But never before had he feared it.
It had almost done him in, this near-paralyzing fright that had begun even before the fight. Nicholas had heard of soldiers who froze in battle, unable to do their duty, but he had scoffed at the cowards, never thinking to join their ranks-until today.
It was not as if his own life meant so much, even though it was livable at last, fresh and full, as it had never been before his marriage. Nay, precious as it had become, Nicholas would give it up with honor, if not for Gillian and the child. His fear was for their future, for if he should lose, what would become of them?
Such thoughts had plagued him from the moment he accepted the challenge, and he had found himself wondering whether there might be something to this business of family that Gillian was always prattling about. Had he relatives to whom he could entrust his wife and unborn babe, perhaps he would not suffer under the suffocating dread that had nearly cost him the contest.
The hand reached for him still. Although Nicholas refused it, denying his need for assistance, it remained outstretched before him, steady, unwavering. Like Piers himself. With reluctant admiration, Nicholas lifted his head to look at the man who had saved his life. Reminded of his own timely appearance when Piers was under siege, he said, “We are even now.”
The Red Knight shook his head in denial. “We are brothers.”
The realization was long in coming, but perhaps all the sharper for it. Suddenly Nicholas knew that he had never really been alone, for here was the family he could turn to, if need be. All he had to do was grasp it. Eyeing the palm that was presented to him, Nicholas reached out to take it, letting Piers’s massive strength drag him to his feet.
Their gazes met, and Nicholas saw a wealth of understanding in that of the other man, but for once he did not flinch from that knowledge, and Piers nodded, satisfied. Then Nicholas saw Gillian running toward him, her cloak billowing behind her, and he opened his arms. She came into them in a rush, and he gathered her to him, burying his face in her fiery hair.
Shakily, reverently, he breathed in the essence of her, and it was so heady that, if not for their audience, he might have wept into her precious locks and babbled all sorts of nonsense. Like how much she meant to him.
“Nicholas!” she whispered, her voice a gentle comfort. “Thank God!”
“My lord!” Edith’s grating tone interrupted their tender reunion, and Nicholas groaned in annoyance. “The villain’s servants are fled,” she said, nodding toward the dead man. “And who did I see among them but Eudo, whom you banished from Belvry! He must have kept out of sight.”
Nicholas’s head jerked up, though he kept one arm around his wife. “That explains where he received some of his information, at least.” All eyes turned to the body of his slain opponent, and Nicholas realized that he took no joy in the man’s death, only in his own survival. So much for his long-awaited revenge.
“I suppose we will never know now if he was my lady’s brother or not,” Edith said, and Gillian leaned into him, pressing her face against his shoulder with a choking sound that made Nicholas curse the old servant’s loose tongue.
“Hush,” he said, stroking her back. “He will receive a proper burial.” For her sake, Nicholas was willing to go through the motions, but he knew that the man was no kin to his wife. Although others might doubt Piers’s memory, Nicholas did not. The great knight was too shrewd to be in error. If Gillian needed more proof, however, he would give it to her in good time. “We shall know,” he said grimly, “when Darius returns.”
Gillian released a sad sigh. “Now I have no family again,” she murmured brokenly.
“Nay,” Nicholas said. He slid a hand beneath her chin and lifted it, so that she was forced to look at him, her emerald eyes awash with tears. “Your family is here,” he said, nodding toward the Red Knight. “Piers and Aisley and their child. Our baby.” She blinked. “And we will make more between us. Gillian, I am your family,” he whispered.
She stood there on the field of battle, with the wind tugging her cloak and sending long tendrils of fiery hair trailing behind her, and Nicholas could not resist her. He kissed her mouth to seal his pledge, while the crowd roared its approval, chanting the names of their lord and lady to the sky.
* * *
Nicholas strode to the solar, pausing abruptly on the threshold at the sight of his wife, nodding over her needlework. The forgotten piece lay abandoned on the roundness of her belly, and he sucked in a breath at the tranquillity of the scene. He had never expected to know such peace as he had these past few months.
