by Tamara Leigh
He took the last stairs up to the rooftop but, as he stepped forward, she motioned for him to stay low. “You might be seen!”
It was possible, though only between the notches in the tower wall, as the donjon rose above the outer walls. Still, Christian bent as he crossed to her side. There, he turned his back to the wall and lowered to his haunches.
She looked up at him. “Surely you considered I would be under guard?”
“I did.”
“And had I been?”
“My tongue would have had to prove as swift as my sword.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You think it possible?”
Christian was surprised by the ease with which laughter rose from him. “I do not. Doubtless, I would find myself dragged before your brothers.” Worse, he would be revealed.
Gaenor studied the man whose face was so near, whose unexpected appearance had stolen her breath, whose laughter sent a thrill through her, whose body smelled of salt and steel, who made her fear for a heart already wounded.
Pulling her gaze from his gold-flecked eyes, she looked down. Why did the Lord not deny her this knight’s company as she ought to be denied—as she had tried to accept when Sir Matthew had not come to the chapel?
“You have been reading?” he asked.
She glanced at the psalter in her lap and felt a pang at having been caught delving the Lord’s word as if in dire need of counsel—which she was. She curled her fingers around the book’s thick spine. “Mostly, I have enjoyed the sun.”
“I am intrigued, as most ladies eschew the outdoors for fear of freckling. You have no such concern?”
As if freckles would detract from her long face and uneven features…
She looked up and saw he had drawn nearer yet. “Though I would not disappoint you, Sir Matthew, I confess I am not the same as most ladies. I like the sun. Thus, when it deigns to come out from behind the clouds, I seek it—regardless of freckles, regardless of skin that does not gleam like alabaster.”
“I am not disappointed, Lady Gaenor. As told, I am intrigued. Indeed, I much prefer the warmth of your skin.” He swept fingers across her lower jaw.
I am not breathing. Is he? Drawn to his mouth, Gaenor watched as his smile lowered and lips parted.
“Will you allow it, my lady?”
Do not, a small voice reminded her of the last time she had allowed a man so near. It would be terrible folly to have such pain visited on her again. And it was wrong.
She gripped the psalter tighter. Only a short while ago, she had prayed for the Lord’s guidance and now she longed to turn from it. To allow him to kiss her. To sin again.
She met Sir Matthew’s gaze and feared she might become lost in those golden flecks. “I cannot, for I am promised to another, as are you. Pray, do not ask me to betray him.” Any more than already I have done.
“Lady Gaenor”—his fingers curled around her lower arm—“I would—”
She jerked her arm free and sprang to her feet. “Do not ask it of me.”
He rose. “My lady, I—”
“Gaenor?” a voice called up the stairs.
She clamped her lips closed against the cry that would have brought Everard bounding to the roof with sword in hand. Desperate to avert disaster, which might have proved mortal had she allowed Sir Matthew to kiss her, she shook her head at the knight, then tucked her psalter against her side and hastened to the hatch. “I am here,” she called and stepped onto the first stair.
From half a dozen steps below, her brother peered up at her. “Seeking sun again, eh?” he chided, unaware of the heart that knocked hard upon her breast. “If you are not more mindful, you will turn brown as a nut.” He frowned. “You have left your slippers on the roof?”
She had. “Nay,” she lied, only then remembering the psalter she held, “my slippers are in my chamber.” She took a step down and, as she reached to pull the door closed, glanced over her shoulder at Sir Matthew.
He stood where she had left him, hand on his sword, gaze steady.
Knowing it was likely the last time she would see him, for it was too dangerous to continue to meet, she closed her lids to impress the image of him upon her mind. It was all she would ever have of him.
She looked back around. “You wish to speak to me?”
“I thought you might enjoy a ride.”
Though, normally, she would have been flushed with excitement, she felt little more than a dull jolt. Easing the door closed overhead as she began her descent of the stairs, she said, “Most assuredly. Shall we depart anon?” Pray, let it be now that Sir Matthew might sooner come down.
