Lady Of Eve

by Tamara Leigh

  Graeye drew a deep breath, pressed the pieces of flesh together, and pushed the needle in with a hand that was far from steady. To her relief, it easily slid in and out, the only sign of the baron’s discomfort the rigid hold of his body.

  With great concentration, she continued to ply the needle.

  “The stitches need not be so small!” Balmaine snapped when she was barely halfway through. “Space them farther apart.”

  Frowning, she lifted her head and looked into fiery eyes that were too near her own, then quickly resumed her stitching. “You would not want there to be a great, ugly scar, would you?” she asked.

  “One more will do me no harm. Do as I say.”

  She ignored his order and, for some reason, he allowed it.

  After tying off the last stitch, she straightened and flexed her shoulders to ease the tightness that had settled into them, then she opened the pot of salve. As she rubbed the ointment over his stitched flesh, the tension once more escalated and she was grateful when the wound was finally bandaged.

  She retrieved his clothing and dropped them in his lap. “Now I would know my father’s fate.”

  Balmaine lifted the garments and inspected the damaged linen. Then he tossed them at Graeye.

  Reflexively, she caught them.

  “Hold them open over my head,” he said.

  Grudgingly, she stepped near and lifted the garments.

  Immediately, his arm came around her waist, and he pulled her between his thighs.

  Her cry of surprise had Groan rushing forward, snapping and growling.

  “Back!” Balmaine shouted.

  As if he understood the danger this man represented, Groan came no nearer, but neither did he retreat.

  Heart beating so frantically that Graeye feared it might burst, she continued to hold the garments above Balmaine’s head. “How long do you expect me to hold these for you?” she demanded.

  He was silent so long that she was finally compelled to look at him. It was a mistake. Staring into wide pupils rimmed with incredible blue, she felt herself drift to the night past. Remembering his kiss and his arms around her, she nearly closed her eyes.

  “Has Sir Michael touched you as I have?” he asked, and began stroking the small of her back.

  Telling herself she felt nothing, she strained against his hold. “Let me go.”

  “Has he touched you?”

  “You know that is not so!”

  “Do I?” He raised his eyebrows. “I know only that he did not gain your virtue.”

  Shame flushed her with heat.

  “Has he never touched your soft skin nor tasted your lips, sweet Graeye.”

  This time it was anger that warmed her. “Methinks you are jealous, Baron Balmaine.”

  His nostrils flared. “You have not answered me.”

  “And I will not.”

  He held her stare a moment longer, then released her and raised his arms.

  Graeye hurriedly lowered the garments over his head and jumped away lest she suffer further assaults upon her wayward senses.

  Balmaine rose and smoothed his tunic. After retrieving his belt and fastening it about his waist, he strode to the door.

  “What of my father?” she spluttered.

  He turned, raked his gaze over her, flexed his injured shoulder. “I have been thinking on him.”

  “And?”

  “I have not decided.”

  She gasped. “You kept me waiting for that?”

  He shrugged. “I must needs think on it more, but for the offense committed, it would not be undue punishment to take his life.” He let that sit, then said, “Of course, there are other ways to ensure he never troubles me again.”

  “Then I pray God lightens your heart.”

  “Were you true and virtuous, Lady Graeye, I might feel compelled to believe prayer alone could do that, but I fear you will have to look elsewhere for a means of convincing me to have mercy on a man such as Edward Charwyck.”

  Heart feeling as if it were breaking into a thousand pieces that she would never be able to put together again, Graeye turned her back on Balmaine, leaned down, and stroked Groan between the ears.

  Gilbert did not immediately retreat. Staring at her, he acknowledged that he did not understand this enigma who had earned his wrath with her cunning seduction. And frowned as part of him defended her, pointing out that she appeared a gentle soul, that her heart did not seem corrupt as he was so ready to pronounce it. Had not the servants been quick to defend her, bearing witness to the changes she had made and the compassion shown those in need of food and shelter? Had not her healing touch been gentle when it should have been anything but?

