by Robyn Carr
“Minerva has died. The lass is in despair.”
“Well, tell the girl to gather her wits. We’ve more than old Minerva to worry about. There are deFraynes at our gate.”
“Leave the child be,” Ferris said, ignoring her passion and continuing to the stair.
“Ferris, God above, put that wench down and get to your horse. DeFrayne blood is at hand. Isn’t that more important than an old woman’s death?”
“Marcella,” he shouted, his face nearly turning purple. “You have no mercy in your heart.” He shook his head in denial. “Leave my daughter alone!”
***
Ten days passed after the battle at the cross between the deFrayne troop and Gifford riders. Anne’s deep despair and unrelenting tears were passed off as grief over Minerva’s death. Ferris did not speak of the true reason and looked at his daughter with pity. And he watched her very closely.
Four bodies wearing the deFrayne livery were brought to Raedelle, but Dylan was not among the dead. While there was some relief in his spared life, there was little hope, for the guard was tripled and the Raedelle demesne was kept well cleared of any strangers for ten leagues in circumference.
Anne covered her head and picked up her basket, walking through the town and to the gate. The October air cut like a knife, but she did not feel the cold. Her cheeks were chafed from the flowing tears, her eyes red and swollen. Dylan would never again be able to come to her in time – he had been swept away in the gathering storm. A civil war in England was brewing. Her heart cried out for him, but he was gone.
“No one is to leave the keep, maid Anne.”
“I wish to gather late flowers from the wood for Minerva’s grave,” she told the gatekeeper angrily, with determination. “Those were her favorite.”
“But, maid Anne ...”
“Leave the girl alone,” Ferris’s rough voice instructed. She met her father’s eyes briefly. He knew she could not run away, she would be returned by her father’s men. Dylan could not come for her – no one could get through the heavy Raedelle guard. Ferris would do nothing to help her, but he would not see her hurt any further.
Anne went into the wood near the road. She stooped to break a few blossoms from around the foot of a tree, but before she could do even that much, she began to weep again. She looked into the thick trees. Her lips moved over his name. Dylan, my love. Dylan, my love. If only he would appear, turn from the side of a thick-trunked tree and take her into his arms. If only she could recall the day and run with him, holding his hand, through the field to the wood where the horses awaited them. If only she could see his bright eyes, his smile, his sandy hair, just once more ...
She wept, which was all she could do. And prayed, Dear God, was that truly my only chance for Dylan? Will he never come again? Must we live apart and abide their foolish wars? Is it over? So soon?
She did not hear the horse approach, nor was she aware of his presence until she felt the gentle touch of his hand on her back and heard his voice.
“Oh, my poor lass, do you hurt so badly?”
She turned to look at Brennan. Sympathy drew his soft eyes deep and clear. He knelt close behind her, his horse grazing just a short distance away. He smiled consolingly and opened his arms to her. She leaned toward him, filled with gloom yet grateful for any strong arm that would help her bear her lonely burden. As she wept against his costly, impeccable tabard, he gently stroked her back and crooned words of consolation.
“Oh Brennan, I have never felt such loss,” she cried.
“I know, my sweet love. I, too, have felt the pain of loss, and there is little another can do to shield us from it. Even knowing something of what you must feel, I cannot drive your misery away. But if you let me, I will hold you fast and keep you safe until your grief is done.”
“Sweet Jesus, why is it so hard?”
“We have pain and joy, dear Anne, each in its time. It is a wonder, I think, that we live so long, when the misery can be so deep.”
The grief was so intense, robbing her of appetite and sleep, that she thought she might die of it. But each morning she awoke, realizing that life, stubborn and thorny, was winning. She accepted his solace and let him hold her until the tears dried and she was exhausted. At least two hours passed as a mighty lord of lands sat upon the grass near the wood, holding an anguished maiden. Then, as the afternoon sun was fading, he mounted his steed, lifted her onto his lap and drew his mantle around her, directing his mount toward Raedelle’s gates.
