Cecily brushed her mother’s hand away, fear driving her to action. ‘We must move Isabella from the bed. Take her to the bed in the antechamber. Put the baby in the crib; I can take him when I’ve changed.’
As her mother helped Isabella across the room, Cecily unwound the linen from her head, pulling out hairpins to release her plaits. Gleaming ropes of ash-brown hair swung down past her waist. On impulse, she unwound the braids, releasing the full silken curtain of her hair. Hopefully Lord Simon would be so embarrassed by her state of undress, he would leave quickly once he had seen the baby. Unknotting her girdle, she wrenched her sleeveless tunic over her head. The fabric tore against the cut on her head as she dragged it off. Her fingers fumbled with the tiny bone buttons that secured the tight-fitting sleeves of her under-gown; in desperation, she ripped at them. Several loosened buttons scattered, rolling across the floor. She unrolled her stockings quickly. Wearing only her chemise and undergarments, she stuffed everything else, including her boots, into the oak coffer under the window and pulled on a white nightgown, so vast that it completely obscured her undergarments. She jumped into Isabella’s bed, tugging the sheets and bed furs up to her chest.
‘Ready?’ her mother said, coming out of the antechamber. ‘Isabella is already fast asleep; she’s exhausted, poor thing.’ Dipping down, she scooped the sleeping baby from the crib and placed him, snuffling warmly, into Cecily’s arms. Startled at the sudden movement, the baby’s eyes flew open. He stared into her face for a moment, then settled back to sleep.
Thank God, Cecily thought. She drew in a single breath, deep and shaky, shaking her loose hair forward so that it tumbled around the sides of her face.
‘I will fetch Lord Simon now.’ Marion’s voice hardened as she lifted the wooden bar from the door. ‘Be ready.’
‘I will be, Mother.’
As the door clicked shut, the enormity of Cecily’s imminent deception gripped her heart as an icy claw dug into her conscience. Her head whirled as she clutched at the comforting warmth of the baby against her chest. What would Lord Simon do, if he found out? He had the ear of the King; it was well known, so the penalty would be harsh. She shuddered, clamping down on her worried thoughts.
Voices rose in the stairwell. Her mother’s voice, raised and strident, echoed upwards. For all Marion’s outward confidence, her bluff and bluster, Cecily detected the overlying twitter of nerves. A deeper, masculine voice emerged. Lord Simon, followed by a heavy tread of leather boots, a posse of house knights, sticking to their master’s side, preventing any harm to fall on his precious soul. Oh, God, she thought, gripping the baby tightly. Please don’t let them in. Don’t let him in. Panic squeezed through her veins, constricted to bursting point.
The door opened. Pinpricks of sweat broke out over Cecily’s chest, beneath her chemise. Drawing the baby close, she hunkered back into the pillows, wanting to disappear. Marion swept into the chamber, skirts snaking across the polished floorboards, and threw a curt nod towards her daughter in the bed, an order to make ready. She stood aside, her thin, bony fingers curled around the door latch, waving Lord Simon into the chamber with a ceremonial sweep of her arm.
Lord Simon was tall, as her husband Peter had been. Dark brown hair, smooth and shiny, fell forward over his brow; lines of worry creased his forehead. His face was lean, the skin stretched taut over his cheekbones, emphasising the narrowness of his mouth. He hesitated in the doorway, brown eyes sweeping across her, then the baby. A muscle twitched in his hollow cheek. Behind him, in the shadows of the stairwell, Cecily sensed the shuffling press of other men, his house knights, jostling to enter the chamber, to catch a glance, to peer at the scene within. Yet Lord Simon prevented them, his tall, gangly frame filling the doorway.
‘Pray, leave your men outside in the corridor,’ Marion said. ‘My daughter needs some privacy at this time.’
Lord Simon nodded, throwing a command back to his men. But he left the door slightly ajar as he moved into the chamber. Was he there? The man who had kissed her? Cecily lowered her gaze to the sleeping baby’s face. The silky curtain of her hair fell forward across her cheeks.
‘Thank you, my lady, for agreeing to meet with me...like this. So soon after...’ His voice cracked slightly, then trailed away...unsure. It was as if he suddenly remembered that it was he who had barged his way into the castle. A stretching tension filled the air, his discomfiture palpable. She supposed it wasn’t often that he was greeted with a scene such as this; he was probably unsure how to deal with it. With her.