  For answer, the greater part of him shouted that she was a Charwyck and her show of kindness was self-serving.

  He nodded. She was not to be trusted. Ever.

  Firm in his resolve, he turned away.

  Graeye did not need to hear Balmaine’s footfalls to know he had left, for it was well told in the easing of Groan’s body. She sighed, crossed the chamber, and went directly to the room containing her mother’s effects.

  After removing the habit for the last time, she stood in her thin chemise and considered the blood Balmaine had left upon the white fabric. If she did not see to the stains immediately, the garment would be forever marked.

  “So it shall,” she whispered and folded it and placed it in the chest.

  Once she had laced herself into the brown bliaut she had worn earlier that day, she returned to the hall. In the shadow of the stairway, Groan at her side, she went unnoticed as Edward’s former retainers entered into the ceremony of homage, offering oaths of fealty to Baron Balmaine. Sir Michael was the last to pledge himself.

  Graeye craned her neck to better see him when he stepped to the dais and, with great sorrow, watched as he knelt and placed his clasped hands within the baron’s.

  “Lord, I become your man,” he said, voice strong with conviction.

  Balmaine answered him.

  Still kneeling, Sir Michael recited his oath of fealty. “Baron Balmaine, I vow to love what you love and loathe what you loathe, and never by word or deed do anything that should grieve you.”

  Balmaine answered him again, raised him to his feet, and bestowed a ceremonial kiss as he had done with the others. Then the servants hastened forward and began to position the trestle tables for the midday meal.

  In the ensuing commotion, Graeye took the opportunity to leave the donjon without drawing notice. When she entered the outer bailey a short while later, she was disappointed to discover Groan had left her side.

  Missing his companionship, she turned her thoughts to the two options available to her. She could search out her father or escape to the falls. She was debating the merits of each, her feet carrying her toward the postern gate, when the knight whom she had encountered earlier at the watchtower appeared.

  She faltered, but when he did not attempt to detain her, she continued walking, and he kept pace with her. She glanced at him and thought him passing attractive. He had none of the dark attraction of Gilbert Bal—

  She halted her thoughts. Of all the men who surrounded her, why had she chosen the heartless baron against whom to measure others?

  She halted and turned to the knight. “What is it you want?”

  His eyebrows shot up. “The baron thought you might require an escort. As he feels obliged to offer his protection until you return to the abbey, I am it.”

  She drew a deep breath. “When will I return to the abbey? Today?”

  “’Tis too late now for the journey. I would guess first thing on the morrow.”

  Then she had the remainder of the day to set her plan in motion. “Sir…?”

  “Lancelyn.”

  “As I do not require an escort, I ask that you allow me my privacy.”

  “Would that I could.” He smiled apologetically. “I follow my lord’s orders.”

  It was on her tongue to tell him what she thought of his
“lord,” but her training as a novice kept the words from her lips.

  “Then I will not see you put out, Sir Lancelyn.” She turned and retraced her steps.

  She had thought he might let her go her way, but it was soon obvious he had no intention of allowing her out of his sight.

  “Truly, is this necessary?” she demanded.

  He drew alongside her. “Simply a precaution, my lady.” He nodded at the donjon. “‘Twould not be unseemly if you joined the others for dinner.”

  “If you are hungry, Sir Knight, pray, satisfy yourself. As for me, I have no appetite that would compel me to share a meal with your lord.”

  His lids narrowed. “You are working very hard at being a true Charwyck, Lady Graeye.”

  She halted, glared at him, then lifted her skirts and hurriedly mounted the steps.

  Sir Lancelyn followed at a more leisurely pace.

  Her rashness was a mistake, Graeye realized, for when she entered the hall, all eyes turned to watch her progress along the perimeter of the room. Though she did not intentionally seek out the baron, her gaze fell straightaway to his.

  Eyebrows lifted, he nodded at her.

