by Tamara Leigh
The woman pared back her lips. “Sorrier you shall be,” she spat through crimson teeth that flecked the ice with blood. “Upon my word, you will suffer tenfold—”
The dagger betrayed her, causing the ice into which it had been planted to break free. With a great gasp, Agatha went under.
El stared at where she had been, imagined the icy water swallowing her down its gullet, wondered why she should now so deeply feel the cold.
“Elianor! Do not move!”
Slowly, she raised her head. She could see the figures of men and horses on the shore and the torched hut behind them, heard urgent voices. But where was Bayard? How long until he came for her? Would he reach her ahead of the cracks she could yet hear above the tapping of her teeth? Or would she join Agatha in her watery grave?
“Oh, I am cold…” She opened and closed hands she could hardly feel, whimpered at the pain shooting through her injured arm. Longing to hug it to her, she rolled onto her back.
“Be still, Elianor!”
He sounded near. Wrapping her arms over her chest, tucking her hands in her armpits, she tilted her head back. She expected to see Bayard striding across the frozen lake, but he was not there. Perhaps the ice was too precarious. But still, he would try. And for it, he might go into the deep dark with Agatha.
She closed her eyes against the bright moon, called out, “Leave me, Bayard.”
“Never.”
She caught her breath, turned her head. He approached from the far left, cautiously moving toward her on his belly across ice that appeared unaffected by the great shattering alongside which she lay, gaze intent on her, eyepatch askew.
“Go back,” she beseeched. “The ice—”
“I am here, Elianor.”
And he was, his clouded breath mingling with hers, his body alongside hers radiating heat.
“Bayard!” She reached to him.
“Be still,” he said again and, wasting no moment on kisses or embraces, shifted onto his side and unknotted the rope at his waist. Quickly, he worked it beneath her and bound her to him. Then, chest to chest, her injured arm pressed between them, he turned onto his back and wrapped his arms around her.
“Now!” he shouted, and his men slowly began to pull them back across ice that creaked and groaned with their passage over it.
Despite the heat of Bayard’s body and his warm breath upon her scalp, El’s teeth clicked when she asked, “How did you know I was here?”
His arms tightened around her. “I did not. I knew only that Agatha might be found in this place. Though I saw two running from the fire, it was too dark to know you were the one pursued.” Beneath her ear, she heard him swallow. “But when you went out upon the lake and she called your name…”
El shuddered. “I thought you and your men were of Agatha—that there was nowhere else to go. I was so afeared, Bayard.”
“As was I.” He said it with such anguish, it was as if he grieved the loss of a loved one.
But I am not lost to him, nor is he lost to me, she told herself and began to pant, as if she were hot rather than cold. But that could not be. Could it?
“When you are warmed,” Bayard said, “you will have to tell me how you came to be here.”
She nodded—rather, jerked her head, along with the rest of her body. “While at meal, our drink was drugged, and I-I awoke here. Agatha wanted to know what L-lady Maeve told—”
“Later, Elianor. It can wait.”
It could not. There were things he needed to know. “Another was here—methinks the one who t-took me from Adderstone. I heard him speaking w-with Agatha outside.”
“Hush,” Bayard urged as the frozen lake continued to pop and crack around them. “There will be time aplenty to talk once you are safe.”
Would there be? What if—?
Cease! she commanded her frantic thoughts. Bayard is here. He has you. Will ever have you. Ever.
She sipped breaths of air, whispered, “And then you will take me home?”
His arms held her nearer yet. “Aye, beloved, I will take you home.”
“It seems, dear wife, you are partial to setting things afire.”
Elianor, whom he had held close this past hour where he sat against a tree facing the burning hovel that had warmed away her chill, lifted her head from his shoulder and turned her face toward the glowing remains. “Only once with intention,” she said, “and ’twas because I feared you as I should have feared Agatha.”
Though Bayard had thought to lighten the conversation now that each had shared their side of the tale—that which Elianor had learned of Agatha during her captivity, and what Thomasin had told of the woman known to her as Aude—the one who had perished beneath the frigid lake persisted. But then, it was not likely Foucault vengeance would die with Agatha, who had made games of their lives.
As told by Bayard’s stepmother and confirmed by the one Elianor had overheard speaking with the witch, there were others. And just as they were responsible for the deaths of Archard Boursier and Lady Maeve, they would not be content until the Boursiers, Verduns, and De Arells fell at their feet. But if the men Bayard had sent to track Agatha’s accomplice succeeded, one more would be in hand and would, with the proper incentive, reveal what Lady Maeve and Agatha had taken to their graves. However, if the man escaped…
Should King Edward’s forced marriages fail to unite all three families, their shared enemy would make of them strong allies. To root out those who sought to piece together the barony of Kilbourne with violent acts and murder, Boursier, Verdun, and De Arell would have to stand together.
“Bayard?”
He focused on his wife’s face, saw concern in the draw of her eyebrows. Determined to keep the conversation from returning to the one who had boasted she was the eater of light and darkest of night, he said, “Most assuredly, I will have to watch you closely around fire.”