‘Come, come in,’ her mother encouraged him, seizing Lord Simon’s arm and ushering him towards the bed. ‘Please, don’t stand on ceremony, come and see the baby. He looks just like your brother, the spitting image, I think you’ll agree.’
Cecily’s heart plummeted. Her mother’s sham exuberance echoed with a false note. Surely Lord Simon would suspect? The baby looked nothing like Peter; in fact, being only a few hours old, his crumpled face bore little resemblance to anyone in the family. Marion was overacting. Her smile was too wide and forced, her eyes overly bright.
Lord Simon approached the bed, too fast. His knees knocked awkwardly against the bedframe and he stepped back, embarrassed. A slight flush stained his gaunt cheeks. He peered at the baby’s face, framed by a white woollen blanket. Cecily caught the whiff of horseflesh as he leaned over her. ‘Very...nice,’ he murmured. He stepped back abruptly, clasping his hands together. ‘A boy, if I heard your servant correctly?’
‘Yes, the baby is a boy,’ Marion declared triumphantly. ‘So...that means...’ She allowed her sentence to trail away delicately.
‘I’m well aware of what it means, Lady Marion,’ Lord Simon stated tersely. ‘And you know I’m not happy about it. But in the eyes of the law, I can do nothing.’ He stared solemnly at Cecily, lying in the bed, then switched his gaze towards the door. ‘Are you coming in?’ he called to someone in the corridor. ‘Come and see the baby.’
‘Oh, I really think...’ Marion darted a worried look towards the door, then at Cecily’s terrified expression.
Lord Simon hastened to reassure her. ‘He’s a friend, Lady Marion. Not one of my men. He will be respectful.’
Almost before the shape broke out from the shadows, Cecily knew the identity of the man who walked into the chamber. A large hulk of a man, with broad muscular shoulders. The stranger who had pulled her from the river. The man who...had kissed her in the darkness of the cellars, plundering her mouth to leave her wanting more.
The surrounds of the chamber, her mother, Lord Simon, blurred and slipped away. Blue eyes met green, the man’s shining eyes riveted upon her, at once incredulous, condemning. The edge of his top lip curled acidly.
The breath stopped in her lungs, colour draining from her face.
* * *
Lachlan noted the ashen pallor of her face with satisfaction. Little wretch! In a moment, her whole deception became clear, her continual avoidance of him, the hostility at his questions. All to throw him off the scent. And, she had succeeded. How had he not realised that she was Lady Cecily of Okeforde herself? It was a credit to her ingenuity that she had managed to convince everyone that she was the mother of this baby. He remembered the slim feel of her body against him as he had pulled her from the river. It was not possible.
Cecily eyed him warily, her expression guarded. Vulnerable. He had the power to reveal the truth, the astonishing magnitude of the risk she had undertaken. She clasped the swaddled baby to her breast to present him to Lord Simon as her own, green eyes luminous, patched with shadow. Her hair was loose and long, magnificent, with a pale brown sheen like silken cloth, spilling over her shoulders, curling down over the pristine white bedlinen. His heart leapt with a grudging admiration at her courage, her daring, however misplaced.
An older woman bent over the bed, talking in a high-pitched tone to Simon, keen to show off the baby, her stiff, rigid fingers plucking at
the woollen shawl to reveal the child’s face. What a sham, he thought. He should denounce them both right now and reveal their duplicity to Simon. That would be the right and proper thing to do.
And yet...
The consequences for such fraudulent behaviour would be huge. Simon would take great umbrage at being duped and immediately involve the King and his court in such a case. As Lachlan stared at the woman’s face, stricken with fear, he wanted to give her a chance. He suspected there was far more to this story than what he could see here, this day, in the bedchamber. He wanted to give her a chance to tell her side of the story. A sense of protectiveness settled on his shoulders: he wanted to help her.
