by Tamara Leigh
Though roused by her admission that she wished his touch, he kept control over his body by telling himself consummation was more than skin on skin, more than the easing of an ache. And yet, he did not understand how he knew that, for he had not known it with Constance, and it was not something discussed with Father Crispin. If anything, it was sensed, and only now with Elianor.
“Bayard?” Again, her lips brushed his, his name upon them beseeching him to concur she was not untouchable, to confirm she was not broken.
He slid a hand around the back of her neck, felt the scar that evidenced her defiance of Murdoch Farrow, and nearly slew the moment with an oath.
Elianor, he told himself and drew her closer. He kissed her lightly, and that should have been the end of it—for now. But as if unaffected by the discomfort she must surely feel with her slung arm pressed between them, she leaned into him, returned his kiss, and deepened it with such hunger Bayard’s body longed for the bed and the shedding of clothes.
Not hunger, he silently corrected. It was what he wished her to feel, but he did not think it was that. More likely, it was desperation. Perhaps even the hope that their joining would erase Murdoch. He hoped it as well, but if she was not truly ready, she might, instead, liken him to that miscreant.
He pulled back, and she opened wide, questioning eyes.
With all the regret of a body taut with want, he said, “Not untouchable, Elianor. Indeed, you are so touchable you tempt me beyond good sense. I want you, but after all you have suffered of a man, I would be a fool did I not let you become more used to me.”
Was it uncertainty that flickered across her face? Hurt?
He brushed his mouth across hers. “Years. Time aplenty to know each other.”
She delved his gaze, then lowered her head to his shoulder and was silent so long he began to think she slept.
“Bayard?”
“Aye?”
She tilted her head back, looked to his eyepatch. “Will you not show it to me?”
All that had been light in him began to darken. “For what?”
She reached up, and he tensed, but it was his jaw to which she laid a hand. “You know more of me than I thought ever to tell anyone. This I would know of you.”
He stared at her.
She pressed her lips inward, and her chest rose with a deep breath. “The night we put you in the underground, your eyepatch went askew. I set it aright, but not before I saw your scarred lid.”
Bayard struggled to push down anger. It nearly sickened him to imagine himself weak and defenseless beneath Agatha’s regard and that of this woman who was now his wife. This woman whom it was now his duty and desire to protect from such things.
He felt the quake of muscles gripped tight, the ache in his teeth.
Pride. That was what Father Crispin would name that which smoldered and aspired to flame, that which, if loosed, might undo what had been done this day as he had held Elianor amidst the pain of her own past brought to light.
As he wavered, wariness crept across her face, and she dropped her hand from him. “Forgive me. I thought…”
“The eye is unsightly, Elianor. Are you sure?”
Her eyes widened. “I am not afeared. I vow I am not.”
“Then I will show you.”
She intercepted his hand, pushed it down, and lifted the eyepatch.
She did not startle or catch her breath as she gazed upon the opaque eye that could not even distinguish light from dark, that fiendish thing that caused the few who caught sight of it to cross themselves as if the devil were in their midst.
“Oh, I am sorry,” she breathed, then turned her hand around his neck and urged his head toward hers.
Hardly believing what she intended, he closed his eyes and felt the touch of her lips upon the scarred lid.
“As told,” she said, “it does not frighten me.”
A strain in his chest that had only ever before been so full with the dark emotions of jealousy, anger and grief, Bayard felt strangely vulnerable, a state he did not like. Repositioning the eyepatch, he said gruffly, “It portends well for our marriage,” then eased her off his lap, stood, and drew her to her feet. “Now, lest you have forgotten, the supper hour is upon us.”
“I did forget,” she exclaimed. “Indeed, I am so unpresentable, the meal will be late in being served to your guests.”
“Our guests can wait,” Bayard said. “Now I must needs dress.”
While he donned his garments, Elianor crossed to the basin of water. After washing her face, she returned to her lady’s table, all the while keeping her back to him.
It would not always be so, he assured himself. Just as she did not fear his blinded eye, she would become comfortable seeing him unclothed—and with him seeing her unclothed.
He dragged his boots on, belted on his sword, and returned to where she struggled to pin the veil in place. It was another thing with which he had no experience, but he took the task upon himself and secured the veil as best he could.
Leaning past her, he retrieved the hand mirror. “Acceptable?” He held it before her.
She considered her reflection, then looked up, and he was pleased that though her face still evidenced the strain of spilled emotions, her color was nearly normal and eyes less swollen.
“I thank you,” she said.
He lowered the mirror, offered his arm, and led her from the solar and onto the stairs up which the sound of restless retainers and guests climbed.
Feeling her tense, he paused. “All is well?”
“Do you think your people will truly accept me after what Agatha and I did?”
For certain, they would be wary for a time, but he said, “I accept you, and they shall follow where I lead.”
Mention of the witch calling to mind a question that did not need an answer if he understood Elianor as he was beginning to think he did, Bayard wavered between whether or not to ask it.