He and Gillian spent more of their time at ease with each other and less of it arguing. Although they still quarreled, both of them knew that they would soon settle their differences in an elemental manner, and even the servants no longer fled in the wake of their shouts. Indeed, their contentment seemed contagious, for all at Belvry seemed more festive than usual as Christmas approached.
Yet, into this harmonious atmosphere, Nicholas must bring a note of discord. He frowned, unwilling to distress the woman who slumbered so sweetly, even though he knew that his news must do just that. Perhaps he should let her sleep on, for now, but even as the thought passed through his mind, his contrary wife fluttered her lashes and looked at him drowsily.
“Nicholas…” She said his name on a sigh, and he stepped forward, resolved to wait no longer.
“Darius has returned,” he said. Her green eyes widened, and she sat up straighter, grabbing up her needlework before it fell to the floor. “I have not spoken to him, but I saw him approach and told Rowland to send him up directly.”
Gillian nodded, her lovely mouth set in a firm line. She was preparing herself for ill tidings, and Nicholas could offer no comfort, for he knew what to expect from the Syrian’s report. All he could do was take a seat beside her and wait for Darius’s arrival, which was not long in coming.
When he appeared, it was obvious that the Syrian had come straight to the solar, for his clothes were still damp from travel over snow-covered roads. He, too, paused in the doorway, his gaze taking in Gillian’s newly rounded shape, and he grinned. “My lady!” He came forward, and Gillian would have risen to greet him, but Nicholas placed a restraining hand upon her arm.
“Rest, wife,” he said. And he told himself that it was her welfare that made him speak, and not a sudden recurrence of his old jealousy.
“Darius,” Gillian said from her chair. “‘Tis good to see you again. And returned in time for the yuletide.”
The Syrian bowed low, his lithe body more elegant than Nicholas remembered. “‘Tis good to see you, as well, and in such a delightful condition. May I tender my congratulations to you, and to you, also, of course,” he added, inclining his head toward Nicholas.
In return, Nicholas nodded, though his mood was soured by the way Darius was looking at his wife. Undisguised approval, along with something deeper, more threatening, appeared on the Syrian’s normally impassive face, and Nicholas’s eyes narrowed as he leaned forward. “You have news?” he asked.
Darius lifted his brows slightly at Nicholas’s peremptory manner, but said nothing as he settled himself on a patch of carpet that graced the floor by the hearth. When he turned again toward them once more, his features revealed nothing.
“I traveled to the marches in search of information about your brother, lady,” he said. “He claims to have served under a Baron Mollison, but I could find no man by that name, nor any history of such, though I traveled far and wide and asked for him of many. Nor could I find anyone who had ever heard of Hawis Hexham.”
Nicholas nodded. “The Red Knight was here and recognized him as a squire for a petty knight who fought with Edward in Wales.”
Darius frowned. “I am sorry, lady.”
Gillian lowered her head.
“I went back to the place of your birth and questioned many there, without much success, until I finally located an old woman who not only remembered your brother, but tended him at his deathbe
d, when he was a child.”
Nicholas saw Gillian swallow. Although she did not struggle for air, he watched her anxiously. “Thank you for your information, Darius. I know it cost you dearly in this weather,” she said. “Perhaps, in the spring, I can visit my brother’s grave, knowing that he is truly there and at rest.”
Darius turned to Nicholas. “And the impostor?”
“He is dead,” Nicholas said, but his eyes were on Gillian. She was so brave and strong, he knew she would never weep in front of another. “Thank you, Darius,” he said curtly. “You will want to rest after your long journey.”
The Syrian lifted his brows again at the abrupt dismissal, but did not protest. He rose from the floor gracefully, bowed to Gillian, and left, closing the door behind him.
