by Robyn Carr
To have hurt Brennan with her actions filled her with remorse, for he did not deserve such betrayal. His punishment would be easy to bear, especially if it gave him any relief at all from the pain he must surely feel. If only she could have known the consequences of her actions. If she lost her children through an act of adultery, the pain would be unbearable. Sloan and Deirdre needed her. How could she have indulged herself at the expense of so many people she loved?
Oh Dylan, she thought, we were wrong. Dreadfully wrong. How did we manage to convince ourselves it was right? What was it we said, that our act might be wrong, but our love was good and pure? That our strong passion was a gift we carried with us when parted, to make us strong? That to have a small, secret part of each other was better than nothing at all?
Jane, who had allowed Dylan to enter the countess’s private chamber night after blissful night, did not know how deep and long the love affair had been. The tiring woman, so dedicated and true, pitied her mistress’s chaste and celibate life and was swept away by some romantic notion when she considered a brief, safe alliance with the handsome and renowned Lord deFrayne. Even though Jane had accompanied Anne to Dylan’s London lodgings three times, she had not known that there was more to their conferences. And since the nights they shared when Brennan was away were never discovered by anyone, Jane had no idea that there was trouble.
It was quite late when Brennan came to Anne’s bedchamber. She had refused an evening meal, had refused to be dressed for bed, and was, in fact, numb with worry. She could not face the gathering at the evening meal, nor could she find the strength to leave her own chamber and chance Brainard’s accusing remarks or his superior sneer. And then Brennan entered and she wondered why she had expected him to arrive screaming, purple with rage. His anger had never been turned on her, not once. The only sign of a brewing storm was in his red-rimmed eyes, his furrowed brow.
“Poor Anne,” he said. “I fear you have been indiscreet.”
A bowl of frothy syllabub had been left for her hours earlier and Brennan dipped into the flat, stale drink, filling two goblets. Her eyes were glass, her lips still. She could not respond. She had no idea to which accusation she would be responding.
Brennan handed her a goblet of the drink and sat down opposite her. He stretched one leg out in front of himself and leaned back in the chair tiredly. She had heard nothing all through the day and early evening. No yelling, no fighting, no accusing.
“The battle, it appears, is really between you and Brainard. I sent him away, but I think in all my efforts to protect you, I did not help you at all.”
She took a swallow of the drink, lifting the goblet with trembling hands. It did not quite go down, but seemed to sit, thick and painfully, in her throat. “Please tell me what has happened,” she requested politely. She braced herself to accept a beating, or at least a berating, but Brennan’s expression and indeed, his posture, did not hint at anger. Not even the pain of betrayal. His gray eyes were sad, but almost sympathetic.
“What has happened,” he repeated. “Do you realize that in little beyond a month, I will celebrate six decades of life? Almost everything has happened to me. I lost my own father and was created an earl in his stead when I was a young man. But I was ready for the title, the responsibility.”
Anne frowned and took another drink, hoping the brew would stabilize and quiet her inner turmoil. Brennan went on.
“My first wife’s name was Elizabeth. She was seven and ten, I was five and twenty. Our betrothal was written when we were children, but we had a passion for each other that rivaled the passions and lusts in the court of Arthur. Ah,” he said, in a melancholy voice filled with nostalgia, “it was Elizabeth, really, who showed me the depth and intensity of true love, and how long it could last, proven so because our marriage was not long, she died in childbed, poor lass. Ten years passed before I stopped crying out for her in my sleep. Sometimes, I still long for her warmth beside me.”
A tear collected in Anne’s eye and slowly traced a path down her cheek. Brennan’s pain was her pain.
“I never forgot Elizabeth. I searched for her in other women, but there never was another, not even you. I did marry, however, because earls must marry, must beget sons. So a utilitarian wife I did take, a rich young widow named Charise. She was neither pretty nor smart. She exercised no power in my home, nor did she come with child. Do you wonder what Charise did give me? She adored me. Charise was demure in the hall, wanton in my bed. A rather amazing woman. And in all her adoration for me, she forgave my every indiscretion – indeed, she excused me completely if I was inattentive, unfaithful, or even cruel.”
