Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  Elise inclined her head to each man in turn. “I welcome you to Montoui.” She glanced at Percy, containing her longing to be alone. “Has Michael seen to your comforts?”

  “Aye, milady!” It was Sir Guy Granville who answered her. He was an older, battle-scarred knight who had ridden with her father, and a man of whom she was quite fond. “We have been given a fine cup of wine”—he raised his chalice—“and promised a fine feast. Your hospitality is a welcome embrace indeed after the days we have spent in the saddle.”

  Elise smiled. “I am happy to give comfort to such brave men.”

  “’Tis time for comfort all around!”

  Elise returned her gaze to Percy with upraised brows. She saw a sense of excitement in his deep hazel eyes, in the grin that split his handsome features. More than ever she wished she might spin into his arms and share his happiness. He looked wonderful. Tall and slim as always, almost gaunt, but so endearing.

  “What are you saying, Percy?” she asked softly.

  “Ah, milady!” He gripped both her hands and bent to kiss her palms. “The rumors that reached us as we rode were the best! Richard is honoring those who clung fast to his father! Those who turned traitor—either to himself or to his father—are being stripped of their titles and lands. Those who were loyal and fast—be it to himself or to Henry—are being richly rewarded.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Elise exclaimed, now understanding Percy’s excitement. He would benefit richly from the service he had given Henry. They needn’t fear anything, no reprisals . . .

  Lord Fairview, a young and solid man, though not much taller than Elise, stepped into the conversation. “’Tis said that Richard will give his father’s two strongest supporters half of England. Isabel de Clare, the Earl of Pembroke’s daughter, will be given to William Marshal. He will then be one of the most powerful nobles in England. And it is said that Gwyneth of Cornwall shall be given to Sir Bryan Stede, which will give him almost as much land as Will Marshal. He will be wealthy beyond measure, and his titles would fill out page after page of parchment.”

  Elise was glad that she stood at the head of the table by the fire; she could reach out and grip the back of the duke’s chair with its elaborately engraved coat of arms.

  The wave of emotion that had washed over her had been so strong, it had seemed that she had been bathed in a white, shattering light that had stolen the breath from her lungs, the substance from her bones. Then anger, molten and hot, gave her strength again.

  Stede! The man responsible for all her torment was to be given one of the richest heiresses in England. Was there no justice?

  “Of course,” Percy was continuing for Granville, “nothing is sure, as yet. All that we have heard is rumor. We are on our way from Normandy now to Chinon, to give homage to Richard. And then . . .”—Percy chuckled softly as he allowed his voice to trail away—“. . . then we shall see where we all stand beneath the Lion-Heart!”

  Elise smiled weakly. Thank God they were all here! She could not be alone with Percy now!

  But it became immediately obvious that Percy wanted nothing more than to be alone with her.

  “Elise,” he said hastily, “I need to have a word with you in private. I’m sure these knights will readily understand—”

  “Percy!” Elise protested with light but forced laughter. “How can I leave my guests—”

  “Milady!” Sir Granville interrupted with a deep laugh. “We are fine with the fire and the wine. Again, we thank you for the hospitality. Go where you will, yet return to us quickly, for it has been a long time since our eyes have been so appeased!”

  Well said, gallant knight, Elise thought. But then her anger grew again. Yes, well said. These men knew the codes of knighthood. They could boldly speak the flowery words that made life so pleasant. Sir Stede was little more than an armored barbarian . . .

  Well said—but exactly what she didn’t need at the moment.

  “Elise?” Percy urged her.

  They were all looking at her. Of course, it was only normal that two young lovers would want a few minutes alone. She had no choice. If she protested further, Percy would surely know that something was wrong.

  If only she could stay here by the fire. There was a certain safety in the presence of others. She would say nothing to Percy, and he would travel on to see Richard now, giving her time to think.

  “Elise?” Percy prodded her gently again. His hand was upon hers with perfect etiquette. “The night is beautiful. A walk along the castle ramparts beneath the stars will ease your mind of problems, and I can advise you . . .”