Alone with his wife, Nicholas felt absurdly helpless. He was not good with words, and could not easily form those that would give comfort to her. “I wanted you to be certain that ‘twas not your brother who was killed here,” he explained.
Gillian did not move her head, but looked down at her lap. “I think I always knew, in my heart, that he was not Hawis.”
“Aye,” Nicholas said since a response seemed appropriate.
“The heart is a wondrous thing, Nicholas.”
“Aye,” he muttered again.
“It sees truths that the mind does not.”
“Aye.”
“I have a big heart, Nicholas.”
“Aye,” he repeated, though he did not quite follow her.
“Although you will always be first and foremost in it, there is room there for others.”
Nicholas, uncertain of her meaning, kept silent this time.
“There are corners enough for Edith and Willie, Aisley and Piers and little Sybil, and even Darius.”
Nicholas’s gaze shot to her face, and she turned slowly to meet it. Her green eyes were calm and clear. “And there is room, too, for our baby. Nicholas, I can love them all without loving you less.”
Nicholas stared, too stunned by her pronouncement to reply. When, at last, he found his wits, his first impulse was deny what she was saying, but he could not. The rebuttal stuck in his throat, for his clever wife was not wrong.
A selfish bastard she had called him once, and it was true. He would hoard all her affection for himself, and resent that which she bestowed upon others. Even the child he had given her in a fit of pique, trying to bind her more fully to him. And he had sworn to protect her for all the wrong reasons, not for her own welfare, but for his own peace of mind.
“Love is giving and sharing, Nicholas,” she said softly.
Although he refused to glance her way, Nicholas felt her hand upon his, lifting it and placing his palm against her stomach. “Feel that, Nicholas? ‘Tis your son.” Her voice broke. “Tell me that your heart is big enough for him.”
Beneath his fingers, Nicholas felt movement, as the flesh of her belly stirred and swelled. He sucked in a breath, awestruck that the unborn babe could make itself known to him so surely. “I never realized…”
“See, Nicholas? He is giving you greeting!”
Kneeling before her, Nicholas laid his cheek against her belly. It rippled and rolled beneath him, and he was abruptly aware of the presence of another being in his wife, in his life, in his heart. And he knew, just as suddenly, that he would love it, as he loved Gillian.
He looked up again, to see her lashes wet with tears, her smile tremulous, and it seemed as if he had loved her forever. But that could not be possible. He had been empty for so long before she entered his life and filled him with her spirit, her warmth, her passion.
“I will love him, Gillian,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “Just as I love you.”
“Good,” she said, blinking rapidly while her smile grew. Then she laughed aloud, the husky sound that always stirred his soul. “Why, Nicholas, I have never seen you grin so broadly.” She paused to study him, then cried out in delight, “I do believe you have a dimple!”
Nicholas paced back and forth in the passageway, unwilling to go down to the hall and face the prying eyes of his people, yet forced from the great chamber where his wife lay in childbed. He had not wanted to go, but the midwife had folded her hands across her withered chest, pronounced that a birthing was no place for a man and demanded his departure.
He had exited the room, only to linger outside, listening like a thief at the door, but the oaken panels were thick, and he heard nothing. So Nicholas stood in the dark, a seasoned warrior, helpless, frustrated, knowing nothing. Thwarted by an old crone. He fisted his hands at his sides, struggling with a desire to beat down the wall that separated him from his wife. What was going on in there?
The memory of Gillian’s illness returned to haunt him, and he envisioned her lying cold and silent upon their great bed. The stomach that had long been healed lurched wildly, and his chest tightened with fear. When would they let him back in?
The first of her cries tore at his insides, and Nicholas began to sweat, despite the coolness of the surrounding stones. The next few screams made him lunge toward the door, but he stopped himself, striding back and forth again, trying to regain his composure. Once, he saw Willie’s face at the top of the stairs, but one fierce look sent Edith’s husband scuttling away. Nicholas wanted no comfort. Nor did he desire that anyone see him this way, his control rapidly slipping away.
