by Tamara Leigh
Against her palm, she felt the release of his breath, next the kiss he pressed there. “Contentment may be the destination,” he said, “but it is the journey that determines how content one truly is. In future, I shall exercise more patience so your journey may be as sweet as mine and your contentment greater.”
She believed him, just as she believed he was as distant from Murdoch as happiness was from sorrow. “I am certain I will like it even better the next time,” she said. And, perhaps, once she learned how to touch him as he had touched her, his enjoyment would also be greater.
His mouth settled on hers, and as she returned his kiss and felt the quickening of her heart, she wondered if he meant to journey with her again this night. But then he said on a sigh, “Patience,” and lay down beside her.
If not that her injured arm could not bear her weight, she would have turned into his arms and pressed her face to his chest. Instead, she gave him her back in the expectation he would once more draw her against his body.
He did, and settled his hand atop hers where she set it on her thigh to support her injured arm.
Thinking that never had the prospect of sleep seemed as attractive is it did with Bayard so near, she closed her eyes.
“You do know that this night you yielded to me, Elianor?”
It seemed an odd thing to say in the moment, and yet not, she realized as a memory freed itself from her languor. “So I did,” she said warily.
“And did you not say you would yield only to a man you loved?”
She had. But had she been wrong? Or very right? Though she had told Magnus she could not yet name what she felt for her second husband, perhaps she could. It was certainly what Bayard asked of her. But what of his response that night?
“I said it, just as you said that if ever I claimed to have such feelings for you, you would reduce them to ashes.”
He groaned, a sound so boyishly abashed it began to loosen the worry in her chest. “In my defense,” he said, “your actions pushed me to anger of a depth to which I had not descended in a long time.”
Relieved to move away from the weighty question of love, she said, “And in my defense—if I may beg it—I was made to believe The Boursier was a beast.”
When he responded, the boy was no longer in his voice. “What do you believe now?”
The cautious side of her told her to wait, but the other side that had urged her to join her prayers with his in the chapel, sent forth words. “You are not a beast. Never were you.”
The muscles of his chest bunched against her shoulder blades. “You said you had not spoken with your aunt.”
This time it was she who pulled away, turning onto her back to peer into his face. “I have not.”
“Then?”
Glad for the firelight that allowed her to gauge his reaction, she said, “By way of your behavior and deeds—and lack thereof against one who terribly wronged you—’tis I who have determined the truth of you. Thus, I give you what I earlier would not. My trust.”
He searched her face, and when he spoke, it was with uncertainty at odds with the man known as The Boursier. “Even ere you know my side of the tale?”
“Even ere. I yield to my heart that it might bend me into a more pleasing shape.”
His eyebrows rose. “Your heart?”
Strange that it was easy to speak of it, but with Bayard, less and less she feared expressing herself. “’Tis so,” she dared. “Does that please you?”
He slid a hand up her neck, cupped her jaw. “It does. But you do know such talk returns us to the question of whether or not you would yield only to a man you love.”
Of course it did. But though it was Murdoch who had made the language of her heart foreign to her by rendering it mute, even with Bayard it was difficult to move from speaking of those things that moved the heart to speaking of that which moved it most deeply.
Trust, she reminded herself, but still she hesitated—and came upon an easier means of answering. “’Tis you who made it a question, Bayard, not I.”
He was silent a long moment, then surprised her with a laugh that seemed equal parts elation and relief. “So I did.”
And, as ever, she had given him cause. “It seems hardly possible,” she said, “and entirely impossible that it be so soon, but you have done something to me I only thought could be done before I became the property of a man eager to dissuade me of the notion there could be great feeling between husband and wife.”
The slight curve to Bayard’s mouth spread warmth to the places in her that not even the most vigorous fire had reached. “You have done the same to me, Elianor.”
She stared, certain she misunderstood, for this was at greater odds with The Boursier. But then, how many more times must he prove that was not who he was—at least, not with her?
“You do not believe me?” he said.
She pulled her lower lip between her teeth. “I wish to, but mayhap you are merely content after…”
He lowered his head, kissed her. “I knew it ere I made love to you.”
She caught her breath. “Truly?”
“I am also amazed, Elianor.”
Though neither had used the word love, it was there. The new, hopeful Elianor—she of four notes—was certain of it.
Bayard sighed. “But now, with day soon upon us, we ought to seek whatever rest can be had.”
“I am tired,” she said, “but I am almost afraid to sleep lest when I awaken, you are not here with me—that I find this was but a dream.”
He considered her, then put a leg over her and lowered to the mattress on her opposite side. Mindful of her injury, he drew her into his arms, pressed her head beneath his chin, and said, “As I am here with you now, so will I be come morn. I give you my word.”
She melted into him. “How did you know this is where I wish to be—tucked against you, your heart beneath my ear?”
“Because it is where I wish to be with you.” A chuckle rumbled from him. “For two people given to great grievance against the one who ordered them to wed, we are most compatible, my lady wife.”
She closed her eyes, murmured, “Mayhap we ought to thank King Edward.”
“Mayhap, though I am more inclined to thank God for bringing light into our darkness.”
