Lady Of Fire AKA Pagan Bride

by Tamara Leigh

  Passing over a smaller drawbridge, Alessandra looked for marbled walks, splashing fountains, and gardens with fruit-bearing trees and flowers. There was only the austere keep and lesser buildings—a world far removed from the elegance of Jabbar’s home.

  Let it be handsome within, she silently beseeched. It seemed ages since she had been surrounded by beauty.

  James swung out of the saddle and tossed his reins to a squire, then waited near the keep’s steps for his guests to join him.

  Lucien dismounted, untied three of the four packs from his saddle, then came around his horse to assist Alessandra.

  “Speak naught,” he murmured as he set her to her feet.

  “He does not seem so bad,” she whispered.

  He glared. “You do not know him as I do.”

  True, but her mother had known James and said he was kind. Thus far, Alessandra saw nothing to dissuade her of that.

  In silence, she preceded Lucien up the steps.

  When the man soon to learn he was her father stepped aside, allowing her a view of Corburry’s immense hall, she pressed her teeth into her bottom lip. The great room appeared clean and orderly, but its only claim to beauty were its colorful wall hangings. All else was stark, including the castle folk who wore drab clothing with what seemed an air of indifference.

  What dull lives these people must lead, she thought as she was swept with bittersweet longing for the harem and its tumult of spirited personalities. Had no one ever taught the English the importance of color and form? And where was the lively chatter and laughter that warmed a room as no fire could?

  Aboard the ship, and later in the inns where she and Lucien had paused for the night, there had seemed no lack of gaiety and enthusiasm, though it had been of a different sort from that to which she was accustomed. So why was Corburry cheerless? Had someone died?

  As the massive door they had passed through closed, a spot of color made its entrance at the far end of the hall. Lady Breville?

  James seemed not to notice. He ascended a dais, settled his falcon on the back of an immense chair, and lowered himself into the seat.

  Lucien halted ten feet back from the dais, caught Alessandra’s arm, and steered her from his right side to his left. Doubtless, he wanted no interference with his sword arm should it become necessary to wield the weapon.

  Those of James’s men who had accompanied him inside positioned themselves about the hall as if in anticipation of trouble.

  “Sit with me,” James invited.

  “I will stand,” Lucien said, his gaze following the brightly garbed woman who mounted the dais and halted alongside James’s chair.

  “Lady Breville,” James introduced her.

  Lucien inclined his head, prompting Alessandra to do the same.

  The woman acknowledged the visitors with a lift of plucked eyebrows. In spite of her haughty demeanor, Alessandra thought Lady Breville looked flustered.

  “It seems the De Gautier has come back from the dead, dear wife,” James said.

  Her mouth tightened.

  “What is this peace you speak of?” Lucien prompted.

  James motioned a serving woman forward and accepted the tankard of ale she handed him. “Some for you, friend?” he asked.

  Alessandra saw the hollows beneath Lucien’s cheekbones deepen and the veins in his neck swell. “The peace,” he said again.

  James lifted the tankard to his lips.

  Thinking she could not have seen right, Alessandra looked again. She was not mistaken. The bottom of James’s tankard was fit with glass as if to allow him to keep his eyes on Lucien while he quaffed his ale.

  He lowered the vessel to the chair arm, reclined, and clasped his hands across his middle. “We have been at peace with your family for nearly a year. There is no more fighting. No more bloodshed. Your family—”

  “How did it come to be?”

  “Your family and mine now come and go as we please without threat of injury,” James continued. “The villagers and their crops thrive. Children play in the meadows where once they feared to go. Truly, peace has come to our lands.”

  Lucien’s hand curled around his sword hilt, causing James’s men to step forward.

  James thrust his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. “Do you intend to undo what has taken so long to be done?”

  “That depends on your answer.”

  Something between a groan and a sigh escaped James. “That over which our families have fought for well beyond a hundred years is now resolved. All rights and claims to Dewmoor Pass have been ceded to the Brevilles.”

