by Hall, Diana
“So we take her, and leave behind enough evidence to point to Falke.” Titus grinned, his tombstone teeth forming an eerie smile. “And when we get back to Cravenmoor, I’ll teach her, Cyrus and his wife the cost of playing me for a fool.”
“And what of the curse?” Ferris narrowed his eyes and gave Titus a sly smile. “Isolde’s ghost has been seen at Cravenmoor and even here at Mistedge.”
Cold slithered around Titus’s spine and put fear into his heart. “I won’t draw her blood. But by hell’s gates she will learn the cost of lying to me.”
Ferris pushed away from the stall door. “Give her to me. I will take delight in discovering all her little secrets.” Beads of sweat formed along his forehead and he licked his lips as he muttered, “And I will finally put to rest Isolde’s ghost.”
“Gwendolyn is yours.” Titus clasped his bastard son’s hand in agreement. If Ferris could put Isolde’s vengeful spirit back in the grave, Gwendolyn was a small price to pay. And if Isolde’s ghost claimed Ferris in revenge, ’twas a small loss, and Titus would still have Gwendolyn to torture—without drawing blood.
“We will need help to get Gwendolyn beyond the castle walls.”
“We have allies, Titus.” Ferris turned his father toward the stable door. “Come, let me show you how we will escape.”
Lucas peered out of the knothole from inside Greatheart’s stall. Carefully he crept to the door, pressed his ear against the rough wood and waited. Nothing, only the sounds of the horses shuffling in their stalls. Light-headed from holding his breath, he slowly released the pent-up air and eased open the gate.
At the stable door, he looked about, trying to spot Ferris or Titus. They had disappeared into the crowded yard. Ahead of Lucas, a platoon of soldiers drilled, hiding the rest of the exercise field. Cattle, their sides no longer showing rib marks, milled about in the inner bailey while their herder flirted with a young girl. Villagers, knights and soldiers hustled about with daily chores, their friendly exchanges mixing with the cacophony of animal brays, calls and complaints. With the plague finally over, Mistedge was a fief reborn. A sense of festivity filled the bailey. People sang. Children played. And danger schemed to destroy it all.
Lucas sprinted across the yard, determined to find Lord Falke and save their lady Wren.
Chapter Seventeen
Not a single ray of moonlight cut the night as Gwendolyn shuffled across the great hall. The bulky wrap around her waist returned Lady Wren’s girth and made her less able to maneuver around the sleeping knights and servants. At least she no longer had to limp; that truth was well known throughout the castle, and to Titus.
“Come, my lady.” Lucas tugged her gown, pulling her toward the chapel. “I was told to tell ye to hurry.”
Without benefit of a torch, Gwendolyn relied on Lucas to guide her down the cold stone stairway. ’Twas only the need of her medical knowledge that pulled Gwendolyn from the safety and security of Falke’s chamber. Careful that her footsteps would not echo, she followed Lucas past the marble altar. At the door to the priest’s room, the boy hesitated.
“Are you sure the girl is giving birth here?” Gwendolyn placed her ear against the thick door, anxious because of the silence and location. Was the priest needed for a baptism or last rites?
The boy swept the church with a worried glance, pausing at the gilded image of the Christ Child before answering in a rushed monotone. “I was told to tell ye that Darianne needed your help with a birthing in the priest’s room.”
The birthing must be difficult for Darianne to send for her and for Cyrus to give his consent. Even the guard at her door had agreed to remain behind, giving any spying eyes the idea that Gwendolyn remained within. She pushed open the door, dreading to discover she was too late. If mother and child had died, ’twould explain the eerie silence.
Inside the small chamber, darkness retreated. Candles burned from every cranny, casting soft amber light. Men-at-arms stood along the side wall. She recognized Ozbern, Robert, Alric and Sir Clement—all dressed in their finest, their broadswords at their waist. And the priest, his sleepy-eyed look a sure sign he had been pulled from his bed, waited at the dais. ’Twas strange company to sit by the side of a pregnant serving woman.
“Lucas?” She turned to the boy for an explanation, but he scampered past her to stand next to Ozbern.
“I didn’t lie,” he announced to the priest. “I said I was told to tell her to come, and so I was. That’s no sin, is it?”