“Then I shall as well.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Sleep, Elianor. I will be here when you awaken.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
No Bayard. His promise forgotten. Or, perhaps, never made.
Preferring the former that would prove last eve was no mere conjuring of the mind, El tried to console herself that if it had been a dream, at least it was not so far removed in time that she found herself in Murdoch’s bed. There was hope in that it was Bayard’s bed, that he was her husband. And one day, she might awaken to his kiss—
She gasped. He had been here before dawn had taken him from her. Kissing her eyes, nose, and mouth, he had softly called her name. And when she had spoken his, he had said, “See, I am here, Elianor.”
She had pressed nearer, thinking he wished to know her again.
“Regrettably,” he had whispered, “my squire is within, and I have duties to which I must attend.”
She had opened her eyes just enough to know it was wasted effort, the solar too dark to make out his features.
“Return to your rest,” he had said and moved away.
As she had hugged to her the kept promise that she would not awaken alone, she had heard his lowered voice and that of his squire’s, the rustle of clothing and creak of leather boots, the thump of logs and crackle of a fire. And just before his departure returned her to sleep, his breath had swept her face and he had said, “Rollo will be outside your door.”
El eased her splinted arm from her side and laid her palm to the mattress where Bayard had embraced her throughout the night. His impression and warmth were gone, but she felt his presence. More, she felt gratitude of such height and breadth it strained her chest.
&
nbsp; Is this You, God? she put to the heavens. Your doing? Or is it but the turning of one season into another—this one landing right side up?
Though more often inclined to believe that last—a mere upending of the dice—what had been spoken upon the chapel’s floor made her recoil from this being mere happenstance.
He instead set to preserving you through the waiting, Bayard had said. And do not doubt you were preserved, Elianor, for are you not here with me?
“I am,” she breathed and tucked her chin beneath the coverlet’s edge. “Dear Lord, I thank You that this is not a dream, that as night gives unto day, dark gives unto light.” She slid her hand to her lower abdomen, pressed her palm to that barren place. “It seems wrong to ask for more, but I beseech You to further bless our union. Pray, open my womb.”
It was a pittance of a prayer, but it was a start atop that made on the night past, and as she had learned with Murdoch, the Lord was unmoved by an effort to more greatly number one’s words.
El turned back the covers and lowered her feet to the floor. Grateful Bayard had seen to it that it was warm air upon her skin, she stood.
The robe she had parted for Bayard hours past, and which he had gently removed, was neatly folded upon the foot of the bed.
Such consideration he showed the woman he had rejected in favor of Thomasin de Arell, the same who had tried to steal all from him. Thus, she was not to doubt he felt for her as told. But though the knowledge thrilled her, it was frightening, for it placed her so near happiness that even if she never laid hands to it, she feared she might lose a vital piece of herself were it removed from her sight.
“Lord, be with Bayard and me,” she whispered and smiled at the realization she was at prayer without consciously seeking it.
Her injured arm making her long for the loan of Lady Maeve’s maid, she donned the robe and began to sort herself. A half hour later, dressed in her tired, loosely-laced gown, her hair’s ills hidden beneath a veil, she determined she would ask Magnus to send her maid to her once he returned to Castle Kelling—whenever that might be, for when she had peered past the shutters, she had seen more snow had fallen throughout the night.
Opening the door, she found Rollo on the other side.
He smiled. “God morn to ye, milady.”
“God morn to you, Rollo. I suppose you are to accompany me to the hall?”
“Wherever ye wish to go, milady, though I am to tell you that ‘un”—he jerked his head to indicate a chamber down the hall—“sent word she would speak with ye.”
El lowered her smile. Though fairly certain he would not refer to Lady Maeve so derogatorily, she said, “Lady Constance?”
“Aye, that ‘un who worked ill upon my lord and his sister.”
Recalling that Bayard had said Lady Quintin had also been injured the day he had found Constance with Serle de Arell, she wondered if her aunt was directly responsible for that injury—had dealt it herself. El almost asked, but seeing something like regret tighten the man’s face, she guessed he had not meant to reveal that.
He wrinkled his nose. “Will ye go to her, milady?”
Though it was what El had sought on the day past, she no longer needed to hear Constance’s account of that terrible event. But since Magnus had secured an audience with her as asked of him, she could not now turn aside. Nor could she, in good conscience, delay the meeting. Having arisen hours after the morning meal was served, her presence in the hall was not required.
“I shall go to her.”
Mouth pressing tight, Rollo turned and led the way to Constance’s chamber.
The man-at-arms outside it was different from the one who had watched over it on the night past, but he was just as familiar.
El halted alongside Rollo. “Horace, would you tell my aunt I have come?”
He shifted his gaze from Rollo to her. “She waits on you, my lady,” he said and opened the door onto a chamber illuminated more by a brazier heaped with glowing coals than the snow-bright light squeezing through the shutters’ seams.
There on her knees beside the bed was Constance, her face in profile where she raised it heavenward.
El took a step back, whispered, “She is at prayer.”