  Lucien’s hand tightened on the hilt. “Never would my father agree to it.”

  “He did not.” James righted himself in the chair. “Neither could he, for Sebastian de Gautier is dead.”

  All went still a moment before a roar broke from Lucien. He dropped the packs, thrust Alessandra aside, and wrenched his sword from its scabbard.

  The commotion following his charge toward James seemed like a warped dream. A scream—Lady Breville’s?—and the ring of iron resounded throughout the hall. Bodies flew past Alessandra, one knocking her to the floor as men fell upon Lucien.

  “Miscreant!” Lucien shouted, throwing an arm back and cracking his fist into the jaw of one of those who held him. The man dropped, but was replaced by two others who met with the same fate. In the end, it took four men to keep Lucien from rising again. Small victory, though, for they were unable to wrest the sword from his fist.

  In a certain state of agitation, James came forward with dirk in hand.

  Thinking he meant to slay Lucien, Alessandra thrust to her feet and lunged forward. “Do not harm him!” she cried, fear causing her to lapse into Arabic.

  Had her father not halted midstep, she would not have reached Lucien first. Placing herself as a barrier between the two men, she met James’s gaze. And realized she had lost her hood when his eyes shifted to the hair tumbling past her shoulders.

  His dirk clattered to the floor. “Catherine,” he choked. “Is it you?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The angry words Alessandra had been about to fling at her father slipped her mind as she watched hope and disbelief battle in eyes the same shape and color as her own.

  It was Lucien who broke the silence that had blanketed the hall. “’Tis your daughter, you murdering swine,” he shouted from where he remained pinned to the floor.

  A shrill cry dragged Alessandra’s gaze to Lady Breville whose eyes bulged and mouth hung agape. Then the woman rushed to her husband’s side. “’Tis a hoax he works upon you, Husband. A lie!”

  “No hoax,” Lucien said. “No lie. Alessandra is the child James made with Lady Catherine twenty years ago.”

  James’s gaze roved Alessandra’s features, then once more settled on her hair. “My daughter?”

  His wife grabbed his arm. “Catherine carried no babe when she disappeared!”

  He shook her off, then stepped near Alessandra and touched the curve of her face. “You have my eyes.”

  She inclined her head.

  He swallowed loudly. “But Catherine did not tell me she was with child.”

  “She did not know,” Alessandra said, acutely aware of her accent, “but she carried me.”

  “Lies, I tell you!” his wife cried. “Mayhap she is Catherine’s misbegotten child, but she is not yours, James.”

  Alessandra swept her gaze to her father’s wife. “I am not illegitimate. My mother did not—”

  “Do you open your mouth again, Agnes,” James said, “I shall cast you out of the hall.”

  That name—Agnes—loosened Alessandra’s knees. Could this be her mother’s cousin? She recalled what Sabine had said of her, and considering Agnes had desired marriage to James, it made sense.

  Having gained his wife’s acquiescence, James said, “I must know all, Alessandra.”

  She turned to where Lucien lay beneath his captors. “First, release him.”

  “And give
him another chance to slit my throat?”

  “’Twas not what I had in mind,” Lucien snarled.

  “Ah, disembowelment, then.”

  “For a start.”

  James considered him, sighed. “The Brevilles are not responsible for your father’s death. I assure you, Sebastian died of natural causes.”

  “Natural for whom? You?”

  “I heard tale his heart gave out.”

  “I am to believe you?”

  James glanced at Alessandra. “I suppose that would be asking too much. But when you return to Falstaff, your family will bear witness that I had naught to do with his death.”

  “What remains of my family?”

  James muttered what sounded like a curse, though it was not a word Alessandra had encountered. “Have you not heard anything I have said, Lucien? We are at peace. Your family is well.”

  “I will not believe it until I see it.”

  “Release him,” James commanded his men.

  Warily, they rose and backed away.

  In one fluid movement, Lucien regained his feet. Though he did not raise his sword, he kept it to hand.

  “What now, Lucien?” James asked.