If you understand her…
“I need to know, Elianor, do you still believe you owe Agatha for her aid with Farrow?”
Her eyes widened, and the indignation there was also in her voice. “I cannot comprehend why she should hate you so—and now me—but whatever she plays at, I will no longer dangle from her fingers like a puppet whose strings must needs be yanked.”
Her choice of words called to mind the chess match with King Edward, in the midst of which Bayard had felt like a playing piece moved at his liege’s whim. And more so when the self-satisfied knight errant, Sir Francis, had lent his sardonic opinion to the discussion.
“Then we are in agreement,” he said. “She must be rooted out and made to never again work ill upon our families.”
This time, Elianor hesitated.
So there could be no misunderstanding, Bayard said, “If necessary, death will be her end.”
She jerked her chin. “If there is no other way.”
For his wife’s sake, he hoped it would be enough that the witch was imprisoned without cease, but something told him that would not be enough for Agatha of Mawbry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The meal had been tolerable. For the most part, Bayard’s retainers had contained their curiosity over the woman whom all but those who had accompanied Lady Quintin to Castle Mathe had believed to be Thomasin de Arell. Now that it was known Elianor of Emberly was the one who had imprisoned their lord, they were surely piqued over the missing pieces of the tale.
Blessedly, just as Bayard had assured her, they followed his lead, striving to behave as if nothing untoward had made him take to wife the wily woman at his side.
Emberly’s men were a different matter. They did not hide their discontent at seeing the one who had served as lady of Castle Kelling now sit at the high table as lady of Castle Adderstone, wife of the Baron of Godsmere. And Magnus…
There was no disguising his concern for his niece who had come late to the hall with a face that evidenced she had been far from laughter prior to her appearance. From one
of two tables set perpendicular to the high table, he watched her and her husband.
Thus, when Bayard called an end to the light meal and escorted El from the dais, she was not surprised by Magnus’s approach. Regard fixed on his host, he halted before them. “Should I be concerned that my niece has been shedding tears, Boursier?”
Bayard’s hand upon El tensed so minimally she knew he had anticipated the question. Doubtless, he had also been aware of Magnus’s observation throughout the meal.
He looked to El. “As I must confer with my steward, I shall leave you to answer your uncle.”
Pleased that he did not concern himself over what she might say, she inclined her head. “So I shall.”
As he strode toward the immense fireplace before which others had gathered, El saw the nod he gave Rollo who stood at the foot of the stairs.
The big man-at-arms was among those who had kept watch over the hall throughout the meal. Now he grinned and hurried toward the kitchen where he would surely be well fed.
“El?” her uncle said.
She winced over his creased brow. “Ease your worry, Magnus. Providing Agatha is, indeed, gone from Adderstone, all is well.”
“And yet you came to the hall with a face that evidenced you were at tears.”
“So I was, but Bayard is not to blame.” She wished for a better place to hold this conversation, but as it seemed it was to be had before the dais, she glanced around to be certain none listened. “The blame falls upon the one to whom I was yet a maiden when we wed.” The evils of which Magnus knew only by way of Agatha’s loose tongue, for it had been shame enough that he knew without El also speaking of it. “I vow, my new husband was patient and understanding.”
His face brightened as if slapped. “You told Boursier what that…” The tic at the corner of his right eye started up. “…poltroon did to you?”
There was something endearing in his struggle to find the right word to besmirch Murdoch Farrow. Like Bayard, he was not at a loss for names but, rather, ones mild enough to be spoken in a lady’s presence.
“He knows enough,” El said, “as he should, for he is the one who must live with the ills of my first marriage.”
Magnus stared so long she knew she would not like the words forming on his tongue. “Tell me you do not imagine yourself in love, especially after so short an acquaintance.”
It did not seem possible to the El she had been, but to the one she was becoming…
He grunted. “More to the point, tell me you do not have such feelings for one who has long been our enemy.”
She understood his disbelief, but it did not change that something immovable had moved within her and continued to move when she was near Bayard, be it in body or thought. “I cannot yet name my emotions, but I am as surprised as you that they have changed.”
He stepped nearer. “Do you forget what he did to my sister? Or have you determined to no longer believe he ill-treated her?”
His question returned her to the inner walls when Agatha had concluded El had ceased to believe Bayard capable of having abused Constance—and had, therefore, pronounced upon El what was to have been a death sentence.
“Elianor?” Magnus pressed.
She marveled that her name spoken in full should sound so sweet only upon Bayard’s lips. And not merely because he made of it four parts, the first being little more than breath. Because it was he who spoke it.
“Magnus, do not be angry with me, but after all I have not suffered at the hands of a man said to use his fists on a woman, I do not see that in Bayard. I—”
She caught back the declaration that she did not believe he was simply a changed man, but that he had never been such a man. Though a heart that had been too long in hiding urged her to speak it, she was no longer the gullible young woman whom Murdoch had quickly set right when she had tried to tame the devil in him with kindness and understanding. Too, never would Magnus credit her wholehearted defense of Bayard.
