Luc drew a steady breath and stayed silent.
Keeping an even pace beneath clearing skies, they rode into the small port several hours later. A number of sturdy lime-washed cottages, similar in style to Ninian’s, lined the natural curve of the harbor. Hoisted up onto the pebbled beach, several small fishing boats formed a rainbow of color with their brightly painted hulls. The usual cacophony of seabirds filled the air, as did the pungent smell of fish. Luc feigned knowledge of it all, although, of course, he’d never seen the port before.
Anchored a few yards off shore, a small merchant ship bobbed on the waves.
“The Aigle,” Bertrand said, dismounting. “You must have seen it on your way in.”
Luc nodded and eyed the ship with some dismay. The inaptly named vessel was not even half the size of the Marguerite.
Drew grunted, flung his leg over the saddle, jumped to the ground, and pushed a small wooden rowboat into the shallows. Standing knee-deep in the water, he gestured to the two men, obviously intent on ferrying them to the ship.
“Once aboard, you’ll keep your distance from me, FitzGerald.” Luc slid from the saddle and adjusted his sword about his hips. “It’s a long way to Boulogne. Lots of open water between here and there.”
Bertrand gave a small gasp. “Are you threatening me, de Warenne?”
“As you said, you’re no fool.” Luc smiled and nodded at the rowboat. “After you.”
The Aigle left port on the back of the afternoon tide and turned south, hugging the Scottish coast. Basic to the point of primitive, the ship’s accommodations amounted to a simple canvas canopy stretched across the narrow bow. Bertrand tossed a bedroll down, threw Luc a sullen glance, and stumbled to the rear of the ship.
Luc ignored him and found himself a spot on the port side, closer to the bow. From there, he watched the jagged edge of Scotland slide by. A warm sea breeze and startling blue skies helped ease his burden of regret and shame. He fought against a cruel temptation to turn and look west. He knew what he would see rising from the waves on the far horizon. An island, soaked in magic and laden with memories, where a beloved black stallion roamed as free as the wind. But the wonders of Eilean Gheata had been fleeting. Temporary. Little more than illusions. God and weather willing, France and the promise of a rich, enduring future beckoned.
The uneventful voyage took eight long days, during which time Bertrand appeared to heed Luc’s warning and kept to himself. The Aigle arrived at the port of Boulogne on a Monday afternoon. From there, Bertrand secured the services of a porter and the hire of two good horses.
Luc pulled himself into the saddle and looked out across the narrow sea, where a line of chalk-white cliffs edged the English coast.
“Uncle Henri said I’d be able to see the white cliffs.”
“Only on a clear day.”
Luc’s gut twisted as he remembered Giselle’s disappointment. The distance travelled had done nothing to lessen his angst. If anything, he felt increasingly hollow, as if each passing mile had torn another piece from him, leaving an invisible trail on the waves. He heaved a sigh and silently cursed his persistent melancholy. Bertrand, seated astride a bay gelding, drew up beside him. Brow raised, he regarded Luc with a somber expression.
“We have three more days of travel,” he said, trying to settle his skittish horse. “I trust we can at least be civil to each other?”
Weary, Luc met the man’s gaze and gave a curt nod. “I’ll do my best.”
*
“Luc de Warenne has returned, my lord.” Bertrand stood aside and gestured for Luc to step forward. “He has much to tell you.”
“He need only tell me my niece lives, even if it’s a lie.” Wheezing, Henri struggled to his feet, his face twisted in apparent anguish. “Tell me she does, for I cannot bear to hear otherwise.”
“I have no need to lie, my lord.” Scroll in hand, Luc stepped forward, ignoring Bertrand’s quiet snort. “Lady Giselle is, indeed, alive and well. Her father asked me to give you this.”
Henri groaned, took the scroll with a trembling hand, and eased himself into his chair. Luc frowned at the man’s apparent decline. His flesh sagged on his cheeks and his clothes failed to hide the thinness of his limbs.
“God be praised.” Henri gazed at Luc as if seeing a vision. “When the Marguerite did not return to Boulogne, I had to assume the worst. Waiting for news has been like living in eternal night. Fetch me my reading stone, de Warenne. ’Tis there, atop my desk. You are excused with my gratitude, FitzGerald.”