Anne had asked brief questions about his wives, but never had they had a conversation like this one. Never had Brennan bared his soul. Another tear came to her eyes, but she kept silent.
“And I met you. Well,” he laughed, “I saw you. You resemble Elizabeth in a small way. Your slight figure, your black hair and dark eyes. It stirred first a memory, and then a youthful fire in me. I had not felt that way in some years. And I did love you most passionately for a man of fifty years.”
“Brennan, I ...”
He held up a hand, warning her not to speak yet. He drained his cup, made a face at the taste, and dangled the goblet in his hand.
“I loved you passionately. Your beauty and tenacity refilled this dented old cup with fresh wine.” He smiled at her. “And for a long while I was angry that you did not share that passion. I thought that as I played your body with my expert skills, you would grow addicted to the joys of our intimacy. That you did not feel what I felt was a disappointment to me. But it was to your advantage, my dear, that I was not a young man, because in my age and experience I could not overlook all your other qualities. Oh, I have been aware of your devotion, your love. I have felt it as you knead the pain from my sore arms, as you see to my home, raise the children with dedication and deep love. When you run into my arms when I have been a long time away, I have been assured that you truly missed me, that having me near is good for you. I do know that much, Anne.
“What I wanted, though,” he continued, “was for Elizabeth’s loveliness and Charise’s talent in bed. I wanted you to embody the best of my two former wives. It was unfair of me. And,” he said, shaking his head, “impossible.”
She inhaled a sob and her shaking hand came to her lips as tears flowed down her cheeks. She tried to control her weeping, but it was too late.
“Do not let any of this overwhelm you, Anne,” he said patiently. “This conversation is long overdue. We have some small troubles to overcome. Of course, you must never see him again.”
She swallowed hard and wiped impatiently at her wet cheeks. She steadied her goblet with both hands and brought it to her lips. The stale brew caused a wave of nausea to flow through her, and she shuddered.
“You need not be afraid. Not of me, that is. I am old enough now to be both understanding and forgiving. We have all had our, well ... sins. But some of us manage to escape without being exposed.”
“Brennan,” she said, her voice quivering, “what did Brainard tell you?”
“I’m afraid I’ve failed my son again, cherie. He did not surprise me, but I certainly surprised him. You see, he fully expected to enrage me and I imagine he licked his lips at the prospect of seeing you stripped and nailed to the wall for a stoning. But his little piece of gossip did not move me greatly. I have known of your love for Dylan deFrayne.” He paused meaningfully, watching her eyes, but she struggled to keep them blank. How long? she wanted to scream. When did you know? How did you say nothing of my betrayal? “In part, I asked him to see to Ayliffe for your sake. You deserved a reward. For ... your good and faithful service to me ... for giving me Deirdre, my only legitimate heir.”
Anne could not suppress her shocked gasp. Her eyes grew round, startled and a little afraid. Her stomach jumped. “What ... what are you saying ...?”
There was an impatient look that suddenly darkened his gray eyes She co
uld not tell if it was denial, disappointment, or anger. She immediately regretted that she had not argued the parentage of Sloan instantly. Brennan was done with storytelling. He stood abruptly and went to the anteroom that separated their bedchambers to summon Jane, though the hour was quite late and she might have been asleep on her pallet. “Bring us wine, hot and spiced,” he demanded. He turned away from the anteroom door and began to pace.
“I was not always a proper man, Anne. While I was married to Charise I got a woman with child. I meant to settle her with a knight of my household and have her moved away, but Charise, who had not managed to give me a child, begged me to let the woman give birth in seclusion, and give Charise the child to raise as my son. Charise would do anything for me. Anything. And so we went to Charise’s dower estate of Ramsford with my one-time mistress and came back to Ayliffe with a child of our own. Brainard is not a legitimate heir.