“If you are ready.” Everard turned and led the way.
Grateful for his back, which allowed her to ease the false smile from her face, she said, “I have but to don my mantle and slippers.” As for the latter, it was fortunate she had another pair.
Everard threw open her chamber door and she stepped in ahead of him. Within a quarter hour, they guided their horses toward the wood, and it took all of her will not to look around and search out the tower to see if Sir Matthew watched.
He could have made it right—revealed his identity this day. But Sir Everard had stolen the opportunity, and from Gaenor’s response to Christian’s desire to kiss her, there would be no more opportunities.
Driven by impulse to do something he should not have attempted, he had frightened her away. But some good had come of it. She had shown herself to be true. Admit it or not, she had wanted to kiss him and denied herself so she would not betray her betrothed. That she would not betray him.
Hearing the pound of hooves, he stepped into the notch between two embattlements and picked out the riders who headed for the wood—the one on the left undoubtedly Sir Everard, the one on the right, Gaenor, whose hooded mantle hid her woman’s figure and hair.
As they entered the wood, Christian looked to the slippers she had left behind and determined he would deliver them to her chamber.
When he stepped into the room where she had spent these past months, he saw it was simply furnished but of good size. Still, it was far from large enough to contain him for as long as it had done her. She likely spent a good deal of time on the roof.
He strode across the rush-covered floor and set her slippers on the chest at the foot of the bed. Though it was all he had come to do, he paused and looked closer at the furnishings that might reveal something about Gaenor. However, the only evidence of her occupancy was a side table set with quill, ink pot, parchment, basin, and towel, and a bedside table on which lay a comb, a piece of embroidery, and the psalter she had earlier gripped as if it were life itself.
He stepped toward the latter and drew his fingers across the gilded cover. What had she been reading before his interruption?
He opened to a brightly illuminated page that immediately wafted memories of the monastery where he had bent over parchment to embellish the Lord’s word. It was as near as he had come to feeling peace in the Lord’s service—an inner calm that assuaged what was too often monotony.
Surprised by a lightening about his heart, he read the first two lines of the psalm, then closed his eyes and drew forth the remainder that was more easily coaxed to mind than expected.
He lifted his lids, flipped forward a dozen pages, and again pulled a psalm from memory. The words were still there. He had but to summon them.
He touched the illumination of King David on his throne, then turned to the front of the psalter. However, it was not a psalm he laid open, but folded parchment spotted where wax had once sealed it against eyes for which it was not intended.
Though Christian knew he should not further trespass, he unfolded it and looked upon bold, black strokes made by a dull quill.
My lady, Gaenor,
I pray one day you will forgive me. ~ Ever your friend, Durand
Christian remembered the knight who had escaped the king’s men with Gaenor and delivered her to Wulfen Castle—the same who had later accompanied Baron Wulfrith to
Broehne Castle to attend Lady Beatrix’s trial. Forgive him? For what?
He had paid the knight little heed other than to be offended by his presence when Baron Wulfrith brought him along to discuss the proposal Christian had put to him—in exchange for the Wulfriths yielding up Lady Gaenor without further defiance of the king’s decree, Christian would supply testimony to aid Lady Beatrix at trial.
Remembering the seething Sir Durand who had stood behind the baron, gaze wrathful, face flushed, teeth bared, Christian wondered if he was the one to whom Gaenor had given her heart. The one whose own heart lay elsewhere.
He read again the words that beseeched her forgiveness. Because Sir Durand had not returned her feelings? Because he had rejected her?
It seemed to fit, especially as she had retained the letter and the parchment was worn as if often handled. Indeed, rather than a psalm, perhaps it was this letter over which she had been poring when he had found her on the roof.
Jealousy gripped him. If Sir Durand was the one who held her heart, might he be the reason she refused Christian’s kiss, rather than fear of betrayal?
