Baron of Godsmere

by Tamara Leigh

  She was silent so long that were he not attuned to her unease he might have thought she drifted toward sleep. “But…” she finally spoke. “Then you will not… I thought…”

  “As did I,” he growled. “But I do not want you, Elianor. Not this night.”

  “I do not understand.”

  And he did not wish to explain it. But it seemed he must were he to know any peace. “I have had one marriage made of obligation, and if I must have another, so be it. But first let us see if you will lie with me out of want rather than the obligation of paying the marital debt or the hope of overcoming your fear of the unknown.”

  She swallowed hard. “So once more you risk—”

  “You are a widow. There is proof aplenty of consummation. But know this, I will speak false if you gainsay me. And do not doubt I will be more believed than the woman who sought to steal my lands. Now sleep.”

  “Here?”

  She wished to know if she would be allowed to cling to her side of the bed or once more made to lie atop him. “There.”

  He heard the breath go out of her. When she replenished it, she said, “I thank you.”

  It was good that the depth of her relief should so offend, for it helped to temper the desire roused by the sensual strain of her voice across the dark.

  The only sound about them the air they breathed, they lay there. Neither stirring. Neither speaking. Neither sleeping.

  Despite all he had told, she did not trust him, and for that was surely fending off fatigue that could leave her vulnerable.

  Though frustrated that she refused to speak of her marriage to Farrow, Bayard pitied her for whatever had been done to make her thus. And he supposed he ought to pity himself. If she was truly broken—though she had proved she was not entirely averse to his touch—he was the one who would have to live with the jagged pieces of Elianor of Emberly.

  With the morrow’s ride to Castle Adderstone drawing near, he turned his back to her and, after some minutes, made a conscious effort to breathe deeply in the hope of easing her worry sufficiently to allow her to sleep. It was not long before he felt the mattress give as she cautiously rolled away from him onto her side. A short while later, her breathing deepened.

  Unfortunately, his own rest was not as easily found. His mind was too crowded with all that had passed since the night the witch and Elianor had drugged and imprisoned him—the night all had changed. Surely for the worse.

  Minutes mounted, and he knew at least an hour had passed when Elianor’s breathing quickened. Was it another frightening dream like that which had made her vow to kill the one who visited her behind her lids?

  He dropped onto his back and peered across the space between them. It was too dark to more than make out her shoulder that sloped toward her waist.

  “Elianor?” he rasped.

  She whimpered, then there came a scraping sound as of fingernails clawing at the sheet she lay upon.

  He set a hand on her shoulder, and she jerked. “Elianor?”

  Utter silence. Utter still. Then something between a sigh and a moan sounded from her and she quaked.

  “He can hurt you no more,” he murmured.

  Her body continued to convulse, and Bayard considered pulling her atop him so she might sleep content as she had done on the night past. However, not only would he once more find himself tortured by temptation, but were she yet caught up in the dream, she might prove unreceptive.

  “You are safe,” he said and lifted his hand from her.

  She gasped and clapped a hand over his, pressed it back to her shoulder and held it there. “Lianor,” she said with desperation. “Lianor.”

  Bayard wondered what caused her to speak her own name—rather, a semblance of it.

  “Aye,” she whispered, “Lianor.” Minutes later, her breathing eased, and the fingers gripping his relaxed.

  Bayard could have slid his hand from beneath hers, but he did not and thought how wrong it seemed to feel any compassion after all she had done.

  Shifting his gaze to the dark ceiling, he silently called upon the one whom he had pushed to the farthermost reaches of his consciousness alongside Father Crispin whom he continued to deny a private audience.

  Lord, what am I to do with this woman? How am I to make a life with one such as this? More, perhaps, how is she to make a life with one such as me?

  He did not expect an answer, and there was none forthcoming. And yet he felt—or did he hope?—he was heard.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The winter weather was warming. Though the reprieve would be temporary, it was welcome. But it also meant they would reach Castle Adderstone well before nightfall.