“Enter!” Constance called in a voice more likely to sound from a crone, then looked around.
At twenty and seven to El’s twenty and one years, Constance had aged as all must, her face lightly lined and grooved. Still, her beauty was mostly intact, and if not that years of longing and sorrow had caused her sparkling eyes and radiant smile to fall into disuse, El thought she might be nearly unchanged.
“Come,” Constance beckoned.
El stepped forward.
“Not you,” Horace snarled.
El looked over her shoulder into Rollo’s face that reflected none of the lightness with which he had greeted her this morn. So narrow-eyed and hard was the countenance he thrust at Horace that she caught her breath.
“Where milady go, I go. Or she go not at all.”
Movement drew El’s gaze to the fingers Horace wrapped around his sword hilt. Rollo’s hand returned the warning.
“You can await me out here, Rollo,” El said. “I am safe.”
“Not with that ‘un.” He jutted his chin at the woman beyond El. “That ‘un will cut ye.”
“There is no cause to speak ill of my aunt, Rollo.”
“He may also enter,” Constance called.
“But my lady,” Horace protested, “your brother—”
“—did not set you outside my door to shield me from my niece, nor my old friend, Ro—” Constance’s voice broke, and she cleared her throat. “Let them in and await my summons.”
The man hesitated, and El knew he warred over worry of what his lord would have him do. But then he said, “I can allow it only if the door remains wide, my lady.”
Constance’s eyes flashed, but she jerked her chin and Horace stepped back to allow Rollo to follow his charge.
As El approached her aunt, aware of Rollo’s presence over her shoulder and Horace’s battle-ready stance in the doorway, Constance stood and clasped her hands at her waist. Though during El’s visits to the abbey, her aunt’s gaze most often sought the floor, it was direct and searching.
What was this woman, known to Bayard before he knew El, looking for? El pondered. The same heartbreak Constance had felt while wed to The Boursier? If so, she would not find it upon her niece’s face.
Though El knew she ought to embrace her aunt, despite such displays of affection having been stiffly received during their silent visits at the abbey, the air about Constance was more strained than usual. Thus, El halted several feet distant.
Her aunt continued to search her, but just when El feared her inner turmoil might make itself seen, Constance said, “As Magnus insists that I speak with you, I have asked the Lord to release me from my vow of silence.” That last word was so hoarse it was almost unrecognizable.
She coughed, patted the base of her throat. “Forgive me. These past years, my voice has been used only for whisperings when I could not otherwise make my needs known.” A slight smile turned her mouth. “And, I am told, sometimes I mutter while at sleep.”
El inclined her head. “I am grateful you have granted me an audience, Aunt.” She winced. As a little girl, on the occasions of her visits to Emberly, it had not seemed strange to title the older girl aunt, but as the years had moved El toward womanhood, lessening the six-year gap in maturity, it had begun to feel peculiar. And more so now that they were both women.
“Your arm?” Constance looked to where El clasped it across her abdomen.
“Mostly discomfort. Either I tolerate pain well”—and she supposed she must, having been wed to Murdoch Farrow—“or the break was not so bad.”
“I am glad.” Constance moved toward the chairs before the brazier. “Let us sit, and I will make known to you the man you now call husband.”
El did not follow. “I thank you, but ’tis no longer necessary.”
Her aunt came back around. “Something has changed between you?”
El knew she need not be ashamed, but that did not keep heat from rising to her face.
“Ah, the patience of Bayard,” Constance murmured. “I am not surprised, for ’tis who he is—that is, when he is not moved to jealousy and anger.”
El tensed, felt an answering tension from Rollo.
“On the night past, hmm?” Constance nodded. “Our Bayard can be all consideration.”
El’s stomach lurched, then came the bile of jealousy—an emotion with which she heretofore had little experience. But had Constance intentionally laid claim to the man she had never wanted? In their younger years, she had been likable enough despite an imperious air, and the worst El’s mother had spoken against her much younger sister was that she was overly indulged. However, with the passing of years, El had come to realize that the strain emanating from Odile in Constance’s presence went beyond disapproval—perhaps as far as dislike.
“Do you not think him considerate?” Constance pressed.
In that moment, also privy to dislike, El determined she would not be subordinate where Bayard was concerned. She put her chin up. “I wished to speak with you, Constance,” she eschewed the title of kinship, “that I might learn the truth of what you suffered at my husband’s hands. But that truth is now known to me—and would have been sooner had I not feared it, for far better than you, I am acquainted with the cut and color of abuse. And that is not a garment Bayard wears.”
The woman’s lids fluttered. “On such short acquaintance, you believe what he tells of that day?”
El squared her shoulders. “He has yet to give an account, and if he never does, still I will not believe he beat you as Agatha told and you allowed Magnus and others to believe.”
Constance caught her breath, then asked with what seemed mock wonder. “Do you think yourself in love?”
El kept her chin up, held her gaze.
“Ah, dearest niece, you should not be quick to gift something so precious, especially to one who has yet to prove himself worthy and capable of returning your feelings. Trust me in this, for there is no greater pain than that born of a heart longing for what it is denied.”