Anne was listless and spent, but grateful for Brennan’s attention. Though he was unaware of whose loss she was mourning, his kindness was deep and his love for her was pure. They did not speak through the whole of the afternoon, nor even as they rode through Raedelle’s gates. He only gave his devotion, asking nothing in return. Had she the strength, she would have been sorry that a man so good could not be rewarded with her unfailing love.
Anne relied on the support of his strong arm as they walked into the hall. He paused at the foot of the stair, ready to send her to her chamber with a final word when Marcella descended. “Jesu, does the wench still lament her nurse? I have never witnessed such indulgence as this,” Marcella said.
Brennan frowned and looked at Marcella with distaste. “Madam, you have a heart so cold I find it difficult to believe you have borne one so gentle.” He looked down at Anne. “Eat something that will not upset and take a full goblet of wine. Food and rest will cure most of this ill, and what else, time will heal.” He touched his lips to her brow. “Go on, love. I will be near.”
Anne stole a look at her mother. There was anger in Marcella’s eyes and the hostility seemed to be toward Anne. She had become so accustomed to her mother’s indifference that she could not understand the hostility she saw. Could you hate someone you never noticed? But it occurred to her for the first time that her mother hated her. She could not remember ever hurting her mother, not in her worst mischief as a child. Yet there was no mistaking the cold contempt in those icy blue eyes. She shuddered with revulsion and fear.
“Do not leave me soon, Brennan,” she said, feeling he was her only friend just now.
“I will be near, until you are better,” he said. His eyes appeared brighter, as if grateful that she should need him.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She passed her mother on the stair, but could not look at her again. She followed Brennan’s instructions, ate and drank what she could, and slept deeply. And, much to her relief, dreamlessly.
Chapter Four
Anne might not have recovered from her severe melancholia had it not been for the tender encouragement of Lord Forbes. Brennan’s patient understanding and steadfast presence eased her through the weeks following Dylan’s departure. She grew attached to him and depended heavily on his loyal support. She began, in a way, to love him. It was impossible to be indifferent to a man so kind and devoted. She knew it was not the love of a bride – absent was the fierce tension of longing, the heat of desire. She also knew that she did not display the passion and yearning Brennan would have liked in return. Nonetheless, Brennan Forbes had earned a small place in the heart of young Anne Gifford.
Brennan stayed at Raedelle for a fortnight following his promise to stay near to Anne, and then he reluctantly departed. He hurried through his own business of establishing forces and funds for the Duke of York’s armies, and returned to Raedelle a few days before Christmas. He came laden with gifts. Many of the gifts were chosen specifically for Anne, but the entire Gifford family was remembered generously by the rich and powerful earl.
Anne greeted Brennan warmly, surprised and genuinely pleased by his return. She had assumed he would be occupied during the Christmas celebration, if not by his politics, then with his son. Until he arrived, she had been very lonely, for there was no one for her. Minerva was gone, and Trenton, who in quieter times would talk to her and sing his songs, had been caught up in the excitement of building forces. There was good reason she would be happy to welcome a friend. In her happiness, she
served him promptly, made him comfortable in the common room before a blazing hearth and in the company of many of her family members, and excused herself to change into a better gown. She returned quickly, her dark hair still unbound and shimmering down her back, wearing her best rose-colored velvet.
Brennan had brought a special gift for Anne. It was the marriage ring that had been his mother’s and had been retrieved from the fingers of his two dead wives. As he sensed her growing acceptance of him, he became impatient to impress her, to hurry her. And he couldn’t wait to see the look in her eyes when she spied the magnificent diamond marriage ring.
He invited her to sit beside him and presented the small package for her to open. When she was near and eagerly unfastening the ribbons, he noticed that her gown was frayed at the hem and shiny on the elbows. It was not unbecoming, and Anne could be ravishing in the simplest rag, but he frowned, knowing the dress had either been passed on from her older sister, or had been Anne’s for a very long time. He doubted the latter, for she had grown taller since the previous summer. Taller, fuller, and more beautiful.
“Oh Brennan,” she sighed, her eyes rounding when she spied the ring. “It is so beautiful. I have never seen anything more beautiful.”
