her to bed. He lowered the missive to the table, next his dagger-hung belt, then stretched out beside her and tucked her into his chest to muffle her misery so it would not rouse her brother who would be far from genial to find the Baron of Blackwood in his sister’s bed.
Quintin continued to weep and hold to him until two of the three candles guttered out, then she slept. But when he pulled away, she awakened.
“Stay.”
“’Tis dangerous.”
“But a while longer.”
He eased down, promising himself that as soon as she slept again he would depart.
But she began to talk. “At Castle Mathe, you believed I was not sooner wed because I was so disagreeable, but it was because of my injury—and at my request—my first betrothal was broken.”
“’Tis as I thought when first I saw your scar.” He frowned. “The headache you suffered ere your menses is because of the injury?”
“I believe so. Never did I endure such before then.”
“A painful reminder.”
“You understand, do you not, my injury is the reason Bayard wished to keep me from fulfilling the decree?”
“I do.”
“’Tis not just that I am unlikely to bring a live babe into the world. The physician warned that if a child remained in my womb nine months, the birthing could kill us both.”
The possibility of which Griffin had considered while holding her and reflecting that once more he was wed to a woman with good cause to fear childbirth. But having lost Johanna to lingering complications a year after Rhys’s birth, Griffin would not lose Quintin to the same.
“Mayhap the physician is wrong,” she whispered. “’Tis possible a child of ours would survive.”
Also possible it would be left motherless the same as Rhys. “Nay, Quintin, I will not put another child in your belly.”
She gasped. “But I would be your wife in bed as well as in name.”
“You shall be, as I shall fully be your husband.”
“How?”
He pushed up on an elbow, turned her onto her back, and brushed tear-dampened hair off her cheeks. “Wife of mine, there are ways to intimately love and be loved without conceiving, and those ways we shall teach each other.”
“But the Church deems conception the sole purpose of husband knowing wife.”
And considered intentionally childless marriages little better than prostitution, he knew. “So it does, and yet it embraces the saying Si non caste, tamen caute.”
“Meaning?”
“If not chastely, at least cautiously.”
“Oh,” she breathed.
“Too, the Lord made such relations pleasurable—pleasure that does not end when a woman is past child-bearing age. Self-serving it may sound, but surely lovemaking is also meant to bond a couple so ever they long for the arms of the one to whom they pledged their lives.” He drew a thumb
across her lower lip. “As ever I shall long for you, Quintin de Arell.”
She caught her breath. “And I for you.”
He lay down. “We will be one again, but this night I grieve with you the loss of our child.”
She did not respond. But after a time she relaxed and, as her breath deepened, murmured, “Methinks it possible I love you.”
He tensed, disturbed and yet tempted to try the words on his own tongue. Did he love her? Certes, the last time he had so wanted a woman was when he had known Thomasin’s mother. But that was not this.
This was no young man’s exaggeration that his life would upend were he denied the woman he longed for. This was Quintin, and what he felt for her was not all desire. It was more simply being near her…speaking with her…breathing her…holding her.
He kissed her brow. “Then this—what you think love—is where we begin anew.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Soon every morn I shall awaken thus, Quintin silently clasped the promise to her as she peered into Griffin’s restful face.
The chamber was dim, dawn having begun to relieve night of its duty. But by the purple-gray light passing through the window, she saw the line of her husband’s jaw and its dark whiskers, the curve of his lips and straight descent of his nose, his lowered lids whose lashes deepened the shadows atop his cheeks.
Seeing these things, she was reminded of that first night they had spent together in the tower when, muddled in misery over the belief all was lost and Bayard possibly dead, she had beseeched Griffin to stay. Just as on the night past, that night he had only held her as she had needed him to do. However, this morn he was yet with her, which he had not been even on the morn following their nuptial night. And she could think of nothing she liked better than greeting a new day whilst in the arms of this man.
She leaned up and touched her mouth to his. “You stayed with me.”
“Hmm. Dangerous.” He narrowly opened his eyes. “But I do like awakening to my bride.”
She smiled. “I was thinking the same of my groom.”
“Then we must give the king his wedding.”
“When?”
“Soon. Doubtless, Simon Foucault will be far less inclined to fail at preventing our union than he was with the others.”
She frowned. “Simon Foucault?”
“Aye, Sir Otto’s father and your uncle. Your brother and I have concluded he lives and for years has been known as Sir Francis Cartier.”
Of a sudden, breath eluded her.
“You have seen him?” Griffin asked.
“Nay, I have only heard of the king’s man—of his visage ruined by fire. Has he Foucault eyes?”
“At Thomasin’s wedding, there was no occasion for me to draw near enough to determine if the brown is ringed by gold, but your brother says ’tis so.”
She nodded. “Bayard met him at King Edward’s court, and I understand he was here on Christmas Day ere my mother—” She recoiled. “’Twas he who killed her? Her own brother?”
“That is what we believe—lest she revealed the puppet he made of her. I am sorry.”
She trembled. “Dear Lord, he has been among us all these years—plotting, raiding, burning, killing.”
Griffin drew his fingers down the curve of her face. “The revenge wreaked on us shall end. Your brother, Verdun, and I will see to it.”
“How?”
“That must be determined, but if the Baron of Emberly is as eager to end the Foucault threat as your brother and I, he will soon appear at Godsmere in response to the missive I sent ere departing Mathe. And we will lay our plans.” He rose above her. “Regrettably, I must return to my chamber.”
She laid a hand on his arm. “I am glad you came for me and truly sorry I left much unsaid for so long.”
