by Tamara Leigh
“You think him false?” the ravaged voice asked.
Griffin turned from the window to consider his father whose hood allowed the mix of moonlight and candlelight to reveal glittering eyes. “Not entirely false, but enough that he cannot be trusted in the keep at night, even with a watch over him.”
“If there are other Foucault supporters inside our walls, ’twill appear suspicious that the prodigal is welcome only enough to warrant a chamber outside the keep.”
Not the same tower room in which Griffin had held Quintin. He had not liked the thought of his brother in that chamber where first Griffin had begun to feel for his Boursier bride something beyond desire. Thus, another room had sufficed.
“For that,” he said, “Serle was instructed to insist, in the hearing of many, that rather than displace Sir Mathieu, he wished a tower room.” Which had been expressed after Griffin called an end to the supper that had bristled with whispered talk of the second son’s return, and through which Quintin had sat mostly silent on one side of Griffin.
“He cannot have liked that,” Ulric said.
“He did as told.”
Griffin’s father grunted. “How will you make use of your brother in ridding us of Simon Foucault?”
“The misinformation he tells he is willing to pass to the brigands fits our plan well.”
Ulric sighed, then moved out of sight, his labored footfalls nearly obscuring the patter of Diot’s paws.
Griffin stepped around the hanging that fluttered in the night breeze and followed his father to the bed. As Ulric lowered to it, Diot shot out from beneath his master’s tunic and launched himself onto the mattress.
As the little dog settled on the pillow beside the one Ulric would lay his head on, Griffin said, “Serle wishes to see you.”
Amid the silence, Griffin once more sensed his father’s roiling and guessed he was thinking of the torture that would forever brand his youngest son a traitor. Such foul words Ulric had spewed, the violent swing of his walking stick sending precious objects flying. But now he issued another sigh. “Nay. If ’tis to be believed death is near, he must not know the true strength of my illness.” With a creaking of joints, he eased onto his pillow. “Were he to rouse me to anger…”
Pleased—though not surprised—he and his father were in accord, Griffin nodded. Should Serle stand more the side of Foucault, the plan laid down by the three barons could be compromised, its success and the safety of their loved ones dependent on the final confrontation occurring outside these walls. Thus, by way of Serle, the brigands would learn of Ulric’s impending death which, hopefully, would give them less reason to try to enter Mathe.
“I shall keep Serle away,” he said.
“If he proves loyal to his family, there will be time aplenty.”
The words were so low and lacking force Griffin wondered if he knew the true strength of his father’s illness. “Sleep well,” he said and started for the door.
“Griffin.”
“Father?” he once more accorded him the title.
“Would you betray your family for a woman?”
Certain Serle’s dangerous obsession with Constance Verdun was behind Ulric’s question, Griffin said, “Though I pray you know the answer to that, I will speak it. I would not betray Rhys or Thomasin for a woman.” Never would he endanger the lives of those he had loved longer and more fully so he might have Quintin—though as told, ever he would long for her were she missing from him. “Nor would I betray you,” he added.
“I do know it,” Ulric said wearily, “but I also know there is more to your answer.”
There was, and Griffin wished his father did not see him so well. “I would not betray my family, but methinks I would betray myself.”
“For Quintin Boursier.”
“I would risk much of myself for the chance to finish life with her at my side.”
“You love,” Ulric growled. “Again.” It was said with accusation, but less disgust than expected. “Do you remember my response when you declared you loved Thomasin’s mother and would wed her even if I disowned you?”
“I remember.” Ulric de Arell had told his son of ten and six that he mistook love of the loins for love of the heart. And since Griffin had little evidence his father knew anything of the latter, he had rejected his counsel, determined to have Alice even at the cost of his inheritance. Thus, Ulric had made Thomasin’s mother disappear.
“I do not know if ’twill console you any, or even if I wish it to,” Griffin said, “but I now know the difference between those two loves and, as I have found with Lady Quintin, though that of the heart carries greater weight, the two are best served together.”
After a time, Ulric said, “I suppose I shall have to be content with that—providing she is good to Rhys and accepts him as your heir no matter how many sons she bears you.”
Panged by the reminder of the loss of their child, he said, “Then I am certain you will not be disappointed. Good eve.” He turned and closed the door harder than intended.
As he came off the stairs, he had to step over Arturo the same as when he had ascended them, the wolfhound having settled in for the night.
Griffin halted before Quintin’s chamber. He was certain she did not sleep and, thus, was grateful Rollo had honored her request to make his bed in the hall. The man-at-arms had objected, but the assurance Serle was outside the keep and Arturo on one side of his lady abovestairs, Griffin on the other, made him acquiesce.
Lest a knock was heard by those sleeping nearby, Griffin did not announce his entrance.
Illuminated by a single candle, Quintin was wrapped in a robe where she sat against the headboard, loose hair draping her shoulders.
He closed the door quietly. “Methinks you expected me.”
“I hoped.” Her smile was not as certain as he wished it, but it called him to her. He halted alongside the bed, and she dropped her head back to hold his gaze. “Not here,” she said. “Our nuptial chamber.”