“B-but, my lord,” Bertrand stammered, “do you not wish to hear my—?”
“I have heard all I need to hear for now. Leave us.”
Luc retrieved the stone, handed it to Henri, and gave Bertrand a pointed look. The man’s cheeks flushed. “My lord,” he said, casting a dark scowl at Luc before exiting the chamber.
“Sit, de Warenne, and calm yourself.” Henri gestured to a chair and then snapped the seal on the scroll. “Your sword hand is twitching.”
Luc smiled at Henri’s astuteness. “The man is somewhat trying, my lord.”
“To say the least. But he’s reliable and trustworthy, not unlike yourself, which is why I sent him. However, I’d have quite understood if you’d thrown him overboard on the way home.”
Henri’s reference to trust stabbed at Luc’s tattered conscience. He sat, staying silent as Henri unfurled Giselle’s letter and turned it toward the candle’s flame that flickered on a side table. Holding the reading stone to one eye, Henri squinted at the words his niece had written.
Luc again wondered what the message contained, what Giselle had said. After her declaration to FitzGerald, Luc doubted she’d have said anything to undermine his standing. Nevertheless, his long-held opinion of women as illogical creatures made him wonder. At one point, Henri gave a soft gasp and frowned. A short while later, he shook his head, a smile tugging at his mouth.
“By the blessed saints,” he muttered at last, lifting tear-filled eyes to Luc. “It seems I owe you much, de Warenne. Your survival, and hers, is more than miraculous. Against all odds, it seems. She says she is happy to be with her father, and instructs me to pass on her eternal gratitude to you, and to let you know you’ll always remain in her thoughts and prayers.”
“It was my honor—” Christ. Luc’s smile failed as his throat tightened. “Lady Giselle is a courageous young woman, my lord. I have nothing but admiration for her. Glenross is a safe and beautiful spot, and Laird MacRoth is a man of good heart. I had no qualms leaving her in his care.”
Henri’s eyes narrowed. “Good to hear,” he said, appearing thoughtful as he scrutinized Luc’s face. “Well, I expect you’re eager to take charge of Dieudonné as soon as possible. There is yet more to discuss on that particular issue. Nothing untoward, I might add, and I prefer to leave it till the morrow. I’ve no doubt you need to refresh yourself. As for me, I expect I shall sleep soundly tonight for the first time in many weeks. Welcome back, de Warenne, and may God bless you.”
*
The manor was exactly as Giselle had described.
A circular stone tower stood at the center of the house. Rising four stories from ground level, its smooth walls were accented by three small windows, each aligned directly above the other. Beneath them, at the foot of the tower, an arched doorway of thick oak served as an impressive main entry. A pointed roof of thick, golden thatch sat atop the tower.
Two stories high and built from the same silver-gray stone, the wings of the house stretched out on either side. A gravel forecourt, hemmed in on both sides by stables and utility buildings, stretched out to main gatehouse. The manor was neither large nor imposing, but had a fine, gracious air about it.
Inside, the rooms provided comfort without too much opulence. A large dining hall and reception room took up much of the ground floor, with four bedrooms above, plus the tower rooms.
The manor had an orchard. A vineyard. An herb garden. Several tenant farmers who grew crops and tended lives
tock. A fish pond, stocked with fat trout. It also had a stable with several horses; three fine coursers, a sturdy palfrey, and two brood mares, both the latter in foal to one of Henri’s stallions. Not a day went by that Luc did not think of Minstrel.
Not an hour went by that he did not think of Giselle.
All trace of her had been removed from the manor, yet Luc could not escape her presence, or that of her mother. Giselle had shared her memories with him. His first view of Dieudonné had been through her eyes. It was nigh on impossible for him to look upon anything around his estate without hearing Giselle’s voice and comparing her descriptions.
Sometimes at night, when sleep eluded him, he’d stand on the threshold of Giselle’s empty chamber and imagine her being there. Did anyone at Glenross watch her as she slept, he wondered? Soothe her nightmares? Or did she still reach for him in the night, seeking reassurance?
As for the intimacy, he all but descended into madness remembering how she responded to him. Touched him. Cried out his name in the throes of passion.