  She forced her lips to curl into a smile, and graciously excused herself. They left the hall through the spiral staircase that led up three floors to ramparts.

  She felt his fingers upon hers. Long and tapering, they were. Percy’s was a slender hand for a warrior; he always fought with a sword rather than an ax or lance. His strength was in agility, and she loved him for what he was—more gentle, more refined, than the average man of the day. He was a whispering breeze, whereas a man like Stede was thunder and the wind, she thought bitterly.

  They climbed until they were beneath the stars . . . and alone, as the guards had withdrawn discreetly to the towers.

  “Ah . . . Elise . . . !”

  She was startled as Percy suddenly pulled her into his arms. She stared into his sparkling eyes, then caught her breath as his lips came down to touch upon hers, softly . . . reverently.

  Yet the feeling she had always cherished refused to come. There was no excitement in her blood, no magnificent wonder. All she could remember was Stede, the fire and the hunger in his touch, so different from this touch of a gentle breeze.

  It was the guilt that plagued her! Robbing her of even the comfort his touch should give. She was too upset to allow her love to flow. Upset, suddenly frightened, and shamed.

  But she did not resist his kiss. Her mind was flying, touching the stars. She had to stay calm, and poised—and say nothing. Let him travel on to Richard so that she could have the time she so desperately needed.

  “Elise! Elise!”

  He drew his lips from hers and enveloped her against his frame. “I have dreamed of you nightly, my love. And now, holding you, feeling the softness of your form! Our dear king is dead, but our world is also at last at peace!” He pulled away from her suddenly, holding her by her shoulders as he stared into her eyes.

  He wanted her to say something, she knew. To proclaim her love for him. She felt so . . . horrible. As if by touching her he could tell that another man had known her.

  “Percy . . .” His name came out as a whisper. It was just as well; it sounded as if her emotion for him had robbed her of audible speech. She swallowed. “Percy, I have missed you . . . so.” Why? she wondered. Why was she plagued by this belief that he would know? She had scrubbed and bathed away Stede’s touch from her flesh, but Jeanne had been right; she had not been able to remove it from her soul.

  “Oh, Elise!” Percy held her tightly again, cherishing her, then pulled slightly away, still holding her hands. “Elise, is your chaplain at the castle?”

  “Brother Sebastian?” she queried, trying to catch up with his words as her conscience continued to hound her. “Yes, I believe that he is surely near. He does not care to travel, you know; lately, he has grown as fat as a waddling duck—”

  “Then let’s be married tonight!”

  “Tonight?” Elise echoed with horror.

  “Aye, tonight! Henry gave you permission to marry where you would. But now Richard is our suzerain. You are landed gentry, and I am not. Richard has been generous, but what if he finds an objection to our marriage? If the deed is done, there will be little that he can say.”

  Tonight? Elise thought swiftly. Yes, marry him tonight! Let it be done, and when she was his wife, she would lovingly find some way to explain to him why she had not come to him entirely chaste . . .

  Yes, tonight . . . her future would be sealed.

&n
bsp; She closed her eyes. A cold trickle of shivers swept through her. She could not. She would destroy all that set the two of them above time and the world. Even if she deceived Percy, she would live in terror, wondering each time they lay together if she would conceive a child with him, or if she had perhaps done so before she had become his wife . . .

  If he found her in a lie, it would be finished. The magic of a marriage upon equal footing, an alliance of choice and love. She could bear a child with raven-black hair, and Percy could turn from her and go wandering the world. Or, worse still, cast her from him.

  “Elise!” He shook her shoulders. “Speak to me!”

  She pulled gently away from him and turned to stare out at the night. Strange, how she had dreamed of pitting Percy against Bryan Stede for vengeance. And now . . . now she could not want such a thing. Percy could die, and she would not be able to live with such pain and guilt and loss.