The minutes ticked by impossibly slowly, and the longer he paced outside the door, the more frantic Nicholas became. Gillian’s moans were a constant now, coming closer together, sometimes louder, sometimes softer, and he found himself straining to hear them, for they meant that she lived and breathed.
Still, Nicholas had seen his share of misery, and he knew how suddenly death could claim a man or woman. The thought made him pause, for he remembered all too well that dark time during her illness when Gillian had nearly slipped away from him. Only the force of his will had kept her with him then. He had ranted and raved and drawn her back from the very brink, and ever since he had watched over her vigilantly.
Except now. The realization that his wife might be dying in there, away from his reach, made Nicholas act at last. Striding to the door, he wrenched it open, and it banged against the wall loudly, startling everyone in the room, as he stood on the threshold, assessing the scene.
Gillian was lying back upon the bed, Edith at her side and the midwife at her feet. A cloth covered his wife’s upraised knees, but the birthing stool stood to the side, unused. The old midwife, who had been present at his own arrival into the world, turned to face him, a scowl on her wrinkled face.
“My lord! You must leave here at once!” she protested angrily. Unaccustomed to anyone but his wife gainsaying him, Nicholas wondered if the crone was witch. He did not trust her.
“Why is she not on the stool?” he snarled.
“My lord, my lord,” Edith said, bustling over to come between him and the hag. “‘Tis not quite time yet. You must be patient.” She clucked her tongue, trying to herd him from the room, but he would have none of it.
“Patient? I have been listening to her screams for mgh on an hour!” he said.
Instead of agreeing with this appalling charge, Edith chuckled. “And it may take longer still. Now you must go and wait. We will tell you the moment the babe arrives.”
“Nay! I am not leaving until I find out how my wife fares!”
“Let him stay!” Gillian said, in a surprisingly strong voice. “Better yet, let him come closer, and I will show him how I fare!”
“Gillian?” he whispered, brushing by Edith to go to her side.
She was lying back on the bed, red-faced and panting, but she did not have the pallor of death that he had seen on her before. Still, she did not look well at all, and as he watched, her features contorted into a grimace.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Lean nearer and let me twist your privates into a knot, so you can know how I feel,” she promised between breaths.
; Her remark stunned him for a moment. Then he straightened, frowning down at her. “You are the one who wanted this baby! Do not lay at my door the blame for your discomfort.”
“Discomfort?” she shrieked. “Discomfort? I shall give you discomfort, you fiend! ‘Tis all your fault! You bedded me!”
“You seduced me!”
The two were shouting so loudly at each other that neither one heard Edith ask about the birthing stool or the midwife’s soft reply that it would not be needed. “You may push now, my lady,” the woman said, but Gillian was too busy throwing curses at her husband’s head.
“Push, my lady!” Edith urged, louder, and finally she did, releasing a long, ragged breath before yelling at Nicholas.
“I am never doing this again!”
“Fine! At last we agree on something!”
She pushed again, her face a startling shade of scarlet, and Nicholas felt alarm race through him until she reviled him anew. “You are never to touch me again!”
“Then you must keep your fine hands off me!” Nicholas returned. “Do not think you can change my mind this time, with your wiles!”
“Stubborn man!”
“Mulish vixen!”
Nicholas’s eyes narrowed at they stared into emerald ones alight with fury. Then, suddenly Gillian fell back against the pillows with a sigh and reached for him. Despite her threats, he took her hand immediately, and his fingers closed around hers, just as the sound of an infant’s cries filled the room.
Stunned, Nicholas looked to the foot of the bed, where the old woman was handing a tiny form to Edith. “Poor wee thing, to be cursed with the blood of these two,” the midwife muttered, “both of them as daft as can be.”
Nicholas grinned slowly as he turned back to his wife. Oblivious of the old woman’s slurs, she gazed up at him with shining eyes. “I did not mean any of it,” she said softly.
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