“Brainard came here to tell me that Sloan and Deirdre are products of your long love affair with Dylan deFrayne. I suspected Sloan’s parentage, and after a while it was quite obvious whose child he really is. I recommend, for Sloan’s sake as well as your own, that you do what you can to keep him away from Dylan deFrayne. Despite what Brainard says, I know Deirdre is my child of our wedded union. I gave you that child, and you gave her to me. She was not conceived in a moment of ill-directed lust, but of love. Nay, not a passion that you could not resist, but love. No matter what happened before or after, it was only we two, and there was love.”
“Oh, Brennan,” she sighed. She shook her head. Did nothing escape him? Was it true that he endowed her with Dylan, out of gratefulness? Did he mean to slight Sloan?
“I would like to write a document and have it posted. I would like to cast the ungrateful Brainard to his betters in Ramsford. It does not bother me that he has no respect for me--but that the surly colt does not appreciate what Charise did for him, what she did for all of us, makes me angry. Perhaps I am not worthy of my son’s respect – perhaps it is true that children inherit the breeding of their parents--and his mother was not a virtuous or decent woman.
“And, yea, I would like to send Sloan to his father and be done with him, even though it is no fault of Sloan’s that he was conceived as he was. Even though he is a good lad, and loyal. And he loves me and calls me Father with respect, a thing my own son never did. Aye, I admit it would feel rather good to make a clean sweep of it all, and give Deirdre Ayliffe.”
There was a light tapping on the door and he whirled about to admit Jane. He took the tray from her hands, closing the door again, and poured the steaming wine from the flagon into two ornate crystal chalices. He gave her one and took a large swallow of his own. “Not hot enough,” he grumbled. He worried over his wine? She nearly choked on the brew, which to her was tasteless.
“I won’t, of course,” he said, sitting down opposite her again. “Disinherit Brainard and Sloan, that is. It would not be good for Deirdre. And, all this talk of bastardy is rather incidental. When a king can be driven out of the country and declared a bastard by Parliament, then return to revoke his bastardy and kill his enemies, well, I imagine it’s pointless to carry on about it.” He laughed suddenly in a short snort. “Especially in King Edward’s case. He looks remarkably like his father.”
“Brennan, why have you never--“
“Confronted you? Why? I know that your first intimate association with young deFrayne was born of that young love we have all felt. In fact, I still marvel at the strength you displayed through that entire event. I remember quite clearly those weeks – your grief, your fear, your lies. You were very young, yet unbelievably brave. And, of course, deFrayne was out of the country for a long while afterward and I know I had you to myself. It would have been better if you had been able to forget him ... and deny him. But, when I realized it was he, I already knew him. If you were my daughter, I would wish for you to have such a man. In many ways, you never lost that father-like image you had of me. I wish you had, but you did not.”
“Brennan, that is not what I felt for you. If you believe nothing else, please--”
“I know that you loved me, Anne. I’ve said so. I would have to be blind not to realize it. In your own way you were loyal. Now, we must move ahead with caution. You must not see him again, now that Brainard thinks he has a secret to tell. You must not look into his eyes at court, you must not watch him play the tourney. He has done a clever piece of work for the king, and eventually it will gain him considerable fame and wealth, but you must remain distant, you must not notice him. You’ve had your moment, you’ve had a few months during which I imagine he crept to your bed and gave you what you craved most, but it is done now. Over. For Deirdre’s sake.”
Anne looked down into her lap. Oddly, there were no tears. Brennan was her dearest friend in all the world. She wanted to tell him how it was with Dylan, how he made her feel, how their love had survived so much. Her passion for him was like a melody that could not be forgotten, like a poem that never ended. Her love for him was like a bird that flew and flew and could not descend for rest. It did not diminish what she felt for Brennan – her love for Dylan was something she simply had never been able to change.
Was she to understand, now, the strange comfort that Brennan seemed to feel when he held his daughter? Was it because Brennan held no illusions about Anne’s feelings for him that he seemed not filled with pain? He said he had known for a very long time.