  Despite the warmth that had moments earlier made her consider parting her mantle, El shivered, hunched her shoulders, and looked across the field over which their mounts sped.

  Bayard rode at the head of his men, setting a pace on his black destrier that jarred her head to toe and made her long for the bed in which she had awakened this morn.

  This morn…

  She gripped the reins tighter. When she had opened her eyes, dawn had begun to press its face against the oilcloth. It had not been necessary to look around to know her husband occupied the bed, for his hand had been on her shoulder. More disturbingly, her hand had pressed his to her as if she welcomed his touch.

  Though she could not recall her night travels, she knew it likely she had dreamed aloud. And it had shamed her nearly as much as it had disquieted her to know the man who had no cause to comfort her had done so.

  Cautiously, having long ago learned how to negotiate a bed without disturbing its other occupant, she had turned onto her back, causing Bayard’s hand to ease from her shoulder. She would have risen immediately had she not been captivated by the countenance of the man who yet slept. He had looked almost boyish in repose, hard-set mouth no longer in evidence, lashes casting shadows upon his broad cheekbone. Though she had told herself it was only the dim light that made him appear approachable, she had been tempted to lay a hand to his stubbled jaw.

  When he had awakened a quarter hour later, he had found her in the chair on the far side of the chamber. He had not spoken of what had caused him to reach to her in the night, and she hoped it meant he was unaware of having done so. Still, it gave her much to ponder about what it told of his character, once more calling into question the man whom she had believed him to be. Where was evidence of the one who had abused her aunt?

  Bayard had donned his clothes while she averted her gaze, saying very little beyond ordering her to ready herself for departure. And depart they had, following a tense farewell between Bayard and his sister, the latter having been permitted the reach of the inner bailey and, throughout, made to remain at Griffin de Arell’s side. Unfortunately for Bayard, the Baron of Blackwood was no fool, for El did not doubt her husband would have spirited away his sister given the opportunity.

  How he must hate me in this moment, she thought, if not in every moment.

  She returned her gaze to him and was struck by the desire to ride at his side where his horse kicked up sprays of melting snow that caused the air to sparkle as if angels had set themselves around Bayard.

  A short while later, she feared he might need those heavenly beings when a score of riders appeared on the rise ahead.

  Bayard dragged on the reins, raised an arm, and shouted something to his men.

  The beat of El’s heart doubling, she slowed her mount to a trot amidst her husband’s men. Who came? Brigands? Nobles traveling to—

  She caught her breath. They came from the direction of Ellesmere Abbey in the west. If they continued their southeastern course, they would be at Castle Kelling within a few hours. Was it Magnus returned from searching her out?

  The ring of metal announcing the drawing of swords, El tapped her heels to her mount. “Mayhap ’tis my uncle,” she said as she came alongside Bayard.

  He narrowed his gaze on those who had halted atop the rise.

  She touched hi
s sleeve. “Methinks—”

  “I know what you think—what you hope.” He looked around. “Do you truly believe I would be at ease if ’tis so?”

  She blinked. “We are wed, Bayard. There is now an alliance between our families.”

  His eyebrows drew close. “Is there? You forget you are not the first Verdun with whom I have spoken vows.”

  “This time, it shall be different,” she said before she could think better of her words.

  Whatever crossed his face, it was quick to turn bitter. “Aye, this time I am fully aware of what the Verduns are capable of.”

  So he was, and she was to blame. She shifted her gaze to the riders opposite. “If ’tis my uncle, there need be no crossing of swords. I will speak to him and—”

  “You will not!” He took the reins from her. “You will do as told and no more.”

  “But—”

  A movement on the rise drew their regard to the single rider who approached.

  “At the ready!” Bayard shouted as El strained to determine the colors of the tunic worn over armor that glinted with day’s light.

  Bayard also waited for the colors to reveal themselves. Moments later, dark blue and silver identified the one who ventured forth as being of Emberly. But they did not come from that direction, meaning if Verdun was among these men, De Arell’s missive informing him of the marriage had yet to come into his hands. Had Verdun ventured out into winter’s bite to search for his niece? Did he care that much for her?

