She frowned, thinking. Wondering. "Aye," she admitted. She glanced at him. He leaned closer, until she felt the warmth of his breath upon her lips. Without meaning to, without thinking, as if she were spellbound, she tilted her head back and closed her eyes.
"I wonder," he whispered, "what a peaceful marriage might be like between us. Do you?"
She parted her lips, began to speak, but could only stare up at him. He closed his eyes, and hers drifted shut too, and a moment later his lips touched hers, pressing gently.
As with the soft, brief kiss at their wedding, unexpected pleasure whirled through her. A flash of desire, hot and bright, followed. She almost moaned with the urge to surrender to him, but she stayed still and passive.
He drew away and gazed down at her. "Is it so much trouble," he murmured, "to pretend for a little time that we are content, each with the other?"
She stared at him, her heart racing crazily, her breath deep and fast. She leaned toward him, breathless, then pressed back against the wall.
"Juliana," he said. "I beg you to do this for me." She sighed. "Will you expect the same at Elladoune?" He pushed away from the wall. "Please yourself," he growled, and turned away.
"I—I will think on it," she said cautiously. The door at the end of the corridor opened, and a servant woman looked out at them. Gawain grabbed Juliana's hand. "Think fast," he said, and pulled her along with him.
Chapter 12
The bedchamber was shadowed, its windows partly shuttered despite the mild weather. The woman seated in a chair beside the crackling hearth fire wore a blanket over her knees. Gawain walked into the room, releasing Juliana's hand. He looked at his mother, and his heart hurt.
She was thinner than he had ever seen her, though he had been here but a month ago. Dark-haired and brown-eyed like her son, Lady Clarice was still a beautiful woman, though she had lost strength. Her slowly progressing disease seemed to clarify her, illuminate her from within. Each time he saw her, she seemed more spirit than flesh, as if she were gradually transforming on the path toward death.
Her hair was leaden in color, her eyes were sunken and shadowed, but a light burned bright and warm in her dark eyes. The elegant shape of her skeleton was evident in her face and in the thin hands draped over the arms of the chair.
She smiled. "Oh, Gawain!"
"Mama." He stepped forward and bent to kiss her parchment cheek. "I trust God keeps you safe in His hands."
"Safe enough, and better now that I have heard your news from Robin. My dear, you are too thin. We must feed you well while you are here." She peered past him. "So this is your bride!"
"Juliana Lindsay," he said softly. He walked over to take Juliana's hand and lead her forward, silently praying that she would guard her tongue with his mother, if not with him. Like all the members of his family, he feared to stir the shadow of death that hovered so close to his mother.
"Lady Clarice of Avenel," he told Juliana. She nodded, her dark blue eyes huge in her pale face as she looked from him to his mother, and back to him again. He sensed her astonishment. He had not told her that his mother was gravely ill. The words were far too hard to speak.
"Robin said you had married," Lady Clarice said. "'Tis joyful news, and such a surprise. King Edward is full of surprises these days. Henry asked for advice in finding a match for you, and then the king orders you wed to one of his own guests. The Swan Knight and his Swan Maiden. How kind of Edward."
"Aye," Gawain said, understanding immediately the story Robin had brought his stepmother, no doubt at Henry's urging.
"Juliana, welcome." Clarice began to stand. "Come here."
Gawain murmured in protest, reaching out. The servant girl stepped forward to push on Lady Clarice's shoulder until she subsided in the chair, then plumped a pillow behind her.
"Oh, go away, Philippa," Clarice said irritably. "Stop fussing. I am not a piece of glass. I want to greet my new daughter, and you only embarrass me. The poor girl will be frightened if she sees but an old lady in a sickroom. Help me up, Gawain." Philippa looked at Gawain in appeal. He sighed and assisted his mother to her feet.
She was fragile in his hands, but he sensed her stubborn spirit. He steadied her like a worried parent. "Mama, easy—"
"Oh, hush. Welcome to Avenel, Juliana. Our home is yours."
Juliana stood before her. "Lady Clarice," she replied, and bowed her head. "I am so honored by your gracious welcome."