  “Who of the De Gautiers made peace with you?”

  “He who was thought to be Sebastian’s heir, your brother, Vincent.”

  “And the terms?”

  James appeared reluctant to speak, but said, “Next spring, our daughter, Melissant, was to wed Vincent.”

  “A De Gautier joined with a Breville?” Lucien exclaimed.

  “’Twas agreeable to Vincent. But as you are Sebastian’s true heir, it falls to you to wed our daughter to seal the peace.”

  Alessandra nearly protested. However, Lucien's next words made it unnecessary. “There will be no wedding.”

  “Your hatred threatens all the good we have achieved,” James warned.

  Lucien’s upper lip curled. “I see no benefit in lying with one of your offspring.”

  If not for the hope he did not truly see her as a Breville, Alessandra would have been stung.

  “The benefit is peace,” James said.

  “Too high a price. Better a battle than a Breville wife.”

  “You refuse, then?”

  “I do.”

  After a long moment, James said, “Vincent, then. ’Twill still bind our families.”

  Agnes gasped, and her face turned more florid. “My daughter will not wed a landless noble. Melissant marries the heir or none at all.”

  “None, Lady Breville,” Lucien said. “I would not allow my brother to make such an unsavory union.”

  “You arrogant—!”

  “Agnes!” James barked.

  She swung her gaze to him. “How dare you allow him to speak such to me.”

  James jabbed a finger toward the stairs. “Out!”

  Her jaw worked, but she huffed and strode opposite.

  When she was gone, James returned his attention to Lucien. “Very well. No marriage, but will you honor the peace?”

  “I make no promises until I know what goes at Falstaff.”

  Although James’s face mirrored detachment, Alessandra felt his uneasiness. “Then go,” he said.

  Lucien slid his sword into its scabbard, crossed to the packs, and retrieved them. He opened one and pulled out a letter. “From Lady Catherine to her aunt and uncle. It explains Alessandra.”

  Alessandra caught her breath. Another letter? He had not spoken of it. As her own letter had been left in Jacques LeBrec’s home, it took all her control to not run forward and snatch it from him.

  Wide-eyed, James said, “What of Catherine? Where is she?”

  Lucien strode forward, dropped the packs at James’s feet, and extended the letter. “She is dead.”

  Alessandra knew it well, but was chilled by that single word spoken to the man who had loved her mother.

  “Dead?” James choked.

  Lucien inclined his head.

  Slowly, James unfolded the letter. “What form of writing is this?”

  “Arabic. Alessandra will translate it for you.”

  “Arabic?”

  “Catherine was sold into slavery after she disappeared from Corburry. She has been in Algiers all these years.”

  James’s lips drew back. “Then the De Gautiers have known of her whereabouts—are responsible for thieving her away!”

  Lucien laid a hand to his sword hilt. “We were wrongly accused. Only by chance did I encounter Catherine.”

  “He speaks true,” Alessandra said as she moved to stand alongside her father in hopes of averting another attack. “Never did my mother say the De Gautiers abducted her.”

  “Who, then?” James demanded.

  “She did not know.”

  “You think that absolves the De Gautiers of the crime?”

  Firmly, she said, “They were not responsible.”

  He looked unconvinced, but shifted his regard to Lucien. “Then you are off to Falstaff?”

  “I am, but be assured we are not done, Breville.”

  “What more is there to discuss?”

  “Dewmoor Pass.”

  James shook his head. “The matter is settled. It belongs to the Brevilles.”

  “Perhaps.”

  James nudged the packs with his boot. “What are these?”

  “Alessandra’s dowry.”

  Surprised that Lucien did not intend to keep any of her mother’s possessions for himself, Alessandra sought his gaze. “What of your share?” she asked.

  “I have my reward.” His cool eyes swept her face. “I am home.”

  Realizing he was about to leave her with strangers, she stepped near and gripped his arm. “Pray, Lucien,” she whispered, “do not forget me.”