  She gasped. “He is of Emberly!”

  Bayard was provoked to see such joy upon her face.

  “And ’tis Magnus!”

  The fervor with which she spoke her uncle’s Christian name further riled him. Though she denied that Verdun and she were lovers, he would be stretching himself in a dangerous direction to believe her.

  “Then let us not keep him waiting.” Bayard returned his sword to its scabbard, looked to his men, and thrust a staying hand in the air. Then, gazed fixed on Verdun, he guided his and Elianor’s mounts forward.

  As his enemy’s countenance took form, he wondered why God had made such a man to be so right of face. A man whose looks, like those of his father, Elianor surely found more appealing than those of the one-eyed beast.

  Gut roiling, he looked to her and saw her eyes sparkled above a bowed mouth. He had thought her lovely before, even when she glared and spat, but now…

  Lord, he silently beseeched, if You could not make Elianor of Emberly uncomely, could You not have made her only passing pretty? You know my weakness, and yet you wedge this beauty into my life—so tightly her deceitful person is now one with me.

  Her smile broadened further, revealing for the first time she had all of her straight, white teeth and causing Bayard’s hand to cramp upon the reins. If it was true she wanted Magnus Verdun as Constance had wanted Serle de Arell…

  Though he tried to convince himself it was fury he felt, the emotion flooding him had more depth and reach. Knowing the best way to fortify the walls to which Elianor had laid siege was to properly name this emotion, he acknowledged it as jealousy. And warned himself that if he did not stamp it out, it would blind him as it had once blinded him to Constance’s guile.

  He pulled the reins.

  As Verdun continued his advance, Bayard felt Elianor’s gaze jump between her uncle and himself. However, he kept his gaze upon Verdun, for it was poor judgment to turn one’s attention from a Verdun or a De Arell. Of course, Elianor was also a Verdun and had done worse to him than ever her uncle had done.

  Magnus Verdun reined in, urged his destrier sideways, and looked from Bayard to Elianor. “How fare thee, El?”

  El? Bayard ground his teeth.

  She inclined her head. “I—”

  “The proper form of address is Lady Elianor Boursier,” Bayard tread upon her words.

  Not even the surprise that swept across Verdun’s face marred his looks. But was it only surprise? Or also dismay for what would never again be his?

  Verdun reset his expression. Still, his voice was almost choked when he said, “’Twas told you chose Thomasin de Arell for your bride.”

  “So I did. And I would have wed her if not that your niece”—a reminder of all she would be to him henceforth—“imprisoned me past the king’s appointed day in the hope my lands would be declared forfeit.”

  In that moment, there could be little doubt Verdun had been unaware of Elianor’s plans. Lids wide, mouth slack, he shone disbelief upon her. “Elianor?”

  Bayard glanced at her, saw she had lost her smile.

  “’Tis true," she said. “I—”

  “Agatha!” Verdun growled. “It was that woman.”

  Elianor shook her head. “’Twas at my bidding she aided me.”

  “So you think!” His harsh words surprised Bayard who remembered him as a squire whose refined voice had spilled upon one’s ears as easily as his looks spilled upon women’s eyes. However, what did not surprise was the tic that started at the corner of his right eye and foretold the truth of one who appeared in control. That Bayard had seen when Magnus Verdun had been a prisoner at Castle Adderstone and, years later, when he had protested his father’s decision to break word with the De Arells and, instead, wed Constance Verdun to Bayard. Such a pity—in hindsight—that Rand Verdun had not heeded his son’s argument.

  Magnus Verdun looked over his shoulder to where his men awaited his signal. Were he wise, and if he controlled his impulses, it would not be forthcoming.

  He drew a deep breath, returned his regard to his niece. “I fear I cannot help you, El”—he shot his gaze to Bayard—“other than to give warning, Boursier. Do you harm her as you harmed my sister—”

  “Regardless of what your sister and that witch tell,” Bayard said, “never did Constance suffer the back of my hand or my fists.”

