by Shari Anton
“For a nun?”
“Aye. She is a midwife of some repute, or so I hear from the women.”
Gerard tucked that piece of information away, relieved that he knew of someone, besides Elva, who could attend Ardith should the necessity arise.
Ardith felt his sigh, wondered why he hadn’t slept. Surely Gerard wouldn’t worry over the birth of Meg’s child. He had little at stake in the outcome. Yet his features had softened when looking down at the boy who now shared his name.
Gerard tended to bury the softer side of his nature beneath a brusque demeanor. Few men would ever know of the gentle heart beating within the breast of the young lion. His mate, mayhap, or his cub…
His cub. Daymon. Gerard must have looked on Meg’s babe and remembered his son’s birth, bringing forth the tender smile. Guilt bubbled. She’d thought only of her own feelings when convincing Gerard not to send for Daymon. By what right did she dare try to separate a father from his son?
“Gerard? Mayhap I was wrong. Mayhap you should send for Daymon.”
A grin spread across his face, not the smile of relief she expected, but a grin of victory.
Chapter Sixteen
The following morning, Ardith watched a cart rumble into the yard, wondering if Gerard had ignored her earlier protest and had sent for his son anyway. The child seated next to the cart’s driver could only be Daymon. The resemblance to Gerard, and Richard, who rode beside the cart with a mounted guard of five—all armored—was too striking for the little one to be other than Gerard’s son.
Unless the fur-cloaked child belonged to Richard.
The notion died when Gerard shouted a greeting to Richard, sprinted across the yard from the stable and held up his arms to the child. The little one hesitated, then squealed and lurched forward. Gerard caught him easily in a hearty hug.
Ardith slowly approached the pair, comparing tot to man. Against her will, her heart skipped a beat and began to melt. She hadn’t wanted to lay eyes on Gerard’s son, but now she couldn’t wait to hold him.
Daymon rested his head on his father’s shoulder, a thumb stuck in his puckered mouth. He watched her come closer through unblinking green eyes. She halted a pace away and wiggled her fingers in greeting. Daymon stopped sucking.
Richard dismounted and waved away the men-at-arms and the cart. Ardith paid scant heed, her attention firmly focused on Daymon. With a gentle touch, moving slowly, Ardith ran a finger across the boy’s downy, pudgy cheek, brushing away a smudge of dirt. Her eyes misted when he smiled around his thumb, the only clean finger on the little fist.
Becoming bolder, Ardith nudged aside the fur to circle Daymon’s ear, then tickled lightly under the lobe. He scrunched his neck and giggled, a heart-tugging, merry sound.
“Friends already?” Gerard murmured. His eyes flashed with humor, his mouth curved upward in delight.
“Not yet, but soon. Greetings, Richard.”
“Ardith,” Richard acknowledged.
Content with the progress in befriending Daymon, Ardith tucked the fur back under his chin. “We should take our guests inside, Gerard, where there is warmth and food. They are surely weary from the journey.”
“In a moment,” Gerard said and, unexpectedly, held out Daymon. Without hesitation, Ardith took the child. She could feel Daymon’s tension. He held his body stiff, but didn’t wiggle to be put down. She gave him a gentle squeeze, hoping to convey reassurance.
“Well?” Gerard asked of Richard, in that tone of voice that demanded an immediate response.
“I returned to Wilmont and delivered the land deeds to your steward, as you ordered me to do. I was right about your mother, Gerard. She is most displeased with your decision to gift Stephen and I so richly, though she is less disturbed with the gift to Stephen than to me. As soon as I felt strong enough to sit a horse for several hours without falling off, I left, as I am sure you knew I would.”
Gerard shrugged. “Aye, but I thought you would hie off to find Stephen and Corwin. Why come here? Why bring Daymon?”
Richard tilted his head in a questioning pose. “When you did not return to Wilmont, the thought occurred to me that you were planning to winter here. Are you?”
Gerard nodded.
Richard half smiled and reached out to ruffle the fur covering Daymon’s head. “Good. Then we shall all enjoy some peace for a few months.”