After some moments, he said, “’Tis of no benefit to be anxious over things that cannot be changed, whether because God Himself has taken them in hand or…” He slid his hand inside her robe and spanned her belly.
“Griffin?”
“Regret is a bane to the soul, but know that ever I shall rue Serle and Constance allowing Agatha to tempt them to a place that caused my brother to take something so precious from you.”
Though she did not wish to speak of that day, there was something he needed to know. “Though I have long held Serle as responsible for my injury as he is for Bayard’s, his blade did not cut me.”
Griffin drew back a space. “What speak you?”
She gripped his hand, moved it to where the sword’s point had begun its destruction, and drew it to its end. “This was done by my brother’s blade. Foolish me. And foolish Bayard. When Constance tried to get between him and her lover, my brother left himself open to save her, and Serle’s blade took his eye. Fearing I would lose Bayard, I did what Constance failed to do. I set myself between two raging warriors and Bayard… Blindly, he retaliated for the injury done him, unaware I would be the one to suffer his wrath. And then he took your brother’s sword arm.”
Griffin sank into silence, but finally said, “Many assumptions I have made, my brother having revealed little of that day. But this I know—though it was Bayard’s blade, that does not absolve Serle of responsibility. No matter that he loved another man’s wife, regardless Agatha of Mawbry incited him to make a cuckold of your brother, he must answer for it.”
“I thank you,” she said low. “Now you better understand why my brother is so protective? That he ever tries to right what he believes was his wrong—bearing guilt of which he is undeserving?”
“I understand. Indeed, ’tis possible I may come to like The Boursier.” This time when he titled Bayard such, the derision was half-hearted.
Quintin drew a breath of relief. “I pray you shall.”
He brushed his lips across hers. “From this day forward, let us aspire to suffer as few regrets as possible.”
“Aye, lord husband.”
He stood, retrieved his belt, and buckled on the dagger-hung leather. Then he reached for the missive in which she had revealed what was to have been tidings of joy. And looked to her. “I would have come immediately, Quintin.”
“This I know.”
He nodded stiffly and tucked the missive beneath his belt. “I will see you in the hall for the morning repast, and you will sit at my side.”
“I shall.”
Thanking the Lord all was coming right, praying Simon Foucault’s terror would soon end, Quintin watched her husband stride opposite. But as he cleared the end of the bed, a knock sounded. He halted and reached for the sword he had not brought within her chamber.
Yanking her robe closed, fumbling to secure its belt, Quintin sprang off the bed. “Quick, Griffin—”
The door opened, carrying Hulda inside. But the woman halted so abruptly she had to stumble two steps forward to keep her feet beneath her. “Baron de Arell! What do you—?”
“Quiet, Hulda!” Quintin rushed forward, but someone had heard, as revealed by booted feet moving at a run down the corridor.
“Stay behind me!” Griffin threw out an arm to hold her back.
“But I can explain—”
His head snapped around and, blue eyes gone black, he snarled, “Did you learn naught from the last time you placed yourself between a De Arell and a Boursier?”
Her hand made a fist, and as she struggled to keep it from her abdomen, Bayard lunged through the doorway. He paused just inside the chamber and, singular gaze fierce, moved it down Griffin to his bootless feet, then to Quintin where she stood just over her husband’s shoulder. Unlike Griffin, his seeking hand had attained his sword, its blade halfway out of its scabbard.
“Do not!” she cried and would have proved foolish again had Griffin not gripped her arm to hold her back.
“Baron Boursier,” he said, “think much on this ere the past revisits us.”
But Bayard did not break stride until his blade’s tip was at Griffin’s throat. “Unhand my sister!”
“Hear me, Bayard,”
Quintin beseeched.
“Unhand her!”
“And risk her trying to save her brother again?” Griffin’s voice was dangerously calm. “Nay, she stays behind me, and you shall lower your sword.”
Bayard pushed its point nearer Griffin’s throat. “If I deign to lower it, ’twill not be whilst you hold my sister.”
“As already told, she is mine to hold.”
“I said release her—”
“Bayard!” Lady Elianor’s arrival caused all within the chamber to startle, and Griffin’s growl made Quintin fear her brother’s sword had cut him.
“Take yourself and our babe from here, Elianor,” Bayard ordered. “Now!”
She halted, protectively crossed an arm over her abdomen, and looked from Quintin to Griffin to Hulda. “Surely there is an explanation, Bayard.”
“There is, Lady,” Griffin said.
“Leave, Elianor!”
She took a step forward, and her voice met Quintin’s as they both entreated, “Bayard!”
“Blessed rood!” he bellowed. “Can not a husband protect his wife and sister without argument?”
“It seems not,” Griffin muttered, then put across his shoulder. “Shall I explain or will you, Quintin?”
“Pray, tell him, my lady!” Hulda cried.
“You know what goes here, Hulda?” Bayard demanded.
Her eyes widened. “I…” She glanced at Quintin, whose quick shake of the head beseeched her to remain silent over her lady’s loss. “I do know, my lord. As Lady Quintin has ever been my lamb, not much escapes these old eyes and this old heart.”
Bayard looked back at Quintin. “Speak!”
She raised her left hand, revealing the ring her husband had moved from the necklace to her finger on the night past. “I do belong to Griffin, just as he belongs to me.”
His brow, crossed by the eyepatch, creased heavily. “How?”
“Your sister and I have been wed these six months,” Griffin answered. “She is my wife as much as Lady Elianor is yours.”
Bayard returned his regard to the man whose throat remained intimate with his blade. “By way of vows spoken before a priest or”—he glanced at the bed—“consummation only?”