The family crest of dark green beryl that Marcella wore shrank and burned on her finger. Her greatest jewels could not compare to this. Although Brennan had arrived with gifts for the entire Gifford family, Marcella forgot herself as jealousy engulfed her. The earl obviously was not negotiating a family pact for honor and power, he was simply smitten with the lass. “God’s blood, but you’ll spoil the wench, my lord. How do you expect her to serve you, weighted with such trinkets?”
Lord Forbes’s head snapped around in Marcella’s direction, and he glared at her. The gem was hardly a trinket – the future Countess of Ayliffe was not a wench. “Someone should spoil her, madam. Certainly you do not.”
“My lord?” she questioned, insulted. Marcella drew herself to her impressive full height, her hands clasped in front of her.
Brennan had felt disquiet, but now he was suddenly incensed. “Did I not lend my purse to a trousseau? I gave you monies to outfit the lass, yet she descends from her chamber in a dress worn for two winters before this. Is this, madam, the attire befitting a countess?”
Marcella scowled, but upon noticing his changed mood, she checked her response. “Your pardon, Lord Forbes, but our family has been beset with a great many obligations – serious matters of state have lately taken precedence over the attire of my youngest child.”
“Anne, is this the finest gown you possess?” Brennan asked her, his anger straining to find full bloom.
“Brennan, please,” she softly begged. “It is of no matter. I have other gowns, finer gowns. Please.”
The pleading in her eyes only further convinced him. As he looked at Marcella, he saw standing behind her a scowling Divina, wearing a very beautiful deep green velvet gown, with a fancy and valuable necklace sparkling on her throat. They treated Anne more like a servant than a daughter. Comparing the two daughters, Brennan was even more confused. Little was required to enhance Anne’s beauty, but much money and attention had seemed poorly placed on Divina. What confusion clouded Lady Gifford’s judgment? How had this woman consigned her beautiful lastborn child to a life of misery among the spoils? Why had they considered the convent for the sweetest, the most desirable of their daughters?
“Affairs of state,” he snorted. “It is usually the lord who handles soldiers and politics, madam. It is to Lord Gifford’s credit that he has one so efficient to endorse letters on his behalf, but I ask you, madam, who cares for the wants of your children? You willingly accept a rich betrothal contract for this young woman, yet you take no pains to make her presentable?”
Marcella took a step toward the Earl of Ayliffe, but he held up a hand to ward her off, shaking his head impatiently. “Never mind. Since I am displeased, I will pleasure myself by having clothing made for her – clothing that I find suitable for a countess. And never, madam, ever refer to my future wife as a wench again.” He took a deep breath. “Guard this precious jewel carefully, Lady Gifford, as though your very life depends on it.”
Lord Gifford did not defend his wife, but watched the Earl of Ayliffe with admiration and gratitude. He had earlier resented Marcella’s interference in this marriage arrangement, but now he was quite pleased. He was inwardly delighted by Marcella’s shocked expression – his wife resented her lost control. Ferris knew, as he had never known before, that Anne would be safe. If ever there was a man capable of loving her as was her due, and perhaps even drawing her desires away from the deFrayne fugitive, it was Brennan Forbes. Ferris Gifford gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod of approval.
Brennan held a hand out toward Anne. “Come, my dear. Come with me for a moment.”
She placed her hand in Brennan’s, some confusion shining in her eyes and her brow slightly furrowed, but she went with him willingly as he led her toward the stair. She found herself in her own chamber, stripped down to her shift and standing behind a screen while Brennan lounged in a chair on the opposite side. A maid knotted cords around Anne’s waist, chest, down her arms, from her hips to the floor, and across her shoulders, while the manservant who had accompanied Brennan sat at a table in the room and translated the knotted cords into measurements to be taken to a tailor. The brisk efficiency left her breathless, awed. Brennan dictated his desires to his scribe – the number of dresses, the ells required for each so that no train or full skirt would be slight, the colors, the styles, slippers to match, furs, cloaks, undergarments, bedgowns, wrappers, wimples, hennins, barbarettes, and caps.