Ardith bit her bottom lip to keep from saying something she ought not against Gerard’s mother. Gerard had told her of what Richard had suffered from Ursula because of his bastardy. The suspicion that the little boy in her arms had been subjected to the same treatment tugged at Ardith’s heart so hard that tears threatened.
Then Richard turned his half smile on her, and the look of sympathy—nay, pity—in his eyes told her that she, too, had been included in his all
Gerard crossed his arms. “What happened, Richard?”
“Nothing that should surprise you. Ursula also knows of the betrothal decree. Her ire over the land gifts is nothing compared to her fury over your agreeing to the betrothal. She has made it known to all and sundry that she will not sanction your immorality, that she would not allow your…Ardith into her presence. It might be best if you do not take Ardith to Wilmont until the decree is satisfied.”
Richard had been about to repeat Ursula’s exact words, Ardith realized.
Your whore.
The memories of every lewd glance, every deliberately turned head, every vulgar word that she’d endured at court came flooding back. She’d felt welcome here in this small manor, with these accepting peasants. She’d done as Bronwyn had advised—closed her eyes and ears to those who would condemn her. Now, because she had shut out the rest of the world so well, had brushed aside the consequences of her selfishness, Richard was advising Gerard to stay away from his own home.
Whore. The word echoed in her head as Ardith turned on her heel and strode to the manor, scorning Gerard’s harsh command to halt. She fought to keep down the bile rising in her throat, blanked her mind in the only way she knew how—work.
“Pip, we have guests. The cart needs unloading. Bring their belongings into the manor,” she announced sharply.
She whipped the fur from around Daymon, letting it fall to the rushes. “Elva, this child needs a bath. Heat water.”
Elva looked askance, but she, too, obeyed.
Ardith refused to think beyond the next task. She would close her mind to all but the immediate need to act the chatelaine seeing to her visitors’ comfort, close her heart to the pain that would overcome her composure if she pondered Richard’s revelation.
She unfastened her beaver cloak, letting it fall atop Daymon’s discarded fur. Daymon squirmed, staring at Meg and little Gerard. Knowing the distraction would keep him occupied for a short time, Ardith plopped Daymon down next to Meg.
“Meg, this is Daymon, Gerard’s son.”
Elva gasped. Ardith ignored her aunt’s reaction, the note of censure.
Keep moving! Keep busy!
Ardith dragged the wooden tub near the fire. The water in the cauldron was barely warm enough for bathing. She dumped the water into the tub. Sensing the next step, Daymon sprang to his feet and ran, but Ardith was faster. After a short dispute over possession of his tunic, Daymon soon sat in the tub, splashing merrily.
She tossed Daymon’s patched tunic of rough wool and the hole-riddled hose into the fire. Gerard would be incensed if he saw them. Flames consumed the filthy garments, clothing unsuitable for the son of a baron, even a bastard son. Who’d dressed the child so? Ursula? Nay, not Ursula. The woman would never touch a bastard child, not even the child of her eldest son. Surely Richard, or some servant, had packed a chest full of spare garments for the boy.
Kneeling beside the tub, she watched Daymon play, letting him soak before plying rag and soap.
The manor door banged open, an almost impossible feat given the size and weight of the oak panels. Gerard. He looked like a storm cloud about to burst The waves of his anger rippled thr
ough the manor.
Only once had she seen Gerard this angry, the day he swung a meaty fist into Basil of Northbryre’s face. Today he was angry at her impertinence in the yard, for defying an order. Mayhap he had cause. She had carried off his son, a grubby little urchin who looked better by the minute, without permission.
Though Gerard’s fists were clenched, she felt no fear. Deep within she knew that no matter how enraged, Gerard would never harm her.
Gerard still stood in the doorway, ready to roar.
“Close the door, my lord. Your son will take a chill,” Ardith ordered, knowing fair well she shouldn’t goad Gerard. How calm she sounded while her insides churned!
“Don your cloak, Ardith,” he snarled.