“Worry not, lad.” In the midst of the glow, a deep baritone reverberated. “You did as your liege ordered.”
Needles of apprehension pricked along Gwendolyn’s spine. ’Twas Falke’s voice, firm with authority and purpose. It took no strong mind to realize she had been duped. And that Darianne and Cyrus had been in on it as well. She could postpone no longer. At last she must confront the knight who had stolen her heart.
Light embraced him as he strode toward her, his hair the exact same shade as the candlelight. His velvet tunic absorbed the illumination, changing in hue from cinnamon to rust, bringing attention to the muscles that flexed and moved beneath. He placed one foot on the bottom stair and rested his hand on the rail, almost touching her own.
“Lord Falke.” She squeaked his name, took a deep breath and straightened. Her position on the steps brought her gaze level with his full, sensuous mouth. She licked her lips slowly, recalling the soft caress of that mouth on hers.
Nay, ’twas not me he kissed, but another. Gwendolyn ordered her wanton memories away and commanded her heart to stand firm against him. Clearing her throat, she retreat one calculated step, lifting her eye-to-eye with her adversary.
She pointed toward the assembled knights and priest. “You need a company of armed men to hear your confession?”
A glimmer of amusement lit Falke’s azure eyes. “’Tis good to hear your reproach again, my lady. I’ve missed it.” Leaning forward, he whispered for her ears only, “And I’ve missed you.”
Flattery, ’tis nothing more than mindless flattery. Gwendolyn reminded herself of his sins while her heart raced and the skin tingled where his breath had touched.
He pointed toward his friends and allies. “I have a contingent of men to take you to an abbey for sanctuary.” He hesitated, then added, “Or to hear our wedding vows.”
’Twas no shock, not after Darianne had warned her of his intent. After all, their marriage secured Mistedge for Falke.
“I have a choice?” she scoffed. Taking her to an abbey would give Titus the right to bring King Henry’s justice down on Falke’s head. He would forfeit Mistedge and perhaps his very life.
“Aye, Lady Wren, that you do. I pray you will hear me out before you choose.” He rested her hand on his own and led her down the steps. His gaze never left her face. Remorse softened the sparks of vitality within his dark blue gaze.
Seating her on a wooden pew, Falke knelt on bended knee next to her. The heat from his body seeped through the thin material of Gwendolyn’s gown. His calf brushed hers and delicious warmth swirled in the pit of her stomach. No matter his sins, her body refused to forget the ecstasy he had introduced her to.
“I had hoped to have days to woo you back and win your forgiveness, but I find I have no time.” Falke cocked his head toward Lucas. “The boy overheard Titus and Ferris in the stable. They are even now hatching a plan to take you from Mistedge. With help from within. ’Tis no secret Laron is being watched. Titus must have an ally we do not know about.”
“Aye, my lady.” Ozbern ruffled the boy’s hair. “Lucas has done well to warn us of the danger. But we can not watch everyone, all the time. We must act fast to protect you.”
Falke reached up and brushed a strand of hair from Gwendolyn’s face. His fingers lingered on the curve of her cheek. “I could not bear for you to return to that hell.”
“But marriage? To me? I thought you desired someone else.” She could have bitten her tongue for questioning him further. If she tried hard, very har
d, mayhap she could convince herself that he really did care about her, about drab, ugly Lady Wren. Happiness built on make-believe was better than no happiness at all.
“I thought so, too.” Falke’s candor drove a blade into her heart. “But I was wrong. Lady Wren is the only woman in my heart.”
“But not in your bed.” Her wounded pride would not be soothed by pretty words. Nor would her doubts remain silent. If she could only be sure his words were true.
Shame shadowed Falke’s handsome face, but he did not turn away from her. Nor did his voice become a whisper. He confessed loudly enough for all his friends and Gwendolyn to hear. “I…wronged you…greatly. And the thought that I brought you sorrow gives me pain, for I swore to myself to bring you only smiles, and laughter, and aye, a bit of anger.” He gave her a halfhearted smile, one that was just a bit crooked, showed just a hint of dimple, but reached deep inside his eyes.