  But neither could she blithely marry Percy.

  “My love,” she said softly, facing the stars and wondering how the night could mock her with such beauty, “I . . . think that it would be a serious mistake to marry tonight.”

  “Why?” Percy demanded. She heard the mistrust and confusion in his voice.

  Deceiving Percy was so very hard when it came to . . . this. She felt tension riddle her body just as she tried to speak lightly and reasonably. “Because of Richard, Percy. He will expect us to ask his blessing—and permission. If we ignore him, we could well suffer for years and years to come.”

  Percy was silent. She didn’t dare turn to look at him.

  At last he spoke. “I don’t believe you, Elise. Why should Richard care about an unlanded knight and the Duchess of a small spit of land that buffers him from the French King’s domains?”

  “Because he is Richard,” Elise said flatly. “As proud and arrogant as his father.”

  Again Percy was silent. She felt him move behind her, and for her life, she could not ease her body from the rigidity that seized it when she felt his arms encircle her waist.

  “What is wrong with you?” he demanded crisply.

  She closed her eyes. She thought of the summer day when she had met him, here at Montoui, in Henry’s service. She thought of the long talks they had shared late at night before the fire under the respectful eyes of the guards; she thought of the way he had always known when she was having a problem, deciding a grievance between two of her people, worrying about the harvest, or an illness that had affected the livestock.

  He always knew. It was part of why she had come to love him so dearly. He was caring and sensitive. Always willing to listen; to respect her mind, and her decisions—even to learn from her.

  “Wrong?” she murmured, stalling for time.

  “Elise, I know you well, my love.”

  A certain strength returned to her. Percy did love her. It was possible that she had conceived a child, but very unlikely. And was the loss of her maidenhood such a great thing then compared with the love of a lifetime? She had to get past the guilt—especially when the guilt shouldn’t have been hers!—and say something.

  “Percy, I love you. And we will marry soon. But I cannot marry you tonight.”

  She felt him move behind her, and again she felt caressed and warmed by his love.

  “Why not, Elise? If we hesitate, all could be lost. Tell me why you are so distraught. Elise, I love you—no matter what!”

  She turned to face him again, touching his cheek wonderingly for a moment with her knuckles. He caught her hand and kissed it fervently.

  “Percy,” she said softly, “I am distraught. Percy, I traveled to Chinon to pray for the king. I felt it my duty; he has always been so kind to me. Thieves robbed the body while I was there, and I was forced to run. It was a horrible night.”

  He moved away from her, quietly walking along the ramparts. “Who is it, Elise? I would know.”

  “What?” she asked immediately, frowning as she wondered quickly what she might have said to lead him to such a question.

  “You’re in love with another man. Who?”

  “Oh, Percy, no, no!” She raced to him then, catching his arm, spinning him around. “No, Percy! I promise that I am not in love with another man—”

  She paused, horrified by her emphasis on the words “in love with.” She saw his eyes; the leap of flame to them, of query and of pain, and she knew there would be no going back. She had to tell him what had happened now; the truth would be far better than the things he might suspect.

  “Tell me, Elise,” he whispered painfully.

  “I love you, Percy,” she told him.

  “I love you. Tell me.”

  “I did tell you. Thieves robbed the body of the king. I was there when it happened. I had to run. And so I ran. But I couldn’t run fast enough and I was caught—”

  He jerked from her so suddenly that she was stunned. His fingers gripped hard into her arms, his eyes were intense. His voice was barely a whisper, yet it was harsh and pained.

  “You were caught and . . . raped . . . by a thief?”

  She suddenly felt her head spinning. Was there a difference if one was raped by a thief—or seduced through one’s own stupidity by a knight?

  “Not . . . not by a thief . . .” she faltered.

  “By one of the king’s men?”

  He was shouting. Percy was shouting at her. She had never seen him so angry, and it was terrible not to know if he was angry at her, or at the man who had wronged her. He had promised to love her no matter what—but at that moment, it would have been impossible to touch him. She was at a loss as to how to handle the situation. She turned around, grasping blindly for the stone wall.