He frowned. “‘Twould be more discreet for us to remain in this one.”
“Our nuptial chamber.”
“As you will, my lady.” He scooped her up, and it was she who reached to quietly open and close the door, then the solar’s.
He lowered her to their bed and drew back to look upon her face and the black hair falling back from it. “You are lovely, Wife.”
“And you make me wish to forget there are things left unsaid.”
He grimaced. “Serle.”
“I did not expect there to be so much distance between your brother and you—and of such depth he should hate you.”
“I had hoped that need not be told.”
“But now he has come, and so bitter is he you cannot trust him to be true to his family.”
Griffin straightened. “I would like to believe he will not betray us, but ’tis possible he will do as Simon Foucault bids—that to gain Constance he would turn his back on me even were it in his power to cut a noose from ’round my neck.”
Quintin touched the place beside her. “Come to bed.”
“Do I, I am not certain things left unsaid will take precedence over things left unfelt.”
She scooted to the center of the mattress and turned onto her side toward him. “I will do my best not to tempt you.”
“I cannot promise the same,” he said, then removed his belt and grinned when she quickly shifted her attention to the headboard into which the mythical griffin was carved.
Once he had shed all but his undertunic, he stretched out beside her.
“Tell me about this,” she said, tracing the griffin’s rear body and feathered breast, the former of a lion, the latter of an eagle.
“What would you have me tell?”
She pulled her hand back. “My first night at Mathe, when you tossed me on this bed, I believed the carving evidence of your vanity and arrogance. But now I know better.”
“Thus, you do not think so ill of me.”
Her pretty te
eth showed. “Oh, you are still arrogant, but not so much it offends as once it did.”
He felt his own smile pull to one side. “Because I have good cause to be arrogant?”
“Because I do not believe ’tis show—that you are truly confident of who you are and what you do because ’tis so.”
“Wife,” he said low, “you told you would not tempt me.”
She laughed. “I did not know a man’s desire could be stirred merely by complimenting his person and behavior.”
He captured her hand and kissed her fingers. “To be thought of so well by the woman he wishes not only to dream with but to pass his waking hours with? Aye, Quintin, such rouses a man—and more so when that woman is in his bed with naught but the parting of her robe between them.”
“Then I must needs save my compliments until you have told me about Serle. But first…” She nodded at the headboard.
He glanced at the great, winged beast. “The griffin denotes strength, courage, and leadership, a symbol my father esteems. For it, he gave his firstborn son the name, and when he became baron of these lands, he had this headboard made.”
“I should have guessed it was him, since this was his solar ere it was yours.”
“Then you think me even less arrogant?” At her grin, he continued, “As the griffin is also known for guarding priceless possessions, when I was young, I liked to think the headboard reflected my father’s feelings for my mother. But I never saw evidence he felt affection for her, and when she passed shortly after he gained Blackwood, his behavior seemed more a show of respect for the dead—and irritation that the household did not run smoothly without her.”
“I know what it is to have one’s parents love and respect each other and think it must be difficult when they but share a chamber and meals. I am sorry your father could not love his wife.”
“Or perhaps she could not love him.”
Quintin grimaced. “He is a…”
“…tyrant. Aye, this I know, just as I know that were it possible to strip away all the atrocities done us by those who avenge the Foucaults, still my father would have stirred up enough dissent that peace between our families would yet be difficult.”
“Does he know ’tis not merely obligation that made you take me to wife?”
Griffin chuckled. “I was with him ere I came to you. If he did not know before this eve, he knows now.”
“And disapproves. Not only did my father gain the castle and land he wished, but I am as much a Foucault as a Boursier.”
“Though I would have him think well of you, Quintin, what he feels does not affect who you are to me and who you will become to Rhys.”
She drew her lower lip between her teeth. “I hope Rhys will accept me as his mother.”
“I believe he will, that he is only as resistant as he deems necessary to ensure you are aware ’tis a place you must merit.”
She smiled. “’Twould seem he thinks much—like his father.”
“I pray he does and, God willing, will regret little in this life.”
After some moments, she said, “Methinks he must be lonely now Thomasin is gone, that he ought to be more in the company of boys his age.”
“Since my daughter’s departure, I have seen to that as much as possible, but you have more to say on it?”
“I am thinking of the son of the maid given to me—and for which I have not thanked you.”
“You are pleased?”
“I am unaccustomed to close attendance, but she seems agreeable, as well as her boy.”
“She told you she is from the barony of Orlinde?”
“Aye, that Magnus Verdun sent them here. Is he…?”
“The boy is not Verdun’s. I know not the details, but the Baron of Emberly feels responsible for him and his mother, and his involvement with them has led the Foucault brigands to believe Eamon is his son. Thus, as that endangers them, Thomasin asked that I make a place for them here.”
“That is kind of you.”
“And self serving. If there is more to Verdun’s relationship with Nanne than is told, the farther from my daughter’s husband she is, the better. But of Eamon… You are suggesting he become a companion to Rhys?”