Isabeau’s chamber at Dieudonné remained untouched. Although it was the largest room on the upper floors, Luc could not bring himself to occupy it. To his servants’ obvious bewilderment, he had chosen one of the smaller tower rooms as his own.
A little more than a month had passed since Luc had assumed lordship of the manor. On this particular morning, he sat in the main dining hall listening to the steward’s somewhat monotonous voice. The man, seated at his right, had various ledgers spread out on the table. He was saying something about rent owing and the price currently being demanded for pork.
As the steward rambled on, Luc turned his gaze to the leaded window. Giselle had briefly spoken of it. The glass portal was one of the manor’s most luxurious features, by no means common in houses of similar ilk. It allowed sunlight to flow into the room, as it did now, settling here and there in mottled patches.
The window overlooked the gardens, where the blooms of early summer bobbed their colorful heads. It would have been a fine view but for the hindrance of the lead lattice frame and diamond panes of flawed glass. A pity, Luc thought, that something intended to improve a prospect had ended up obscuring it.
Ironic, somehow.
“Jésu, Luc,” he muttered. “You’re such a damn fool.”
He rose to his feet and headed for the door. Behind him, the steward’s monologue stumbled to a halt.
“My lord,” he called. “Where are you going? Is something amiss?”
“Nay,” Luc replied, resisting a vicious temptation to break into a run. “Everything is fine. Carry on.”
Chapter 19
Hamish reined Falchion to a walk as they approached Caisteal MacRoth. It had been a good ride, one that stirred the heart of both horse and rider. Sweat had darkened the stallion’s flanks to near-black. Hamish leaned forward and slapped the animal’s damp neck.
“Good lad,” he murmured as they passed beneath the gatehouse arch. The smell of roast beef greeted Hamish’s nostrils and his belly growled.
“There are few better smells in the world,” he said, and the stallion’s ears twitched. “Well, that’s no’ quite true. There’s naught as sweet as the scent of a woman freshly bathed and ready for lovin’. But I’m sure ye get my drift.”
Jacob met him at the stable door.
“I’ll see tae him, lad.” Hamish threw his leg over the saddle and slid to the ground. “If ye’re done here, ye can get yerself off.”
“Are ye sure, Laird?” Jacob scratched the stallion’s cheek. “He’s in need of a good rub down.”
“Aye, I’ll do it.” Hamish gestured with his head. “Go on. Off with ye. And tell cook I said tae give ye the end piece o’ that beef she’s roastin’. ’Tis always the best part.”
He led the horse into the coolness of the stable and swapped the bridle for a halter and tether. Then he pulled the saddle off, grabbed a handful of clean straw and began to rub the horse down. Falchion dropped his head, eyes half-closed in apparent pleasure.
Late afternoon sun slanted through the open doorway, reflecting off a cloud of dust particles. Other than the occasional snort from one of the horses or a scuffle of a mouse in the hay, Hamish worked in silence. Roastin’ beef. A woman’s lavender-scented flesh. “Add horses tae that list,” he muttered, lifting Falchion’s front hoof to inspect it. “’Tis another odor worthy of mention.”
A shadow fell across the threshold and a prickle of awareness scurried across Hamish’s scalp. He knew to whom the shadow belonged and closed his eyes for a moment. Thank the gods. But by Satan’s hairy arse, ye took a devilish amount of time tae come back. I was startin’ tae think I’d misjudged ye.
He set the stallion’s hoof down, straightened, and turned toward the doorway, brows lifting in shock. The knight’s bedraggled appearance was not quite the image he’d had in mind. “Christ almighty,” Hamish said, taken aback, “did ye crawl here on yer hands and knees?”
Pale and haggard, Luc de Warenne looked like a man returning from a battle. A battle he had lost. He managed something resembling a smile. “It feels like it. I left France over three weeks ago. You don’t seem too surprised to see me.”
“I’m no’ surprised at all.”
“Oh.” A brief expression of bewilderment crossed his face. “How is Giselle?”
“Giselle is well enough.” Hamish bent to brush dust from his breeches, granting himself a moment to swallow against a sudden and unexpected thickening in his throat. “But I’m no’ sure how she’ll take tae seein’ ye and I’ll no’ have her upset.” He straightened again. “Ye’ll tell me, then, of yer intentions, de Warenne.”