  She was certain his eyes softened. “How could I?” he murmured, then gently pulled her hand from him and turned away.

  Lucien was at the door when James called to him. He looked over his shoulder.

  “You will find much changed at Falstaff,” James said. “Accept it and let us continue on in peace.”

  Lucien stood unmoving, as if trying to unravel the mystery of James’s words, then he was gone.

  Alessandra felt as if her heart were withering. Reminding herself of her vow to behave as a woman, not a child, she quelled the impulse to run after Lucien and assured herself she would see him again—even if she must go to him.

  A knight approached James. “My lord, when he discovers Falstaff is but a shadow of its former self, he will be back.”

  “I am counting on it.”

  Disturbed by the exchange, Alessandra touched her father’s arm. “Of what does your man speak?”

  He turned to her and folded her in arms that might have been comforting had he not denied her the answer she sought. “Welcome, Daughter,” he said. “Welcome to Corburry.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Whether they thought him apparition or flesh and blood, it did not matter. What mattered was that the Lion of Falstaff was home.

  None opposed him when he rode into their midst—not the guard at the gatehouse, the men-at-arms within the walled fortress, or the few knights straggling about the great hall. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, they let him pass.

  Intent on the one who had yet to notice his arrival, Lucien ignored the gasps and whispers of disbelief as he strode toward the high table.

  Vincent, who had not a responsible bone in his body—who must have been the one who had refused to pay the ransom—did not look up. He was too intent on the woman perched upon his knee.

  Suppressing the desire to upend the table, Lucien slammed his palms to its top and leaned forward.

  Vincent shot up from his chair, tumbling the wench to the floor. “Almighty! You are alive!”

  “Disappointed?” Lucien snarled.

  Vincent took a step back. His gaze darted left and right, but he would get no aid from his knights. Lucien’s return had robbed him of his rule over them.

  “Of course I am
not disappointed,” Vincent said. “I am surprised, that is all.”

  “I am sure.”

  “Lucien!” a woman cried.

  He turned to the lone figure across the hall.

  His mother stood wide-eyed, the glow upon her face evidencing she had come from the kitchens. “My prayers are answered,” she said and dropped to her knees.

  Lucien shot Vincent a warning look, then strode to Lady Dorothea and raised her to her feet.

  Tears flowing, body trembling, she searched his face. “You have come home. My boy has come home.”

  In spite of France, slavery that had feasted on the pieces of soul it had stripped from him, James Breville, and Vincent de Gautier, Lucien felt himself soften. “’Twas a promise not to be broken, Mother.”

  She fell into his arms and, holding tight to him, sobbed into his tunic.

  In spite of the questions to which he did not have answers, and the eyes that fell heavy upon them, Lucien let her cry.

  Finally, she grew still and, between sharp, replenishing breaths, said, “Your father is dead.”

  “I have been told. What I wish to know is how he died.”

  “His heart grew old before my own. Now he is lost to me.” Her voice cracked, and Lucien feared she would fall to crying again, but the appearance of a beautiful child distracted her.

  The curly-headed girl, perhaps six years of age, tugged on Dorothea’s skirt. “Mama.”

  Lucien’s mother wiped a hand across her eyes and stepped out of her son’s arms. “Ah, Giselle, have you come to welcome your brother home?”

  The little girl shifted her blue-eyed gaze to Lucien. “He is not my brother.”

  Dorothea bent near. “Aye, ’tis Lucien come home from France, little one. Give him a kiss, hmm?”

  Giselle crossed her arms over her chest. “He is not Lucien.” She narrowed her gaze upon the crescent-shaped scar. “My big brother had a nice face.”

  Dorothea glanced at Lucien and, as if only then noticing the scar, frowned. But she quickly recovered. “’Tis Lucien, indeed. He is a warrior, and when warriors go into battle, sometimes they are injured. Now be a good girl and give him a proper welcome.”

  She stamped her foot. “I will not!”

  Dorothea offered Lucien an apologetic smile. “Give her time. She will come ‘round.”