“I am busy, my lord. Surely, you can see—”
With long strides, Gerard covered the distance between them, scooping up the cloak without altering his step. He snapped it open and settled it around her shoulders.
“Come.”
“Gerard,” she began to protest, but never finished. He picked her up, high up. She landed on her stomach, flung over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
“Elva, care for Daymon,” he barked, then announced to the others, “Ardith and I will be away for a while.” He spun and headed for the door.
“Where…are we…going?” she asked between bounces.
“Out.”
“Gerard…”
“Keep still, Ardith.”
As he strode across the yard, he called out, “Richard, I am taking your horse.”
She nearly swooned when Gerard swung up into the destrier’s saddle. He settled, then pulled her down across his lap. With a slap of heels on horse, they were off.
The ride was wild, a furious race on a monstrous horse. Gerard never slowed, not for sheep, or boulder, or rough terrain. If the obstacle didn’t move out of his way, he guided the well-trained warhorse around, or over or through.
Gerard would kill them both, she was sure, but Ardith couldn’t shut her eyes as they whipped over the land like the winter wind. It was frightening. It was exhilarating. And quickly finished. Gerard pulled the destrier to a halt at an abandoned crofter’s hut.
The horse’s sides heaved like a blacksmith’s bellows. He snorted, blowing out a white cloud of breath. Did Gerard notice the beast’s labored breathing? Nay. He was too intent on dragging her into the hut.
Had there been a door, he would have slammed it, but he settled for shoving a stool aside with his foot. His anger had diminished but not vanished. Ardith drew her cloak tighter and waited for the inevitable roar.
“Why?” he finally asked in a shout less severe than she expected.
“Your son was cold and in grave need of washing so I—”
“Liar. I know why you ran. I want to know why you did not stop when ordered.”
The need to lash out took control of her tongue. “What more do you want of me? I have been obedient! Too obedient! For too long!”
Hellfire, Ardith was beautiful when her temper flared. Azure-blue eyes darkened to flashing sapphire. Wisps of auburn hair had tugged loose from her braid and fallen across her face and into her mouth. With an angry brush of her hand she pushed them out of the way, so as not to interfere with her tirade.
He’d brought her out here to make clear that while he tolerated much, he wouldn’t allow disobedience. Her safety, someday, could depend on immediate compliance. But first he must quell her anger. He took a step toward Ardith.
“Stay where you are, Gerard,” she warned.
“Then come to me, Ardith.”
“Nay! You think to soothe me. Well, I will not be soothed. I do not want you to touch me.”
Never again touch Ardith, or kiss her lush mouth, or feel her body pressed close? She demanded the impossible.
“I want quit of this betrothal,” she said. “I will send a missive to Henry petitioning release, for permission to return to Lenvil.”
She didn’t, couldn’t, mean what she said. The thought that Ardith might be serious prodded his ire.
“Return to Lenvil? I think not. I will not allow you to go back to slave for Harold.”
“Being slave to my father can be no worse than staying with a man I do not like much right now. I could hate you, Gerard!”
“You could never hate me. You love me!”
She gasped and held her breath. He recognized her terror, her vulnerability. His heart pounded against his ribs, drummed a warning against the folly he was about to commit.
“You love me, Ardith,” he said fiercely. “That is what you hate. You hate the weakness of will leaving you open to hurt, to so much pain you can barely breathe.”
He put his fist to his chest. “You hate having your heart in my keeping, afraid I will squeeze the lifeblood from your body, leave you to rot and die. You fear I will take your soul, stomp on it, fling it into the pit of hell.”
“Gerard, please,” she whispered, quivering.
“And there are times when you think your heart will burst with joy, when a touch flings open the gates of heaven, when a whiff of scent sends you reeling among the stars. When we are apart you long for the sound of my voice, for the sight of my face. When we are together you ache for my touch, for a kind word, for a smile.”
She sat down on the stool and closed her eyes. Her shoulders slumped in dismay. He took no pleasure in her raw sorrow at having her secret revealed, but neither was he repentant.
He knelt in the dirt at her feet, like a supplicant begging favor. Where was his pride? Gone, vanished with his reason and judgment.