“How can I explain my actions?” He took her hand in his and gently caressed the back with his thumb. “I cannot. Only to say that the woman I met in the forest, she…” Falke puckered his lips in concentration. “She was like an elusive memory. The way she moved, the turn of her phrase, they all reminded me…” He leaned his head to one side, one brow arched in surprise. “She reminded me of you.”
“Me?” Gwendolyn pasted an incredulous look on her face and her heart pounded—this time not because of Falke’s physical nearness, but at the truth in his assessment.
“Aye.” Falke wrinkled his brow and studied her like a monk trying to decipher a Greek passage. “Her toe—she rubbed it in the dirt, just as you do. And she always let her hair fall in her face….” He reached forward, tracing the line of her cheekbone with his fingertip.
Panic twisted her gut and Gwendolyn jumped to her feet. “Surely, Lord Falke, you could never confuse Angel with me.”
She pulled her hand from his and hugged herself, both to hide her hands from him, and to conceal their trembling. Retreating, she drew closer to the knights and turned her back to Falke’s all-too-sharp eyes.
“Never.” One stride and he was at her side, his hands resting on her shoulders. His chest rose and fell, brushing the length of her spine, letting her know how close he was, reminding her of how close he had been to her naked skin.
“Marry me, Lady Wren. I love you.”
“My lady.” Ozbern cleared his throat and cast the assembled knights a cautious glance. “The night grows long. Morning will be upon us. We have little time if we are to take you to the abbey. Arry and Cyrus wait in the stable with Greatheart and supplies, should you decide to leave.”
“And Darianne waits in my chamber with the gown I ordered made for you. A wedding gift.” Falke lowered his eyes and gave her a regal bow. “Whatever you choose, I will honor.”
Gwendolyn took a long, shuddering breath. To her left waited Ozbern and the knights, ready to put their lives in danger to guarantee her safety. To her right stood Falke, the man she loved—but could she trust him? What would happen when he learned the truth about her appearance? Would he cherish her or possess her? Would he love her or use her? Could she risk these men’s lives and all of Mistedge because of her selfish wish to be loved for who she was and not because of what she looked like?
“Faith is a delicate chain.” Gwendolyn closed her eyes and prayed her heart led her in the right direction. “And if it breaks, ’tis difficult to mend, but not impossible.”
Let him love me. Pray, let him cherish Lady Wren with the same passion he had for his angel in the woods. Opening her eyes, she met Falke’s gaze, a glimmer of hope shining in its depths. “Aye, Lord Falke, I will marry you.”
“Good choice, my lady,” Robert and Alric chimed together.
“The night is lessening,” Ozbern reminded them. “Clement, go to the stable and tell Cyrus and Arry the news. Lady Wren, I fear we cannot wait to collect Darianne and Cyrus to witness the vows.”
“I understand. Let us be done with it.”
“Hold.” Falke widened his stance and pointed his finger at the tip of Gwendolyn’s nose. “I’ll not have you marry me out of pity. You’ll do it because you want me, because you care about me, or you’ll not do it all.”
“Pity?” Disbelief made her jaw drop.
“Aye, I’ve bared my soul to you. On bended knee, no less. I clearly told you I loved you. And I have never told any woman, save my mother, that.”
“Never?”
“Never. And I’ll not marry a woman who can’t say she loves me.” Falke folded his arms, and stared down his nose at her.
Gwendolyn shifted back and forth. When she spotted the toe of her slipper grinding the floor rushes into dust, she quickly stopped.
“You do love me, of course.” Falke attempted to supply her with an answer, though a quiver of doubt lessened the arrogance of the statement.
“Did you think your prattle won me over? That flattery would turn my heart? Or the gift of a gown?” Gwendolyn hid her smile. Aye, I think he does love me. The knowledge made her smile widen. With pride she announced, “I am not an empty-headed imbecile. Nor am I so shallow as to be bribed.”
Falke’s nervous stiffness lessened, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and crowed. “Nay, you are a witty, generous woman who loves me.”
“Aye, that I am.” She placed her hand in his and turned to the priest. “Come now, I wish to marry the man I love.”
In response, the priest yawned, opened his prayer book and began to recite the beginning litany of the marriage ceremony.
“Beg pardon, my lord and lady.” Ozbern nodded toward the priest. “But time is short. Mayhap in a fortnight we might celebrate again, redo your vows, but we must make haste.”