  Verdun’s mouth tensing further, tic more evident, he looked to Elianor.

  She shook her head. “I vow, Bayard has done me no harm.”

  “And yet he tells you imprisoned him.”

  “I did.” She scraped her teeth over her lip. “Forgive me, Magnus. Could I change what I have done, I would.”

  Why her words should disturb him, Bayard did not wish to ponder. If she could, indeed, change what she had done, he would be returning to Castle Adderstone with Thomasin. And he ought to want that—at least, more than he wanted Elianor.

  “I thought you had taken sanctuary at Ellesmere,” Verdun said.

  Then it was that place from which he returned, Bayard realized—had surely gone there to bring her back so the Verduns would not forfeit.

  “You should have, El,” Verdun surprised Bayard.

  Should have? Then he cared more for her than that his lands would have been lost? Once more stabbed by jealousy, Bayard struggled to get out from beneath its weight. However, the thought of Elianor intimate with Verdun would not allow it.

  “Nay, Magnus,” she said, “I would not have you lose Emberly. That I would not do.”

  Bayard bared his teeth. “But you would do it to a Boursier.”

  Before she could respond, Verdun said, “She did do it to a Boursier—The Boursier.”

  “And failed,” Bayard retorted. Of course, had Agatha not returned to murder him, all would be different.

  “Where is Agatha?” Verdun demanded.

  Hating that the man’s thoughts ran with his own, Bayard said, “She is my prisoner, and so she shall remain.”

  “Providing she yet lives,” Elianor said, her tone a mix of accusation and guilt.

  Though Bayard owed her no explanation or easing of conscience, he said, “She lives.”

  “But she has been in the underground for—”

  “She was provided for ere we departed Adderstone.”

  Her eyes widened, and for a moment he felt as if she saw in him what should not be seen.

  He returned his gaze to Verdun. “It seems you shall wed Thomasin de Arell—unless the prospect is as undesirable as you
r niece speaking vows with me.”

  Though the smile that lifted Verdun’s mouth was forced, it made the devil more handsome. “I will not forfeit.”

  “I did not expect so.”

  “Where are you taking my niece?”

  “To Castle Adderstone, the only home she shall know henceforth.”

  The man’s brow furrowed. “Whence do you come?”

  “Castle Mathe, where we were wed on the day past.”

  The man surely tried to contain his startle. “You are only just wed? Then—”

  “The marriage will stand,” Bayard said, and silently prayed the king would allow it. “Lady Elianor and I were first wed on the eve of the king’s day, though then I was led to believe she was Thomasin de Arell.”

  Verdun’s eyes flashed to Elianor. “Elianor?”

  “’Tis so,” she said.

  “All was remedied at Castle Mathe,” Bayard continued. “For the deception your niece worked upon me, I do not doubt the king will be satisfied his demands have been met once he receives the missive sent by Father Crispin and witnessed by Baron de Arell.”

  Elianor caught her breath. “The king is to be told what I did?”

  “Your treachery cannot be hidden, Elianor,” Bayard said, holding his gaze to Verdun whose destrier pranced sideways and snorted, evidencing its rider’s agitation.

  Verdun urged the animal forward. “I would hear the tale in its entirety, Boursier.”

  “Only if you intend to accompany us to Adderstone. Day wanes and there are many leagues to cover.”

  Verdun peered over his shoulder at his men. When he looked back around, the derisive smile on his lips was also in his eyes. “Then I shall accompany you.”

  Bayard glanced at Elianor and begrudged the hope brightening her countenance. “That was not an invitation, Verdun.”

  “It sounded one to me. What think you, El?”

  She looked to Bayard. “What harm, my lord? He is now your uncle.”

  The reminder that Verdun was once again kin was not welcome, and it chafed more that the man was now cast in the role of an older relation though he was younger than Bayard by several years. “As once he was my brother,” he rumbled.