The crackle of parchment brought him back from the unfamiliar edge upon which he found himself, and he saw he had crumpled the edges. With a grunt of disgust, he returned the parchment to the psalter, snapped the book closed, and stalked out of the chamber.
Telling himself it was good that he and Lady Gaenor would not meet again until her sister’s wedding and that he did not care how she received him when he was revealed, he shortly found himself tilting at a quintain on the training field.
Time and again, he landed his lance center of the stuffed knight that sought to come about quickly enough to knock him from his mount. But not once did his silent opponent find its mark.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was foolish of her, but as it was three days since last she had seen Sir Matthew on the roof, she had given in to the impulse upon catching sight of him as he struck out across the field. Though only twice before had she stolen from the castle to the wood, she once more risked her brothers’ wrath and slipped out the sally port amid the lengthening shadows of day’s end.
Guessing it was the stream Sir Matthew sought in order to cleanse away the day’s training, she edged around the outer wall, gripped the hood beneath her chin lest it fall, and ran for the trees.
Though she could not be certain, no alarm sounded from the walls as her long legs carried her across the tall grass. Of course, as she knew from her months in the tower, Wulfen’s young men sometimes sought the wood the same as Sir Matthew. Providing it was not done under cover of night, they usually went unchallenged.
Reaching the cover of the trees where Sir Matthew had passed a short while ago, she paused to catch her breath. Though it was darker beneath the canopy of leaves, it was not yet so dark she could not see a good distance ahead. Still, she pulled her meat dagger as she ventured forward.
Minutes later, she heard the softly rippling stream. She searched for movement among the trees that she might alert Sir Matthew to her presence should he prove unfit for her company, but all was still.
At the bank of the stream, she looked in both directions. Had he gone farther downstream? Upstream toward the falls? Unfortunately, the dimming sky told that she would be foolish to continue on.
Resigned to returning to the castle, she bent, scooped up a handful of water, and wet her mouth.
“It seems this time ‘tis you who seeks me,” a voice sounded from the left.
Nearly choking on the water, she thrust to her feet and swung around to face Sir Matthew where he stood alongside a tree twenty feet downstream. Fair hair clinging to his head, damp tunic evidencing it had been pulled over a wet body, sword in hand telling the fate of any who might attempt to steal upon him with ill intent, he stared at her.
“I neither saw nor heard you.”
He smiled tightly. “Then Sir Everard is to be commended for teaching me well.” He reached down, retrieved his belt, and strapped it on. After returning his sword to its scabbard, he strode forward.
Senses straining toward this man she had sought out, Gaenor returned her dagger to her girdle.
Sir Matthew halted before her. “This is most unexpected, Lady Gaenor.”
His tone was different, unlike their previous meetings when he had seemed pleased to see her. Was he angry? These past days, had he awaited her in the chapel she had avoided?
“I thought it best that we not meet again,” she said. “Thus, I stayed away from the chapel.”
“As did I.”
Embarrassment heated her cheeks. “Then we were of the same mind.”
“I still am, Lady Gaenor. You should not have followed me.”
“This I know, but when I saw you go to the wood, I…” She drew a deep breath. “I wanted to see you one last time ere I depart Wulfen.”
“Why?”
The question was so curt, she snapped, “Truly, I do not know.”
“Do you not?”
Though she longed to salvage any pride that might be left to her, she did not turn away. What harm to tell him the truth? It was not as if she would see him again once she left Wulfen, and it would unburden her. Too, if he had similar feelings and declared them, it would be something for her to hold onto in the dark days ahead. “Aye, I know the reason I sought you out.”
He arched an eyebrow.
“I feel something for you that I should not, Sir Matthew, and with a foolish heart, I wished to feel it one last time.”
Though she expected her honesty to soften him, his jaw remained hard. “You speak of the same foolish heart given to a man who does not return your feelings?”