* * *
Fear stuck in Cecily’s throat. She made a supreme effort not to press back into the pillows, to cower in his presence. She read the condemnation in his eyes, the disapproval. She could barely breathe, her lungs twisting in panic, her limbs paralysed, rigid. Sweat rose from her flesh, sticking the flimsy layers of chemise and nightgown to her skin. When would he denounce her? She traced the firm, tense outline of his mouth. Would it be now, in front of Lord Simon, with his men listening outside? Or would he wait, leaving her to guess, suspended in a tense ball of anxiety until he decided on the moment? She must speak with him, now. Persuade him, somehow, not to reveal their treachery.
In panic, she threw back the covers, struggling to hold the baby at the same time. ‘I must...must...’ The words blurted from Cecily’s mouth. What must she do? Her brain struggled to think of a plan, of a way out of this untenable situation.
Marion’s gaze flicked sharply to her daughter, sensing her wavering behaviour. She placed a hand on Cecily’s shoulder, pressing down firmly, her fingers pinching through the nightgown into her flesh, preventing her from moving.
‘Lachlan, come over here and see the baby.’ Lord Simon beckoned to the man in the doorway.
Lachlan, she thought numbly, as the word echoed out into the heated fug of the chamber. So that was his name. The hard, lilting consonants spoke of a land far to the north, matching his wild hair and flashing blue eyes. He came over to the bed, a slight hitch to his long stride. His blue woollen surcoat stretched across his chest, ending at mid-thigh. Beneath the tunic, he wore buff-coloured woollen leggings, the cloth cut close to his legs, revealing the powerful honed muscles of his legs.
He leaned over the bed, peering down at the baby. Cecily held her breath, the air snared in her chest. She lifted her chin, tracing the firm contours of his profile. The rugged jawline, lean and raw-edged. The hollow of his cheeks beneath his high cheekbones. The generous profile of his mouth, the mouth that had claimed her own. Then he turned his head sharply, blue eyes locking with hers, a ferocious onslaught. Mocking. She flinched as if he had hit her, rearing back in to the pillows, her clammy fingers clinging desperately to the poor baby for support.
There was only one way out of this situation. She had to speak to him, in private. Her mind worked rapidly. Maybe...just maybe, she could persuade him, somehow, to keep her secret. Lifting the baby away from her chest, she pushed him into her mother’s arms, throwing back the covers.
‘Please forgive me, my lord,’ Cecily muttered to Lord Simon, her hair swinging around her face. ‘I am a little indisposed... I must visit the...er...’ She allowed her sentence to drift away, hoping Lord Simon would realise that her plea was of a delicate nature. That she needed to visit the garderobe. Except that she didn’t.
Lord Simon coughed, then cleared his throat, flushing heavily. ‘Ah, yes, of course. Er...do you need any help?’
He was playing right into her hands. ‘I am a little wobbly,’ Cecily confessed, making a great show of lowering her feet to the floor and levering herself out of bed slowly, grabbing hold of the bedpost to hoist herself up.
‘For God’s sake, Cecily,’ her mother hissed under her breath. ‘What are you doing? Have some decency! Cover yourself, at least!’
‘Allow me, please.’ Stepping around the bed, Lachlan swept up the velvet cloak from the fur coverlet, settling the soft fabric around Cecily’s shoulders. His knuckles brushed against her hair. She shivered at the brief touch, fear slicing through her like a knife blade. Nay, not fear, she realised. More a heady exhilaration, an expectant breathlessness. What in God’s name was wrong with her? This man affected the very workings of her brain, sending it into disarray!
‘Thank you,’ she managed to say, her fingers fumbling to close the front of the cloak, to take the silken cord from one metal boss to the other. The collar was lined with fur and the feathery tips tickled her chin.
‘Leave it, Cecily!’ Marion snapped, her voice sharp, needling. Had her mother forgotten that she had an audience? ‘Be as quick as you can, Daughter, for your baby needs you.’
‘Shall I help you, my lady?’ Lachlan offered.
Cecily tensed at the sarcasm in his voice. He knew what she was up to. ‘Yes, yes, please,’ she murmured. She flinched when he wrapped his arm solidly around hers, the heavy muscle in his forearm pressing against hers as he marched her through the door, his limp forcing his hip to bump awkwardly against hers.
The thick door swung back into place behind them, the latch rattling back into the iron bracket, and they stood together in the cool shadows of the corridor.