  She lowered her chin and lengthened her short stride. When she reached the stairs, relief washed over her, for it was there Sir Lancelyn ended his pursuit.

  She went directly to the small chapel and closed herself in. Here it was cool, the uncovered window allowing the breeze outside to stir the air within.

  On her knees before the altar, she assumed the familiar position of prayer. But though she knew she ought to set herself to that most exalted task, she turned her thoughts to the plans that must be enacted this night if there was any possibility of saving her father and herself. For certain, tomorrow would be too late.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For hours, Graeye feigned sleep upon her bench in the hall. And was miserable for it. She kept her breathing deep and even and mumbled incoherent words when it was necessary to shift upon the hard surface. But though she felt guilty over the deception practiced upon Sir Lancelyn who had positioned himself on a straw pallet not far from where she lay, she more resented his interference and the man who had ordered him to it. If not for his night vigil, she was certain she would have found her way to her father hours ago. Perhaps they might even now be free of the castle.

  Detecting a change in the knight’s breathing, she turned her head and listened for some minutes to assure herself he had, indeed, fallen asleep. Once his state was confirmed, she turned her blanket back and rose from the bench.

  With the exception of the wimple and veil, she had gone to bed fully clothed, wearing even her shoes so she would not have to search for them. Thus, she had only to make her way among those who bedded down in the hall.

  As she lifted her skirts and cautiously stepped around the sleeping Sir Lancelyn, a low-pitched moan sounded from beneath her bench. She stilled, held her breath, and waited to discover if Groan had awakened the man. Blessedly, the knight’s breathing did not change.

  Graeye continued across the hall. Rather than risk the main entrance, she traversed the corridor through which servants carried the food from the kitchen in the inner bailey. As hoped, this door was unguarded, and she had only to lift the bar to let herself outside.

  The air was brisk with the threat of an early winter, lifting her hair and stirring it about her face. It almost made her wish she had worn the wimple.

  She gathered her tangled tresses, pushed them beneath the neck of her gown, and hurried to the front of the donjon. Keeping to the shadows afforded by cloud cover, she made good progress as she crossed the inner drawbridge to the watchtower where the glow of a lantern lit the lower floor.

  Assuring herself all was quiet, she slipped inside. And paused at the sight of the unfamiliar guard near the stairs. Chin upon his chest, he barely retained his seat on a stool.

  Slowly, she moved forward and peered closely at him. In his present state, he was harmless, but all would be ruined if he awakened.

  Repenting as she went, she crossed to a second stool, lifted it, and returned to the guard. “Forgive me,” she whispered and brought it down on the man’s head.

  With a grunt, he toppled to the earthen floor.

  Graeye dropped to her knees beside him. After confirming he breathed without struggle, she regained her feet, pulled the lantern from its hook, and ran up the stairs.

  She found her father in the cell he had earlier occupied. Curled on the straw pallet against the far wall, he remained unmoving when she set the lantern on the floor and crouched beside him. Gently, she shook his shoulder. “Father.”

  He shot up to sitting. Wild-eyed, he looked left and right of her before settling on her face and blinking as if to clear her from his vision.

  “’Tis Graeye,” she said.

  He frowned, then demanded in a voice hoarse from ranting and raving, “For what are you here?”

  She sat back on her heels. “I have come to release you.”

  He looked to the empty doorway. “How did you get in?”

  Panged by her terrible deed, she said softly, “I rendered the guard unconscious.”

  “You?”

  She nodded, but he appeared unconvinced. “Pray, Father,” she beseeched, “let us make haste. We must be gone ere ’tis discovered what I have done.”

  “Gone?” He started to rise. “Not until I have my piece of flesh from Balmaine.”

  She grasped his filthy sleeve. “Would you be put to death before you can work your revenge?” It was the only argument that came to mind.

  He laughed. “Certes, I shall have my revenge. And I shall have it now.”

  “You do not understand.” She leaned near. “The baron is heavily guarded. It will do you no good to seek him this night.”