Breathing a sigh of relief, Gawain took Juliana's hand and drew her close to his side. She gave him an adoring smile, sweet and without guile. He smiled down at her in full gratitude.
He wanted, suddenly, to kiss her again. The honey taste of it still lingered on his lips, still warmed his blood.
"Come here, sweeting," Clarice said. "Oh, you are lovely, though grimy from the road. Gawain, did you set a soldier's pace? The girl looks as if she has not rested for days."
"We could have been more considerate," he admitted. "Philippa, will you have a bath prepared in my room for my wife?"
Philippa nodded, and at her mistress's affirmative gesture, left the room quickly. "Did you bring your things with you, Lady Juliana, or will they arrive later?" Clarice asked. "We can find something fresh for you to wear if need be. Your gown is lovely, but looks in need of repair."
Juliana hesitated. "Ah—my things—"
"Will be sent north," Gawain added hastily. "We will stay only a night or two. I have a new assignment."
"In Scotland, I know. Will you go so soon? I hoped you would remain here for a few weeks. You have been away from Avenel for years, but for a few brief visits." She squeezed his hand while he still supported her.
"I know," he said, feeling the loss of those years keenly the more he sensed his mother's waning strength. "But the king is sending three thousand men to Scotland. His commanders have ordered a soldier's pace for every group, as you have noticed. We must depart soon, but I wanted you to meet Juliana first."
"I hoped the king would allow you to stay in England this time or send you to the Welsh border. Not to Scotland again."
"I had no choice," Gawain said softly. "And I do not mind being sent back to Scotland."
Lady Clarice looked at Juliana. "My husband told me you are a Scotswoman. Lindsay... I know the name." She frowned as if trying to recall something.
"My father was Alexander Lindsay of Elladoune."
Clarice inhaled sharply. "Elladoune?"
"'Tis in central Scotland," Juliana answered.
"I have heard of it." Lady Clarice looked at Gawain. "Is she a kinswoman of James Lindsay, the rebel that you—"
"Aye," he said brusquely.
"Do you know my cousin?" Juliana asked Gawain, frowning.
"I have met him," he answered. "I am to be constable of Elladoune and its new garrison, Mama."
"Oh, dear," his mother said faintly. "But why would the king wed you to the cousin of the man who caused you trouble—"
"Do not concern yourself with that. I am sure the king wishes to encourage better loyalty among the Scottish rebels by matching one of their daughters with a loyal Avenel," he said.
"That must be why he recommended the marriage. But surely Juliana and her own kin are loyal."
"Surely so." He sensed Juliana watching him curiously. "Mama, please sit down." She did not protest when he helped her back into her chair. Juliana stepped forward to tuck the pillows behind her. A blanket lay folded on the floor, and she spread that over Lady Clarice's lap.
His mother smiled at Juliana in thanks. "What a lovely pair you two make, the one so pale and delicate, the other so strong and dark. Swan Maiden and Swan Knight." She sighed happily and leaned her head against the high back of the chair. "That reminds me of a legend I heard long ago... well, 'tis no matter. Who would want to hear an old woman's rambling thoughts."
"You are not an old woman, nor do you ramble," Gawain said.
She smiled, but her eyes sheened with tears. "I am happy for you, Gawain." She reached out
for Juliana's hand and took his as well. "For you both. She is kind and lovely, and I can see that she loves you already," she whispered. "Who would not? The girls who rejected your marriage suits were dimwits."
"Mama." Gawain squeezed his mother's hand. "You must rest now. I will send for Philippa."
As he spoke, a plump ginger cat slipped out from under the bed in the center of the room and crossed toward them, tail high, followed by three kittens, white, ginger, and a mix of both. The mother cat leaped into Lady Clarice's lap, and the kittens scampered under her chair. The smallest ginger kitten reached out a tiny paw to bat at the blanket.
"What's this? They should not be disturbing you." Gawain stooped to lift the large cat from his mother's lap. "Easy," he said. "This is no seat for a great beast like you."
"But I like her company," his mother protested.
He set the mother cat down and stooped again to pick up the little ginger one, boneless and warm and tiny, and gently handed it to his mother.