Were his words of iron, rather than air, she would have bled. What had she done to incur such wrath from a man who had first offended by listening in on her prayers? Who had first sought her out? And had continued to seek her out? She had but refused his kiss as a lady should, especially one betrothed to another.
She raised her chin. “The same foolish heart that seeks a kiss it refused three days past.”
Christian stared at her. Though he had hoped it was her reason for coming to the wood, he had not expected her to admit it. “What of this other man who claims your heart?”
A smile, bordering on winter, touched her lips. “One does not lay claim to what one does not desire, Sir Matthew.”
“You play with words, Lady Gaenor.”
“So I do.”
Holding his arms at his sides, Christian said, “Thus?”
She sighed. “I have determined to take back my heart, and upon my word, I shall.”
Warring over relief that the specter between him and his future wife might meet its end, and regret that his deception was becoming increasingly difficult to explain away, he said, “What of your betrothed? Might he then claim your heart?”
Her gaze faltered. “I shall wed the baron as is required of me, just as you shall wed your betrothed as is required of you, Sir Matthew.”
“And if I did not—and you did not?” he asked, only to inwardly groan as his deception dug deeper. Now, when he had her to himself and there were no others she could place as a barrier between him and her outrage, he ought to tell her the truth. And he might have had she not dropped her hood to reveal the fall of her hair. Since only a fool would choose her anger over a taste of her mouth, especially as his deception was so dire it surely could get no worse, he drew her near.
“Later we will speak of stealing me away.” Her breath fanned his lips. “Now I would have that kiss.”
Ignoring the voice that urged him not to postpone the inevitable, he bent his head.
Gaenor’s lips were soft and willing, and yet uncertain as if hers was an untried mouth. He was relieved, for though Sir Durand might possess her heart, that was surely all he had gained. Gaenor Wulfrith, soon Gaenor Lavonne, was his. Somewhere in the days remaining before their departure from Wulfen, he would find the right moment to tell her all.
As the kiss deepened, so
did the vibration beneath their feet until it was impossible to ignore the riders who rushed across the land toward Wulfen Castle.
Christian lifted his head and glanced at a sky that was fast running toward night. “Riders.”
Lips moist, cheeks flushed, Gaenor said, “You know who comes?”
“Nay, though there is urgency to their ride.” Liking the feel of her, knowing too soon he must release her, he tightened his hold. “We should return.”
“Aye.” Still, she did not draw back.
Christian pulled a hand up her side, over her shoulder, and cupped her chin. “On the morrow, will you come to me again—here, in the wood, this same time?”
“I shall be here.”
He brushed his mouth across hers. “We will speak then of how I plan to steal you away.” And he would steal her away if it was required—at least, until she was reconciled to his deception. He released her. “Let us make haste.”
Neither spoke as they negotiated the undergrowth, trees, and shadows. At the edge of the wood, Christian motioned her to go ahead of him.
Dusk upon her face, she said, “On the morrow,” and dragged the hood over her head and set off across the field.
When she slipped through the sally port, Christian exited the wood and began planning how he would tell her the truth.
On the morrow he would do it, or the day after, or the day after that, but he would tell her before either of them left Wulfen Castle.
“We must depart this eve,” Sir Hector said.
Girding the tidings like the oppressive weight it was meant it to be, Christian considered the older knight who, above all, had proved loyal to him these past years. “Aye, this eve,” he said, the hope he had felt with Gaenor a half hour past strewn in the dirt of his illegitimate brother’s escape from prison and the attack upon Broehne Castle—an attack that had left three men-at-arms dead, a half dozen injured, and his infirm father removed.
Of course, he would be a fool to think Aldous had not gone willingly. Not a day passed that the old baron did not curse Christian for throwing the dagger that had injured Robert and seen him imprisoned for his attempt on Lady Beatrix’s life. Even he blamed Christian for his eldest heir’s death, though he could not know how near the blame truly lay.