  To her relief, he seemed to consider her words, and after some moments muttered, “Mayhap you are right. And ‘twould not satisfy me to simply slit his throat. I would have him suffer far longer—him and his murdering sister.”

  Though her stomach turned at the thought of the atrocity he hoped to visit upon the Balmaines, she was grateful to have gained the advantage. “Let us be gone from here.” She urged him to standing.

  Edward swayed, wrenched free of her hold, and lurched toward the door.

  Graeye followed, only to collide with him when he came to an abrupt halt.

  He swung around. “You shall remain!” He thrust a hand to the center of her chest.

  She took two quick steps back to steady herself. But before she could appeal to him to allow her to accompany him away from Medland, he continued, “The king’s man has assured me an escort will deliver you to the abbey—”

  His words snapped off like the dry, brittle ends of a reed, lids narrowed as he lowered his gaze over her. On the return journey to her face, his mouth twisted and further bent out of shape when his eyes lit upon her uncovered head.

  “Why are you dressed in this manner?” he rumbled, so dark and deep it struck her that if the devil were to speak, he would sound like the one who had fathered her.

  Ignoring the inner voice that told her to retreat…to run…to put as much distance between them as possible, she said, “We must delay no longer. Once we are safely gone, we can—”

  “I would know now!”

  Of course he would, and it could mean the difference between escape and capture.

  Graeye crammed her fingernails into her palms. “The habit became soiled,” she said, fairly certain he had been unaware of what had transpired following his attack upon Balmaine when the baron’s knights had supported him between them. “It must needs be laundered.”

  Edward was slow to respond, his enraged deliberation eating up moment after moment that could be put to better use. At last, he said, “Do not move from this cell until they come to return you to Arlecy.”

  “Nay!” The word burst from her, and she immediately regretted it.

  Edward lunged forward and thrust his face so near hers she nearly gagg
ed over the foul breath that sought to enter her every pore. “You dare defy me?”

  Dear Lord, she whispered into herself, he frightens me so.

  Keeping her eyes turned up to his, she said, “I beseech you, do not send me back to Arlecy. I would better serve you at your side.”

  “Serve me? Of what use could you possibly be?”

  “I can cook and sew and write and, together, we will find another to whom you can pledge your services.”

  “Nay, we will not. You will take your vows and do penance for the devil that dwells in you.”

  Realizing the truth could no longer be avoided, and knowing it might unleash the devil in him, Graeye retreated a step, and another. “You have no choice but to take me with you. The abbey is no longer an option. One must be chaste to become a bride of Christ, and…I no longer am.”

  Silence. Dread silence that made her long to run for the door. And then the devil made an appearance.

  “’Twas that dog, Balmaine, who spoiled you!” he roared.

  Graeye was dumbstruck by the accuracy of his guess. How could he possibly know?

  Then Edward was upon her, hands biting into her shoulders. “He violated you!”

  “Nay!” She shook her head. “He did not force me.”

  His bared teeth bared further. “You gave yourself to him? Our enemy?”

  “I did not know it was the baron. ’Tis the truth. I but wanted—”

  One moment she was on her feet, the next sprawled on the musty straw pallet, one side of her face bursting with pain from the force of Edward’s blow.

  “Harlot!” he shouted, then wrenched her upright and landed the back of a hand to the other side of her face.

  Graeye raised her arms around her head to protect it, but Edward knocked them aside and caught hold of her chin.

  “The devil lurks in you,” he spat.

  Trembling hard, she peered into his mad, reddened eyes. “I am sorry, Father. I—”

  He slammed a fist into her belly.

  The pain was excruciating, and she would have doubled over had he not shoved her back onto the pallet.

  Graeye rolled onto her side, drew her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms around her head as she dragged in ragged breaths in an attempt to remain conscious. But the battle was likely lost, she realized as bright colors thrust against the backs of her lids and she registered that one of her hands was damp with blood. Would her father continue to beat her if she lost consciousness?