"This one is less burden for you," he said. "I will send for Philippa. Juliana—" He turned to see that his bride had gone down on her hands and knees to peer at the two kittens still beneath Clarice's chair, cooing with soft delight. She straightened with the tiny white one balled in her hands. Her pale, solemn face had transformed and simply glowed with joy. Gawain blinked.
"Oh, my lady, they are so bonny!" Juliana said.
"Bonny, aye," Lady Clarice said. "I have not heard that word for years. Please, sweeting, take the kitten for your own."
"'Tis unsuitable for our journey," Gawain said.
"Nonsense. Pippa can ride in a basket."
"Pippa?" Juliana asked.
"The twins named the white one after Philippa, even though she dislikes cats."
Gawain bent to unfasten the ginger kitten, who was scrambling around on the blanket in his mother's lap. The kitten tried to sink its tiny teeth in his finger, and he disengaged it gently, allowing it to knead its way up his arm to his shoulder.
"This one cannot stay still," he said, while Juliana and Clarice laughed. Juliana nestled her cheek against the curve of the white kitten's head. Gawain set down the tiny ginger, who ran away and came back again, nearly underfoot.
"Pippa is yours now, and you may call her what you like," his mother said. "Gawain may keep his little friend, too."
Entranced by the sound of Juliana's laughter, heard for the first time, Gawain barely noticed that the kitten was playing with the thongs on his boots. He looked down. "Ho there, Sir Bevis, do you think me a great dragon?"
Juliana laughed again, brightly, and Gawain grinned at her.
"Bevis is a perfect name for that one!" Lady Clarice said.
"And Pippa is perfect for this wee sweet thing," Juliana said as she rubbed her fingers over the kitten's head and back, her touch gentle and sure. She glanced at Gawain, her smile so dazzling that her eyes sparkled like stars in the night sky.
His heart, in that moment, melted. She had threatened to be defiant with his mother, yet she played the loving bride so well that he almost believed it himself. Each time he was with her, he saw another facet of her, like a jewel turning and changing in the light. Fascinated, thoughtful, he looked only at her.
The ginger mother came toward them again, stepping haughtily, raising a paw as if to declare that she wanted her kittens with her again. Bevis scampered away, and Juliana bent to pet the mother, keeping Pippa curled securely and happily in her hand.
"Do not touch that tabby," Gawain said. "She is a bad-tempered creature. No one but my mother can touch her."
Even as he spoke, Juliana was down on her knees, soothing the mother's long back with her free hand. The cat lifted her head and closed her eyes, purring loudly.
Lady Clarice smiled. "That tabby avoids everyone, and only tolerates me. I have never seen her take to anyone like that."
Juliana scratched the top of the cat's head gently and smiled. The third and smallest of the kittens, the ginger and white mix, with a touch of gray on the ears, crawled out from under the blanket to rub against Lady Clarice's leg. "This wee kitten loves you especially, my lady. May I name her for you?"
Lady Clarice smiled. "What name shall it be?"
"Marguerite," she said. "For she is delicate like the flower and has a soothing temperament." She bent and scooped up the kitten and placed her on Lady Clarice's lap. The kitten curled up and went to sleep immediately, quieter than her more rambunctious brother and sister.
His mother looked up at Gawain and smiled. "My dear, I think the angels have sent you one of their own for a bride."
Gawain helped Juliana to stand. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, filled with gratitude to her. She had done far more than he had hoped for. She had brought his mother some joy, and he was in her debt. He cleared his throat and nodded.
"Aye," he said, staring into Juliana's deep blue eyes. "She can be an angel indeed—when she wants."
* * *
Sighing loudly, Juliana sank deeper into the high-walled wooden tub, letting the steaming water soothe and envelop her. She hoped Philippa would take her time returning, for she wanted to stay here, undisturbed and peaceful. Deliciously hot and scented with roses, the water coaxed the tension and fatigue from her muscles. Rose petals floated on the surface, easing her spirit further.
She scooped more soap out of a small pot, feeling the flecks of lavender and herbs in the slippery stuff. As she lathered herself and washed and rinsed her hair, she delighted in the fragrance, the texture, the penetrating heat. The abbot's house at Inchfillan had few such luxuries, nor had there been many at Elladoune in her childhood.