  Tears—tears always worked well with a gentle man. And, dear God! Didn’t she deserve to cry? She loved this man, and she was on the verge of losing him through no fault of her own.

  Elise allowed her shoulders to shake and a ragged sob to escape her. Once they began to flow, there seemed to be no end to her tears.

  At last, Percy came up behind her. “Elise, Elise . . .” His hands caressed her shoulders. “My love, you must tell me what happened. This is horrible. Against all the laws of man and God and chivalry. You were raped by one of the king’s men?”

  “I wasn’t exactly . . . raped. It—”

  “It wasn’t exactly rape?” Percy interrupted, shooting back at Elise in a state of confusion. “Elise, either it was or wasn’t! Were you brutally forced?”

  “No . . . not exactly, but I didn’t intend—”

  “Oh, my God!” Percy grated out. His gentle tone was gone, and his touch became a painful one. “It wasn’t exactly rape! What was it?”

  “Percy I . . .” What was it? She could barely answer that herself. “I—I was tricked . . . I—”

  “Tricked . . . ! How?” Percy snarled.

  “Percy, it is a long, complicated story. He didn’t know who I was, I didn’t know who he was—”

  “What a wonderful reason to bed with a man!”

  “Percy!” Elise protested, searching out his gold and hazel eyes. Where was the man she loved, who had vowed to love her no matter what? She didn’t recognize him. And she had thought that she had known him so well!

  “All this time, I have revered you and placed you upon a pedestal,” he told her bitterly, “and I’ve often gone cold and wretched into the night! Now you tell me that upon meeting some other knight you fall like a harlot into his bed! Perhaps I’ve been the fool all along! Respecting you as the grand ‘Lady Elise,’ Duchess of Montoui! Did you laugh all along? I should have sensed in your kisses the female lust for more! Do you tell me of just one, or have there been many? Will I merely follow a long line?”

  “Percy!”

  Elise was so shocked she could only echo his name, and try to assimilate the horrible things he said to her.

  “Oh, God!” he groaned, and, pushing her from him, he leaned against the ramparts, slamming a fist against them. She felt his pain then, as well as his ange
r. And she tried to tell herself that his anger was caused by that pain—that he would strike out at her because he was wounded, not because he had ceased to care. Nothing helped; his behavior was still a shock to her.

  But then he pushed away from the stone and gripped her shoulders once again, his fingers biting into her flesh. And when she heard the tone of voice, she stiffened.

  “Who was this man? I will not be laughed at should I meet up with him. Nor will I hear whispers behind my back. Or have they been whispering behind my back already? Did you fabricate this story of being caught, since I would surely know I held no virgin once we were wed?”

  The shock faded, and became rage. She slapped him as hard as she could across the face.

  He staggered backward, staring at her incredulously. He brought his hand to his injured cheek, and his lips curled into a sardonic snarl. Percy, snarling. She had never seen such an ugly or threatening look upon his face; he was a different man.

  He started to take a step toward her, and she realized that he meant to strike her in return. “Harlot, I should send you to your knees—”

  “Come one step closer to me, Percy Montagu, and I will scream for my guards!” Elise snapped.

  Apparently he believed her, for he paused, the snarl fading from his face. Once again he was just Percy, the man she had loved so dearly. Gentle and tender, capable of the sweetest poetry. How could he be so cruel?

  She lifted her chin, trying to keep from trembling. “I cannot believe that you have said these things to me, Percy. As I vowed my love, so did you. If that love were true, you would not dishonor me so. No one has ever laughed behind your back, but had they, I would have hoped that your belief in me would have risen above any scorn. I could have married you this night, and possibly deceived you. But I did not.”

  Percy swallowed uncertainly. “Perhaps you could not have borne my anger had I found you out.”

  “Perhaps,” Elise said coolly.

  “Who was he?”