“Humph!” The priest opened his mouth, then gave the door to his bedchamber a longing stare. “The Lord will understand our need to shorten his ceremony.”
“But not too short.” Falke turned to her, bringing her hands to his mouth for a chaste kiss. “Lady Wren, I pledge before God, you and my friends to honor and love you. To protect you and cherish you. These hands have shown me strength. Shown me compassion. Shown me the way to open my own heart to others.” He cupped her hands in his own. “These hands hold my heart. They…”
“Falke? Are you all right?” Gwendolyn asked as Falke’s voice faded away, and he became mesmerized with her hands.
He stared at her chipped nails and ragged cuticles. Then he turned her hands over, running his fingers over the rough, hard calluses. His brows quirked into deep furrows. A dark grimace contorted his mouth. “It cannot be.”
“What? Pray what ails you?” Out of instinct, she pulled one hand free and placed it upon his forehead, testing for a fever.
He released a long, slow breath. His eyes narrowed into thin slits. “And I was too blind to see until this very moment.”
Falke’s gaze drilled into hers, and Gwendolyn felt bare beneath his scrutiny. What about her work-worn hands had caused Falke to turn so cold?
“What are you blathering about?” Ozbern yanked Falke around to face him. “Titus and Ferris could be here at any moment. Do you want them to take her?”
The mention of her uncle and cousin seemed like a splash of cold water on Falke’s strange trance. He rubbed his lips as though wiping away bad wine. “Titus! Curse that dog and his spawn.”
Regaining her hand, Falke spoke, his voice deep and curt with emotion. “Titus will never hurt you again. You will never hide one smile, one tear, one angry word from the world again.” Kissing her gently on the lips, he whispered, “Remember always ’twas Lady Wren I proposed to. And she that I love.”
“Come, finish this up.” Falke’s frown slowly changed from a halfhearted grin to a devastating smile that showed both his dimples. “I believe I have a most interesting wedding night ahead of me.”
Confused, bewildered and overwhelmed, Gwendolyn stood next to him. Somehow in Falke’s jumble of words, her belief in his love forged a new, stronger chain to link her heart with his. In a mo
nologue of rushed, mumbled words, the priest married them, giving her life, wealth and future to Falke de Chretian.
With a shaking hand, she signed the marriage contract. Falke signed in turn with a flourish. Muffled by the priest’s and knights’ good wishes, Ozbern’s wineless toast and Falke’s presence, Gwendolyn’s doubts on her marriage ebbed to the quiet recesses of her mind.
’Twas only as the group dispersed, determined not to allow Titus to know of the night’s drama until the marriage was consummated, that her worries returned. Tonight ended all the charades. Tonight Falke would know all, and there would be no sanctuary to retreat to.
Gwendolyn entered Falke’s chamber alone, grateful he had given her time to prepare before joining her. He had woken a servant and ordered a bath and tea sent to his room—no doubt an attempt to ease her worries about the marriage bed. ’Twas his nerves Gwendolyn was concerned over. Especially when he discovered his Angel and Lady Wren were one and the same.
“You chose marriage.” Darianne leaped from the curtained bed and rushed to her ward’s side. “You’re not angry with me, are you?”
“I was, but not anymore,” Gwendolyn admitted. “I believe Falke truly cares for me, Lady Wren.”
Her eyes shining with joy and unshed tears, Darianne led Gwendolyn to the bed. “Aye, that he does. Look at his gift.”
“’Tis almost like Mother’s.” Gwendolyn pulled the gown to her, molding the curves to her own.
Folds of sapphire velvet covered her, the exact shade of her eyes. Silver lotus flower embroidery cuffed the neckline, hem and sleeves. A delicate silver and sapphire girdle encircled the waistline. ’Twas a beautiful dress, costly, and made in Lady Wren’s wide, bulky size.
“’Tis simple to cut a gown down, but not to enlarge. Look at the seams—the velvet matches perfectly.” Darianne brushed the rich fabric with her gnarled fingers. “This gown was commissioned with you in mind.”
A sharp rap at the door gave Gwendolyn a moment to clear the lump from her throat. “’Tis the bath and tea Falke ordered for me. Pray, open the door for them, Darianne.”