The real luxury was that she was utterly alone, thoroughly clean, and beginning to relax at last, after the ordeal of the past weeks. She glanced around Gawain's bedchamber, a pleasant room, though not large, and furnished with a simple elegance. The few wooden pieces were finely carved and polished, the floors were covered with woven rush mats, the lime-washed walls were bordered in a colorful painted diamond pattern, and the window was shuttered below with genuine leaded glass above. A red-curtained bed filled one corner of the room.
That she did not want to think about at all. The sight of the bed, its pillows and thick mattress neatly covered in red brocade, stirred a curious excitement within her. Images of Gawain unclothed, his muscled torso gleaming, went through her mind. Vividly, she recalled the feel of his arms around her, and that simple but astonishing kiss in the corridor.
Groaning softly, she leaned her head back. Whatever the future held, she would face it when it came, rather than fret—or dream—pointlessly now. She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind of the thoughts that tumbled through it.
She must have dozed, for when she opened her eyes, the water had cooled and the room was darker, but for the low fire in the hearth. Climbing out of the tub, she dried herself with a linen sheet and sat on a hearthside stool. Her fine hair dried in the heat while she combed her fingers through it. When it was damp and golden sleek, she braided it over one shoulder.
Philippa had left a gown and some other things on the bed. Juliana slipped on the garments: linen hose, tied at the knees with ribbons; a chemise of pale silk; and a mulberry gown of serge that buttoned at the neck, fit her torso and arms closely, and swelled full over her hips.
The hem, like the white satin gown, was too long—that must be fashionable in England, she thought. Her own gowns at Inchfillan were practical, leaving feet and ankles unencumbered.
She thought of home and the hills and lochside where she loved to walk. Soon she would see Scotland, but she might never have that freedom again. Her life was utterly changed now.
Picking up a white veil of sheer silk and a circlet of braided silks, she set it down again, not eager to wear a married woman's headgear just yet. Instead, she shoved her feet into a pair of leather shoes, tied with thongs, and then walked around the room, touching the dark polished wood of the furniture.
Avenel was a beautiful home,
she thought. Every room was well kept, and the family seemed warm and charming. She could see how much Gawain loved them, and they him. She envied that.
Her own family had been scattered far and wide. Her father was dead now, her elder brothers were with the Scottish king's troops, and her mother had willingly consigned herself years ago to a religious life, leaving her children in the care of her cousin, Abbot Malcolm. For years, Juliana felt as if her family were Malcolm and the monks, Deirdre—the abbot's sister and housekeeper—and Iain and Alec.
At the thought of her little brothers, worry and fear rushed back. She felt anxious again, as if the restorative bath had never been. She had to return to her brothers, and to the rest of her friends and kin. The need was painful and insistent.
Every moment that she stayed in England, she felt as if another strand of her heart pulled, tore, came loose. Scotland was in her blood, was part of her soul, and she had to go back.
She fought sudden tears as a yearning ache assailed her. Deep in her heart, she longed for something else, feeling the lack but uncertain what she needed. Home, certainly; love, perhaps. She thought of Gawain then, and shook her head wearily.
Dear God, she thought, she was tired, and lonely, and frightened. Covering her face in her hands, she sobbed out. As a knock sounded on the door, she lifted her head.
"A moment, Philippa," she called. Sniffling, wiping her eyes, she crossed to the door to undo the iron latch and pin.
She opened the door to Gawain. Startled, she felt her heart bound. He smiled and tilted his head.
He looked astonishingly handsome. A trick of light and shadow, she thought, staring. He was freshly shaved, his cheeks flushed from a bath, his hair damp, the waves brushing the column of his neck. He had exchanged his dusty surcoat and chain mail for a tunic of dark green linen. A soapy fragrance wafted toward her, an herbal scent reminiscent of sage.
He tightened his eyes in concern. "Are you unwell?"
"Tired," she replied, almost undone by his tender question. She stepped back, sniffling. He entered, carrying the pack that had been strapped to his horse's saddle. He walked into the room and set it on the floor. She heard the harsh jangle of the chains tucked inside.
Susan King - [Celtic Nights 02] Page 11