Gerard grasped her hands, clutched them to his chest. “Ardith, sweet Ardith. How do you think I know your joy and sorrow? Feel how my heart pounds. Do you not know? Can you not guess? Look at me, love.”
Ardith opened her eyes, blinking back tears.
“I fought hard, but I lost the battle,” he admitted. “My heart is as much yours as your heart is mine. Be gentle, little warrior. I am not accustomed to defeat.”
His fierce visage, so beloved and dear, affirmed his feelings. He’d succumbed to a gentle emotion, to love, and hated his weakness. Gerard might love her, but he found no joy in the loving, for reasons very different from her own.
Ardith smiled, a sad smile. “So proud, my young lion.”
“Hellfire, woman, I kneel at your feet, my gut in knots, my heart bleeding. Where is the pride in that?”
“You lost a battle, yet you intend to win the war. Gerard, I beg you, if you love me let me go. Let us part while there are fond memories and no bitterness.”
“Nay.”
She hadn’t really expected any other answer. Gerard considered her as his and he would keep her, and to hell with her wishes. He would keep fighting despite all odds, against all reason, no matter what anyone else advised. Yet she had to try.
“Gerard, no matter that we love each other, the day will come when you must marry—another.”
“We have had this talk before, love, and my feelings remain the same. No woman before you has brought me such joy and peace. No woman after you could please me as you do. Whatever the future brings, you will always be the wife of my heart.”
She sighed. “Oh, Gerard. What am I to do with you? What can I say to make you see the folly of remaining together?”
“You cannot convince me of any folly. So tell me you love me and never again speak of parting.”
“Another command, my lord?”
“One I fully expect you to obey.”
She put her hand on his cheek. “I do love you, Gerard. I suspect I always have, and always will.”
All thought of lecturing Ardith on disobedience fled. She normally yielded to a command without argument And sometimes she anticipated his wishes before he voiced a request. Nor could he fault Ardith for running. Richard’s news had pushed Ardith beyond endurance.
He had no wish to argue with her further. His heart was too full, his spirits too high. With Ardith pliant and warm in his arms, he had other notions
of how to spend the afternoon.
He laid a long, warm kiss on her neck, nibbled at her earlobe. She shivered. The crofter’s hut was cold. He would keep her warm.
“I need you, Ardith. Love me.”
“I do love you, Gerard.”
Using the cloak as a pallet, her gown askew but not removed, Ardith reveled in Gerard’s ferocious loving. With gentle words and warm body he bestowed his love, that precious gift Ardith had never hoped to receive. His eager mouth worshiped her face, her breasts; his skilled fingers stroked her womanhood to near bliss.
And she loved him back. Heart and body he belonged to her, and she declared undeniable ownership of both.
Then he entered, rigid and near bursting.
“Ah, my love, my love,” he whispered harshly.
Ardith soared higher than ever before. The pulsating rapture went on and on.
Gerard collapsed beside Ardith, panting, drained, but oh so satisfied. And he’d felt Ardith vibrate and throb, so hard, so long. Did the admission of love push sex to a higher level of pleasure? Could a man die of ecstasy?
Then he would die young, but happy. He pulled her close and prayed for the first time in many years.
This time, God, please. I need her.
When had she bled last? Three weeks ago, in Westminster. Another week or so, and they would know.
“Gerard?”
“Hmm?”
“These other women you spoke of. Just how many did you attempt to find joy with?”
He smiled sleepily. He thought to tease, to tell her that hundreds of women could attest to his virility, then thought better of goading her temper.
“Not so many as you might think.”
“None still hold an interest for you?”
What was wrong with the woman? Hadn’t he just told her, and shown her, that she was the only woman he would ever want, ever need? He found her doubts a little annoying, but the hint of jealousy in her questions was fairly endearing.
“After being with you, I could not hope to find joy in another woman’s bed. I have neither bedded every female I have cast my eye upon, nor do I intend to. Does that ease your mind?”
“Somewhat. But, my love, be warned. Should you ever play me false, I will separate you from your man parts.”