“You fear I will set our bed aflame?” Though innocently spoken, realization quickly cast color upon her cheeks and lowered her eyes.
Bayard lifted her chin and touched his lips to hers. “That you already do, Elianor. And, I vow, I will return the favor.” Indeed, he believed he had almost done so the last time they had made love. She had been more receptive to his touch, had mostly gasped and trembled with good reason.
“I know,” she said against his mouth. “Soon, I hope.”
One more reason to return to Adderstone this night, though of utmost importance was ensuring the wellbeing of those who had succumbed to Agatha’s sleeping draught.
“Are you certain you are well enough to make for home?” he asked, knowing it would be past midnight before they reached the walls.
She nodded. “I am well with it, so long as your arms are around me.”
“Ever,” he said and, a short while later, lifted her atop his destrier, swung up behind, and put his arms around her.
EPILOGUE
Barony of Godsmere, Northern England
Spring, 1334
She would ever be amazed that so much could change in so little time—that what presented as white could be black, that kindness and consideration could prove wrong the ill believed of another, that the wall around one’s heart could be beautifully breached, that the marital debt could be anything but, that one day she would share the man she loved with another. Or so she hoped.
“Do you think we have made a child?” she asked.
Bayard halted in the market beside a stall brimming with trinkets that shone and winked and tempted one to touch. “If we have not”—he pulled her around to face him—“’tis not for want of trying.”
Feeling herself grow warm on this cool spring morn, she determined she would not succumb to self-consciousness. He had kept the promise made her, and if she was now too forward…too bold…too brazen…it was more the fault of the one who had known what his patience and gentle touch would awaken within her. Thus, had she brought to their bed a penchant for setting things afire, he could hardly complain that he did not g
et enough sleep or was late to begin his day. She certainly would not.
Liking the way the sun at his back lit his auburn hair, wishing it did not remind her of that autumn day in this same market when she had sought his ruin, she lifted the arm that had healed well and laid her hand to his cheek. “Still, we should make more of an effort.”
He drew her hand away and kissed the backs of her fingers. Her new ring, a delicate gold band set with a ruby, sparkled. Fashioned for her three months past, it had been well settled upon her hand before the arrival of the king’s missive that had granted approval of their marriage despite what Edward called troublesome circumstances, and which had caused him to offer Bayard condolences for being bound to such a woman as Elianor of Emberly.
“More of an effort,” her husband mused. “That I will not argue, but methinks we should first attend to the task for which you requested my assistance.”
Smiling, she looked over her shoulder at the market that grew more crowded toward the nooning hour and caught sight of Rollo before a stall that was hazy with the heat and scent of freshly baked pies. At his side was El’s maid, sent to her at Adderstone as promised. Of late, something lovely seemed to be happening between the two, slowly shaping itself into what might be a future together. And El could not be more pleased.
Shifting her gaze to a table piled high with cloth, she said, “I am thinking darkest blue.”
“The color of Verdun,” Bayard said with mild censure.
Blue was flown by the Baron of Emberly, but that was not the reason she proposed it. “Though dark green would suit your sister equally well, I do not think she is of a mind to wear her betrothed’s colors.” And had not been of a mind since De Arell had delivered her home to Adderstone the day after his daughter had revealed to him the death of Quintin’s mother.
During the reunion of brother and sister, Lady Quintin had seemed more approachable than when El had encountered her at Castle Mathe. Too, she had been less disagreeable toward the man who had held her prisoner. But when told of her mother’s death, all had changed. If it was true what Lady Thomasin had alluded to regarding Lady Quintin’s attraction for Griffin de Arell, it seemed true no longer. The Baron of Blackwood was to blame for her not being with her mother whose murder, she believed, might otherwise have been prevented.
“I question whether Quintin is of a mind to wear any color other than black,” Bayard said.
As did El, but the delay granted his sister in wedding so she might mourn her mother would soon end. King Edward wanted another marriage, and unless Lady Thomasin and Magnus accommodated him, it was Quintin and Griffin de Arell who would next find their lives pledged to each other. And it did not portend well to wed in black.
“If it is possible to persuade your sister to shed her mourning clothes,” El said, “methinks the darkest, loveliest blue will do it.” Among her discoveries about Quintin, who had become fairly receptive to her sister-in-law, was the woman’s ability to be moved by beautiful things.
Bayard arched an eyebrow. “Certes, your uncle would not object.”
That bothered El as well. Magnus had visited Adderstone a fortnight past to discuss the Foucault threat that had yet to raise its head again—though the man who had taken El from Adderstone had escaped those sent to track him down. During her uncle’s stay, Lady Quintin had been aloof, and yet El had also sensed an attraction between Magnus and her. It did not bode well.
“Unfortunately,” Bayard continued, “though your uncle might prefer to take my sister to wife, and she would take him to husband, there is nothing for it. The Verduns must make a match with the De Arells.”
El nodded. That joining of families could happen if Bayard’s efforts on behalf of Constance and Serle were successful, but such a union would not likely satisfy the king who had decreed that the barons themselves wed into one another’s house.
“King Edward,” Bayard growled. “He is hardly better than Agatha, making pawns and puppets of us all.”