“I have little with which to occupy the boy, and as the two are of a similar age, it occurs. Too, Rhys may be more receptive to his lessons if he has someone to learn alongside.”
Griffin nodded. “I will think on it.”
“Of course you will,” Quintin murmured.
“My wife learns me well.” He slid an arm beneath her and drew her to his side. As she settled her head on his shoulder, he said, “Now, ere there is not enough remaining of the night to attest to this being our nuptial chamber, I will tell you of the breach between my brother and me.”
Her silken hair against his skin and the fit of her curves with his firm planes too sensual for his thoughts to remain on a straight path, he wished he had not pulled her so near. But he supposed he would have to suffer—and all the sooner be done with the tale.
“As you know, Serle was betrothed to Constance Verdun at a young age. Though relations were often strained between the De Arells and Verduns, albeit not nearly as strained as with your family, Serle and Constance saw each other fairly often and fell in love. Thus, when her father broke their betrothal to make a more advantageous marriage of his daughter to your brother—a baron, rather than a second son who had only knighthood to his name, ’twas a blow.”
“If only she had refused.”
“Aye, but she did her duty to her family. Serle was angered, as was my father, who believed the Boursier-Verdun alliance threatened to turn the feud to our great disadvantage. Having recently assumed our father’s title, I forbade Serle the revenge he vowed and tried to keep Ulric and him separate, knowing no good would come of their combined hatred.”
Griffin drew his hand up Quintin’s back and slid his fingers into the hair at her nape. “As the months passed and Serle’s mood lightened, I believed he was accepting his loss and eased my watch over him. A year after Constance wed your brother, Serle asked for a considerable sum of money so he might cross to France and make his fortune in tournaments. I refused.”
“You did not believe him.”
“Nay, so great a sum was not necessary. Too, though he was proficient at arms, his successes in tournaments were few. I told him that if he wanted the money, he would have to convince me of his need, beginning with the truth. And he told it. He planned to take Constance with him to France, and the money would provide them a living until he could pledge his sword to a lord.”
“Did you give him the money?” There was wariness in Quintin’s tone that made Griffin more grateful he had again refused Serle. “I did not, though he reminded me that once I had loved as deeply, so much I had been willing to cede my inheritance to take Alice to wife. Our argument was loud enough to bring Ulric out of his apartment, and I steeled myself for his support of Serle in stealing another man’s wife. But he surprised us both by instructing Serle to forget Constance.”
“What did your brother do?”
“He attacked me, and I struck him down. I have often thought I should not have stopped there, that I should have done worse to ensure he remained at Castle Mathe. Had I, he could not have gone to Godsmere to steal Constance—at least, not for a time. Perhaps the delay would have been enough to get his thinking right.”
“You could not have known.”
“Truly, I did not believe he would go to her penniless. But then, I did not know Agatha of Mawbry goaded him.”
Quintin saw the lines of regret in her husband’s face as candlelight moved its glow over it.
“He left Mathe, and I was certain he would return within a sennight, hopefully resigned to life without Constance. But the following day, your brother’s men left him outside our walls—strapped to his saddle, clutching the cauterized stump of an arm.” Griffin turned his face to her. “Though there was some satisfaction in knowing The Boursier had lost an eye, I
longed for vengeance until I reasoned myself down from it. Serle spoke little of what happened, but I knew he was more at fault—was fairly certain The Boursier had witnessed being made a cuckold.” His hand moved again, down her side and in to her abdomen. “I did not know what was done to you, but I vow there was no satisfaction in learning you had been injured.”
“This I know.” She laid a hand on his stubbled jaw. “Serle blamed you for his failure to take Constance from Adderstone?”
“That was the foundation on which he built his hatred when our father and I refused to bribe the Church to set aside his and Constance’s punishment. He believed enough coin would allow them to be together, and when I refused, he left on pilgrimage cursing me.”
“I am sorry.”
Griffin sighed. “Serle did not think, though more than before, I begin to understand why he did not.”
“What do you understand?”
He turned her onto her back and leaned over her. “Are you being coy, Wife?”
“Only a little. As told, I would not wish to so cleave to another it would cause others harm.”
“That is why I feel you down through me, Quintin.”
He was speaking love to her again, she mused, and as his head lowered, she wished she had found words of her own to express her feelings. When he was not distracting her—warming her lips beneath his, enticing her to open her mouth to him—she would tell of her feelings beyond those three words that, as small as they were, held much.
Winding her arms around his neck, she urged his chest down to hers.
His kiss deepened before moving to her ear, jaw, and neck, then he parted her robe and, barely touching her skin as if for fear his calloused fingers would mar her, moved from her collarbone to the base of her throat. And stilled.
Quintin opened her eyes. “Pray, do not stop.”
“What would you have me do?” he rumbled like a great storm in the distance warning that soon it would arrive to bend trees, scatter leaves, and make rivers run swift.
“Show me what you promised,” she whispered of his assurance they could be intimate without making a child. “Show me the ways to love and be loved that I may know the joy without later the pain.”