‘That was quite a performance you gave in there,’ he remarked drily, unwinding her arm from his and stepping back from her. ‘I think you are perfectly capable of walking unaided.’
Her heart sank. ‘I probably can,’ Cecily replied faintly.
‘You can.’ His reply was clipped, stern. ‘Please, don’t bother to keep up this charade on my account.’
Ignoring him, Cecily threw him a wan smile and lurched along the corridor, deliberately making her steps slow and faltering. He watched her for a moment, a wry smile twisting his lips, before following. How much of a fool did she think he was?
Chapter Six
The long corridor was lit by rectangular windows, open to the outside, with oak frames set into the thick stone walls. As Cecily moved through narrow strips of light, the sun snared the shining length of her unbound hair, turning the pale brown to a glorious, golden mass. At last she reached the end, a wooden-planked landing. They were far enough away from the chamber not to be overheard. An arrow-slit window let in the breeze and a strip of light, shone through the rising dust motes.
Cecily turned to face Lachlan, the floorboards gritty and rough beneath her bare feet. The velvet cloak gaped open, revealing her white nightgown, diaphanous linen, beneath. Glossy ribbon ties dangled down from her ruffled neckline. She grabbed both halves of the cloak with her fingers, yanking them together, wrapping them across her stomach. Defensive.
The light green colour of her eyes turned silver in the half-light. ‘I know you think the baby doesn’t belong to me. But he’s mine.’ She fought hard to keep the betraying wobble from her voice.
Lachlan leaned back against the wall by the window, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The blue wool of his surcoat wrinkled with the movement. His manner was languid, nonchalant, sitting easily in his big frame. Self-confidence oozed from him, a knowing awareness of how their conversation would progress. ‘Forgive me, my lady, but he most certainly is not.’ A smile shimmered across his generous mouth.
‘But I—’
‘Don’t treat me like an idiot.’ He cut off her protest, his voice stern and sharp. ‘When I pulled you from the river yesterday morning, you were not pregnant. When you sprinted away from me, faster on foot than most knights under my command, you were not pregnant. There is no way you were carrying a child.’
‘You barely saw me this morning. It all happened so fast...’
‘Nay!’ Lachlan thumped his hand against the window frame. ‘Stop pretending. Christ, look at you! How could you possibly have had a child? I doubt you have even lain with a man!’
His words slammed into her, rough and
accusing. She flushed heavily at his crudeness. The jibing intimacy. Her hand fluttered upwards, touched her forehead, then her chin, a gesture of uncertainty. Was it so visible, her inexperience? The fumbled consummation of her marriage? Was it imprinted, like a red flag, across her forehead, for all to see?
‘How dare you speak to me like that? You know nothing about me! And nothing about my marriage.’ Drawing herself up to her full height, she braced her slim legs as if to do battle. To her chagrin, her chin barely topped his shoulder.
‘I know what I’ve heard.’ His knowing eyes drilled into her. As if he could read the truth beneath her skin. ‘That you were married to Peter of Okeforde for a scarce three months, most of which he was either away, or incapacitated. I agree, you could have conceived a child in the few days after your marriage, but...’ he shrugged his shoulders ‘...we both know that you did not. You are trying to trick Lord Simon into believing that the baby...’ Lachlan jerked his calloused thumb towards the bedchamber ‘...is Peter of Okeforde’s heir.’ He pushed himself abruptly from the window, towering over her in the small space, huge, intimidating. ‘And I want to know why.’
Desperation sliced through her chest: layer upon layer of compounding wretchedness. She was caught, like a rat in a trap. There was no way out of this impossible situation. She had nowhere to turn.
She shivered. ‘And what will you do if I say nothing?’
‘So you admit it, then.’ His head jerked up.
‘Yes,’ Cecily replied, clamping her lips together. ‘Yes, I admit it.’ Was there no way out of this mess? Simon of Doccombe would drag her before the King for his judgement. Would she be hung for her crime? A grinding panic pierced deep into her chest: a barbed arrow, twisting slowly. What could she do to persuade this man to keep his mouth shut? ‘Do you need money?’ she blurted out suddenly. ‘I can give you money.’
Lachlan’s eyes glittered down at her, gilded sapphires, his mouth softening slightly. ‘So now you’re trying to pay me off.’
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