“What do you see?” he said.
Though she knew it would make her seem inconstant, she compromised. “It becomes increasingly difficult to believe Bayard was ever that man.”
As his handsome face hardened, she touched his sleeve. “You told that my aunt never spoke of what happened when Bayard found her with Serle de Arell.”
“One had but to look upon her bruised face to know what had passed. And when I cursed Bayard Boursier for the abuse done her, she did not gainsay me. Despite her vow of silence, she could have done so by written word or gesture.”
A thought struck El. Was it possible Constance had willfully allowed such ill to be believed of the man who had taken Serle’s arm, gained an annulment, seen her confined, and had her lover sent on pilgrimage?
“Lest you forget,” Magnus continued, “when Agatha returned to Castle Kelling, she told that Boursier had ousted her because of her protests against his callous treatment of my sister.”
She had heard it from Agatha herself when Magnus had sent the woman to El after the first of two years as Murdoch’s wife. And believed it. But now…
“Bayard told me the reason he cast out Agatha was because he discovered she was providing powders that Constance slipped into his wine to keep him from their bed,” El said. “The same ones Agatha gave me to taint his drink so we could imprison him.”
His eyes widened.
“Magnus,” she entreated, “did not you, yourself, warn me against Agatha?”
His jaw shifted.
“Was she not the one who revealed I had left Castle Kelling while you appealed to King Edward to overturn his decree?”
“Aye,” he begrudged, “and you lied in telling ’twas to Ellesmere you had gone.”
Doubtless, his search for her at the abbey had revealed the falsehood. “I am sorry for that, but you should know Agatha broke my confidence because I insisted on accompanying her to Adderstone to release Bayard. I am certain she hoped you would keep a better watch on me, giving me no choice but to allow her to go alone. And she did—after rendering me unconscious.”
He jerked. “She has struck you before?”
“Aye, though death was not her intent then.”
A muscle spasmed in his jaw. “I warrant she is deceitful and dangerous, but that does not mean she lied about Boursier’s brutality.”
El dug fingers into her palms. “You are so determined to believe he did wrong that though it was at Agatha’s hands I near met my death, you continue to lend credence to her words—she who has shown she hates the Verduns as much as the Boursiers.”
The anger in his eyes flared. Guttered. Died. “I no longer know what to believe.”
Silently, El marveled that she was fairly certain of the truth. In her bid to convince him to give little or no weight to Agatha’s tales and consider Bayard might not have done what was believed of him, she had moved herself nearer her husband’s side—so near it seemed a nudge was all it would take to declare him innocent.
“But even if ’tis true he did not abuse Constance previous to finding her with Serle,” Magnus said, “what of the blows she received that day? One can hardly begrudge him his anger over being cuckolded, but it does not excuse him for beating her.”
“It does not. If he beat her. Thus, that I might know the truth, I would like to speak to my aunt.”
He frowned. “Am I to understand that the man whose character you so eagerly defend has not shared with you the events of that day?”
There seemed both gain and loss in her answer. Gain that it was Bayard’s actions, not mere claims of innocence, that made her argue his case. Loss that for all her leanings toward him, he had not confided that far.
“Though he maintains he never abused her, he has revealed very little of that day. Thus, I have tried to speak with Aunt Constance, but she will not admit me. If you would ask her—”
“As you are inclined to believe Boursier is innocent,” Magnus said sharply, “what gain in allowing you to drag my sister back to that horror?”
“Peace?” he scoffed.
“Had my aunt not willingly entered these walls, I would have little hope of it. But she is here, and I do not think she came only that she might suffer further torment.”
He stared at her, then loosed a sigh that took the stiff out of his back. “Forgive my unbelief. Just as I am disposed to expecting the worst to alleviate the sting of disappointment, I am unaccustomed to seeing you in a state of hopefulness.” He nodded. “I shall speak with Constance.”
She momentarily closed her eyes. “I thank you.”
When the silence between them became uncomfortable, she glanced at the windows high in the walls and noted no moonlight penetrated the oilcloths. “I heard tale it may snow again.”
“’Tis more than tale. Ere I left the training field, more had begun to fall.”
“Then you will stay another day.”
“Were Constance not in our party, we would have set off this morn, and now it may be days ere we depart. God willing, we will not still be Boursier’s unwelcome guests come Christmas.”
Six days hence. “You are my guests as well, Uncle.”
His smile was short-lived, for something drew his regard from her. “I will leave you to your husband,” he said and strode opposite.
“All is well?” Bayard asked as he came alongside.
“I cannot say my uncle is happy.”
“What, besides being snowbound at Adderstone, burdens him?”
Though tempted to tell him she had confessed it was increasingly difficult to believe Constance had suffered abuse at his hands, she feared speaking it too soon—of exposing so much of her heart.