“My intention is to marry her.” Another weary smile. “If she’ll still have me, that is, and with your permission.”
Hamish grunted. “And assumin’ I grant my permission, where do ye propose tae live?”
Luc frowned. “Well, er… here. At Glenross. Again, with your permission. You will, of course, have my sworn fealty.”
“Hmm.” Hamish scratched his jaw. “What about yer holdings in France?”
“This is Giselle’s home,” Luc replied. “She made it plain she had no desire to return to France.”
Hamish gave a nod. “Aye, I’m aware o’ that. But that’s no’ what I asked.”
Luc hesitated. “I no longer have any holdings in France, Laird MacRoth. In truth, I am not only a landless knight but penniless as well.” He patted the weapon at his side. “I do, however, have my sword and I believe I might yet own a fine horse, if he’s still running wild on Eilean Gheata.”
“Aye, the beast is still there.” Hamish folded his arms and leaned against the stall gate. “But I confess, this change in yer fortune bothers me a wee bit. What happened? Did Bertie tell tales? Convince Henri ye didna deserve yer wee estate? Are ye back here simply because ye were tossed out on yer arse?”
“Nay, that’s not it at all.” Luc ran a hand through his hair. “Giselle’s letter to Henri negated any of Bertrand’s charges. That said, I deserved to be tossed out on my arse. I had no right to take title of Dieudonné. You and I both know that.”
Hamish narrowed his eyes. “But ye took it anyway.”
“At first, aye.
“And?”
He shrugged. “I gave it back.”
Hamish scoffed. “Odin’s bollocks. Yer conscience bothered ye that much?”
Luc gave a bitter laugh. “If I’d only had my conscience to contend with, I think I’d still be there. But I discovered there was more to it than that.”
“Then explain it tae me, de Warenne. Before I let ye anywhere near my daughter, I’ll know the reason why ye are standin’ afore me right now. I need tae be sure of what brought ye back.”
“Your use of caution is justified, my lord.” His expression sobered. “And before I answer, you should know I had it all. A manor, servants, horses, livestock. A vineyard. Christ, I even had a fishpond. Dieudonné was what I’d always wanted. What I’d strived for all my life.�
�� He heaved a sigh. “But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t near enough.”
Hamish waited, saying nothing. Silence, he knew, was often the best way to tempt words from a burdened soul.
“My conscience bothered me, of course,” Luc continued, after a moment. “I had compromised my honor on many levels. Accepted the estate under false pretenses. For a while, I managed to deceive myself, almost convinced myself it didn’t matter. I thought, with time, my sense of guilt would ease. But I soon realized that without Giselle at my side, the noble trappings were worthless. They did little to fill the emptiness I felt inside. I missed her more than I can say. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. I swear I was happier on that windswept isle of yours than I ever was at Dieudonné. I didn’t know it at the time, but I left my heart behind when I returned to France. I have to be where Giselle is and she is here. I’m in love with your daughter, Laird MacRoth. She is what brought me back to Glenross.”
Hamish blew out a breath and rubbed his neck. “Well, now,” he said, “after a proclamation like that, I’m thinkin’ there’s little else left tae say.”
Luc sighed. “Do I have your permission to ask for her hand?”
“That, and my blessin’.” Hamish stepped forward and squeezed the knight’s shoulder. “Welcome back tae Glenross, Luc de Warenne. Ye look like shite, by the way. Ye dinna smell too grand, either.”
Luc grimaced. “I don’t doubt it. Perhaps I should bathe first.”
“Nay, Giselle willna care about the way ye look. Still, I suggest ye get on yer knees tae plead yer case.”
He grinned. “I will. Where is she?”
“Likely in the solar, restin’.”
“Resting?” Luc frowned. “Has she been ill?”
Hamish gave him a disdainful glance. “Does a broken heart count?”
Luc flinched. “I deserved that.”
“Aye, well, just fix what ye broke. And go easy on the lass. Seein’ ye will, no doubt, be a shock.”
Isolated Hearts (Legends of Love Book 2) Page 22