“You should not have sent him here,” she said quietly.
“I thought you would thank me.”
She slowly raised her eyes to look at her husband. “I am with child now.”
A brief flicker of shock held him motionless. He was like a stone statue, his mouth slightly open, his eyes blank. “I thought ... Ah! I thought Dylan was more clever than that. That is unfortunate. It will have to be taken care of.”
She stared at him, bracing herself for the final blow. Again he stood from his chair, pacing, thinking.
“I have a little business for the king--it shouldn’t take long. I will not let it take long. Do not tell anyone your circumstances and keep yourself thin, if you can. We will be going away. I’m afraid, my dear, that you will not be able to keep this child. You may give birth in seclusion and I will lend a tidy sum to have it raised in decent surroundings. Do not beg me to send the child to Dylan – do not even bother. I have been gone away from here for many months. There is no passing it off.”
She blinked hard, trying to control her wild thoughts. She could not concentrate on this child now – that would have to be confronted later. She had only just come to terms with the fact, had told no one, and was in the midst of something a great deal more complicated than the birth, still many months away.
“This business with Brainard?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Nothing has changed except that he has been informed of his own, ah, mistaken birthright. It is a draw, you see, and puts you in the middle of the battle Brainard thinks he has a cunning piece of news in Sloan’s illegitimacy, but it is balanced quite evenly with his own. If Brainard goes to Ramsford to verify the news, he will find it is true.
“My plans for Ayliffe are the same. You shall remain the countess, in fact. Heathwick, now there is justice,” he laughed. “Heathwick, plus a fortune in land and gold, is for Deirdre. Sloan has his barony and I have drafted a letter to Parliament and the king, I recommend that Trenton, who was always loyal to me, have Raedelle when my daughter is married and has a husband to take to Heathwick.
“As for you, my dear wife, I suggest you have someone taste your food and never go abroad without a solid guard, for Brainard should surely wish to slay you. He would like to have this earldom, uncut by my wishes.”
“Did you confess Sloan’s birthright?” she asked with great hesitancy.
“Certainly not. I denied it. But Brainard thinks he knows, and if he can somehow manage to get you and the rest of his own dreary past out of the way, of course he will use his information. If p
oor Sloan continues to resemble his father, it will be useless to argue his parentage. You will not have an easy life of it, Anne.”
Sheer wonder caused her to shake her head. “I expected you to banish me ... after a beating ... and worse. ... I did not dare imagine what I had done to my children.”
He looked down at her, a very paternal concern showing in his eyes. Again she wondered how she had gleaned this much, this compassion from a man she had wronged with such a terrible sin.
“You have many fine qualities, Anne,” he said softly. “Among them, you are a good mother. Deirdre will have the best.” She looked into her lap. Her shame could not be more intense. “I wish,” he said softly, “that it had all been different.”
She raised her eyes and stood from her chair to approach him. Her hand was half raised. She had so often laid a comforting hand on his chest and asked how to please him, asked to ease his aching body or troubled mind. “Nay,” he said, backing away from her. “Don’t touch me--don’t even think it. I could endure much, I have even given you a few nights with your lover, you had little enough of each other through all your uncanny, long-lasting desire, and I had, after all, failed you in bed. But now that it’s out, never touch me in a wifely fashion again.”
She backed away as though her hand were a knife that would cut his heart out.
“In fact, tread cautiously on my mercy, my generosity. Keep yourself quiet and small while I attempt to resign myself to the fact that for Deirdre I must take you away and get rid of your bastard. Pray God, Anne, that no one ever finds out. And resign yourself--you will never have deFrayne. Never again.”
He turned away and filled his goblet from the cooled flagon. He gave her a short bow. “Good night, my lady wife. Rest easy now, assured that you are spared.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice humbled and trembling.
“I do believe you are. ‘Tis sad that you were not more wise, not more cautious. I imagine your suffering is as great as mine.”