The process took two hours. When Anne finally came out from behind the screen, her gown was still unfastened in the back and she held it on her shoulders. She looked at her future husband sheepishly. “Brennan, you needn’t go to so much trouble. I do not need--”
He cut her off brusquely, still somewhat angry that he had found her appearance as he had, so many months after assigning Marcella this duty on his behalf. Without letting her finish, he turned to his man. “Travel to London immediately to have these items fashioned for Lady Anne. They should be delivered here posthaste. I’m certain my seal will afford good credit. And explain the matter as urgent.” Then he looked at Anne. “Lady Anne,” he said, his poor humor finally dissipating since he had rectified the matter to his satisfaction, “it suits you. You will wear the title well.”
“Brennan,” she said, shaking her head, “you should not have exchanged such angry words with my lady mother.”
“Lady Gifford needs be chastened, my dear. She has not withheld the slightest frock from your mule-faced sister, yet there is no question that Divina does not appreciate her mother’s generosity. God knows, she needs the attention – she is ugly and poor-tempered.” Anne could not help but smile because of Brennan’s criticism. Divina had been so hard on her that it felt rather good to hear her maligned. “Why in the world would Lady Gifford favor her? It is obvious she does.”
“Oh Brennan, you must understand. Divina and I are so different. I could not even be nursed by my own mother. My birth made madam very ill and I was a horrid child – she often says so. I was raised by old Minerva, while my older sister, so much less of a problem, followed madam about, copying all her manners and habits. I did the same with old Minerva. Truly, we were raised by different women and it goes hard on Divina now, for it is almost as if I have stolen something from her--our mother is more mindful of me because of you. All this attention and fuss was to be for Divina.” She smiled sweetly. “She is not as lucky as I.”
Brennan gave a huff of disapproval. “You are too forgiving. As she wiggles the entire Gifford clan nearer the Duke, Lady Gifford should remember that my friendship comes in deference to my desire to have you as my wife, not because I admire her politics. I would expect this family to pledge their arms where they see fit, regardless of betrothals.” He frowned slightly as he looked at his you
ng bride-to-be, knowing that Marcella had made Anne a pawn in a play for power. “I tell you this, Lady Anne – your family will not show you due respect before you demand it of them. Before we are wed, and after, they will use you for as long as you allow. Now, I will not say more at the risk of offending you. But the new gowns, Anne, will please me. You must allow.”
She smiled in happy exasperation. She was not entirely sure that he wasn’t an angel sent to help ease her through this painful and frightening time of her life. “I do not think the subject will arise again. Madam surely knows that you have a quick temper.”
“Only where I perceive injustice. Now, where is that ring?” he asked. She held out her clenched fist and slowly opened it, exposing the glittering gem. He took the ring and placed it on her finger and kissed her brow. “I hope you will wear it with pride, my love, and know how highly I value you.”
Her eyes were transfixed by the sparkling diamond. Tears began to swell. This very fine man should give his ring to a more deserving woman. In her heart she knew she could never return his affection as he deserved, that she would be happier accepting a copper band presented by Dylan. If she were stronger, she would tell him the truth – that she could not love him as passionately as he should be loved. But she was afraid and lonely. Brennan Forbes was the only kindness in her life.
He lifted her chin with a finger. “I love you, Anne. I cannot wait for you much longer.”
“Oh Brennan,” she said, choking on a sob and embracing him suddenly. “I am so afraid that I will fail you. You should have a perfect woman, a perfect wife. I’m sure I cannot be all that you expect me to be.”
He held her for a moment and then looked tenderly into her eyes. “You are the woman I want, and if you let me love you, you cannot possibly fail me.”
She was awestruck that he did not ask for her love in return, nor did he extract any promises from her but that she receive his devotion willingly. If he asked her, she would not be able to conceal the lie: the love she held in her heart was for another. This was not her choice, but her burden. The love she did feel for Brennan was the deep love of a daughter – of fondness, respect, and gratitude. It was the love one felt for a dear and treasured friend.