El stepped nearer him. “For us, that proved a good thing.”
Glower easing, he peered into her face. “Only because you defied the king. Had you not, Thomasin would be a Boursier, and you would be a De Arell.”
“Ah, but who can say we would not have been as surprised to make a good match with them as we were surprised with the match we did make?” she teased.
Mouth beginning to curve, he lowered his head. “I say it.” His lips brushed her ear. “Whether or not we were destined for each other, there is no better match for me, Elianor of Godsmere.”
“Lianor,” she murmured into his ear. “Have I told you how I love the way you speak my name?”
He drew back, and his smile made her heart flutter. “Just last eve. Have I told you how I love you?”
“Just last eve.” She slid her arms around his neck. “But, pray, tell me again.”
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed Elianor and Bayard’s love story. If you would consider posting a review of Baron Of Godsmere at your online retailer—even if only a sentence or two--I would truly appreciate it. As always, thank you for joining me in the age of castles, knights, ladies, destriers, deep, dark woods and--dare I mention it?--outdoor plumbing. Wishing you many more hours of inspiring, happily-ever-after reading ~ Tamara
EXCERPT
LADY OF CONQUEST
A “clean read” rewrite of the 1996 Bantam Books bestseller Saxon Bride
Available Spring 2015
CHAPTER ONE
England of The Norman Conquest
October, 1068
“A thousand times I curse you!” the fallen knight shouted at the one who cradled his head in her lap, whose blue skirts were stained purple with his blood.
Beginning to shake, he lifted an arm, dragged free the dagger protruding from his chest, and dropped it to the dirt road upon which he lay. Pressing a hand over the wound, he returned his gaze to the woman.
“To eternity I curse you, Rhiannyn of Etcheverry.” He drew a gurgling breath, and when next he spoke, blood discolored his teeth. “If you will not belong to a Pendery, you will belong to no man—your days and nights yawning pits of deepest despair. Never again to know…”
“Thomas,” she whispered.
“Never again to know the love of a man. Never to hold a child at your breast.”
Throat tight with suppressed sobs, Rhiannyn brushed the tawny hair off his damp brow. “Forgive me, Thomas. Pray, forgive me.”
“The devil forgive you!” He raised his bloodied hand and clamped his fingers on her neck.
Though death surely approached, she did not doubt he could strangle the life from her, but she did not try to break free. It would be no less than she deserved if all ended here, and she almost wished it would. Then the torment of these past years that had seen so many dead, would also end.
As she drew breath through her narrowed airway, she longed to relive these past hours. Were it possible, she would not run from Thomas, and he would not now be dying in her arms.
Warm tears slid down her cold face. “I vow I did not want this. I—”
“Curse you!” He released her neck and dragged his bloodied hand down her bodice, pressed it between her breasts and held it there as if to feel the beat of her heart. Then he drew a wheezing breath, shifted his gaze to the gray sky, and shouted, “Avenge me, Brother!”
“Thomas,” Rhiannyn entreated.
His body convulsed violently. Moments later, his arm dropped to his side and he did not move again.
Whimpering, Rhiannyn stared into sightless eyes that would never again darken with annoyance at her defiance. Nor smile at her.
She turned her face to the heavens. “Why?” she asked, and again and again. And still she was asking when the advancing storm rolled out its thunder.
“Now more will die!” she cried. “Surely that cannot be Your will.”
Chill droplets fell, spotting her, mixing fresh water with salt tears—gentle, as if heaven wept with her. But if it did,
its grief was vast, for the rain soon came hard and fast, drenching her.
At the sound of approaching horses, she did not look around. Uncaring whether those who came were her kith or Thomas’s avenging men, she bent over the man in her lap.
“I will belong to none,” she said. “No children will I bear.” There would only be the great emptiness to which he had banished her, an emptiness complete now that she had lost not only her family to the conquering Normans, but the family she might have made with another.
The voices that neared were raised in anger, the words recognizable as the French of the Normans.
Fear-tainted relief swept her. She would not long be burdened by guilt, for with the arrival of the Pendery knights, her own death was imminent.
Though she thought herself prepared for the fury, she cried out when hands wrenched her upright and dragged her back from Thomas.
“What have you done to our lord?” Sir Ancel spat.
Rain pelting her upturned face, she met the livid gaze of the man who had been Thomas’s friend. “He is dead,” she spoke in his French. “I—”
The back of his hand sent her to her knees amidst the sludge of the road. But though she expected him to come at her again, he turned to the prone figure of his liege, around which the others had gathered.
“Thomas!” he called.
The bordering wood was a short distance away, but though the instinct to survive urged her to run, she resigned herself to her fate and looked past Thomas’s men to the rider who had not dismounted.
Countenance stricken, Thomas’s fourteen-year-old brother moved his gaze from her to the man Sir Ancel had pulled into his arms.
The youth’s name was Christophe. Lame from birth, he was a gentle soul destined to know books and healing, rather than weapons and lording. And now he would hate her. But he would not avenge his brother’s death as Thomas had bid. He was incapable of such violence.