Shana summoned a smile. "Sir Quentin," she greeted. "What brings you to Weston?"
His gaze was warm and avid on her upturned features. "I am on my way to London with a message for King Edward. Since I was so near, I thought I would stop to see how you've fared these many weeks."
Shana swallowed—if only her husband saw fit to inquire as to her welfare!
His grip on her fingers tightened. "We have missed you at Langley, milady."
"Sir Quentin, you flatter me." She forced a laugh, a trifle uncomfortable that he held her hands for so long. She tugged gently, and he released her. Shana turned to call for Adelaide. When the woman appeared, she asked that food be brought for Sir Quentin.
"Have you news of the war?" She haltingly posed the question a short time after he sat down to eat. "We hear so little here at Weston."
Sir Quentin helped himself to a wedge of pigeon pie. "I fear you'll not be pleased by what news I have to share," he said with a grimace. "The fighting continues to escalate. King Edward's forces gather to the north and to the south.
Shana said nothing. The news was all she feared, yet no more than she expected. She folded her fingers in her lap and gathered the courage to voice the question that preyed on her mind since the moment of his arrival.
"And Thorne? I—I trust these past months have found him well."
Sir Quentin's brows shot up "What! Do not tell me you've had no word from him!"
"Aye, but ... 'tis just that it has been some time ..." Shana sought desperately to salvage her pride. She arose and beckoned for more ale, unaware of the faint distress that flitted across her features
She did not see the smirk which creased Quentin's lips.
He departed a short time later. Shana watched him ride through the gatehouse. A wrenching pain squeezed her heart as she walked back into the keep. Sir Quentin's appearance had only sharpened her anxiety—if only the fighting had not escalated! It was like a knife inside, knowing Thorne might ride out from Langley, never to return. She had horrible nightmares of him lying wounded and dying in some rutted field, his chest a mass of blood, much as her father had died ...
Oh, if only she could see him, she would tell him how much she regretted their stormy parting ... her spiteful words. She would tell him she did not hate him, nay, not at all!..
She woke one morning in early December, and knew she could stand neither her guilt nor this ache of separation any longer.
If Thorne would not—or could not—come to her, then she must go to him.
Chapter 22
In his own way, Thorne was just as torn— between wife and king, desire and duty. But he fought his war on not one but three fronts— Llywelyn and Dafydd, the scoundrel who still persisted in blackening his name ... and with his own wife!
He could not explain the way he'd felt that long-ago day he'd left her behind at Weston. He had been wounded in battle, battered and aching in every muscle, tendon, and bone so that he could hardly move. But the hurt she'd dealt him was far beyond any he'd ever known—it was as if she'd pierced heart and soul ... with naught but the prick of her tongue!
It was with weary resignation that he'd come to realize ... his feelings toward Shana had changed, but the circumstances which had brought them together had not. Weston was his pride and joy, the fulfillment of his life's dreams. And now he wanted nothing more than to share it with his wife, and their child; to build his life with them, and around them ...
But one tremendous obstacle remained. He had no doubt Shana considered him her fiercest enemy. If there was no peace between England and Wales, how could there be peace between them?
In the days that followed, it was a question that caused him no end of frustration.
Thorne and Sir Geoffrey rode at the head of their troops one chill afternoon in early December. The temperature was bitterly cold, for the countryside was locked in a hard freeze. Castle Langley was just across the next rise. He was wearied to the bone, for he and his troops had fought hard these past days. King Edward was determined to put an end to Llywelyn's bid for independence before the end of the year. Thorne was just as determined to see the deed done so that he could turn his attention to appeasing his wife ... and to mending his marriage.
And that, he suspected grimly, might prove to be the fiercest battle of all.
Such was the bent of his mind as he rode across the drawbridge and through the gatehouse a short while later. He dismounted near the stable and tossed his reins to Will, sparing the lad a brief smile. But no trace of a smile crossed his lips as he mounted the wide stone steps toward the hall. There he beheld a slender, feminine figure outlined before the hearth, a figure whose lanes were alluringly familiar.
He stared, convinced the snow-covered landscape had dazzled his sight, for the smile that graced those sweetly curved lips was utterly dazzling ... and brought to bear only upon him ... He caught first her hands. The harshness left his features. Then his arms came around her. He crushed her to him, his embrace almost rough in its desperation, but Shana did not care, for her heart now soared among the clouds.
After a moment, he drew back. "God's blood," he muttered almost gruffly, but his eyes were as warm as the summer sun. "Where did you come from? I was convinced my eyes had deceived me."
She inclined her head toward Sir Gryffen, who had just entered the hall from the bailey. "Sir Gryffen and I departed Weston yesterday. We've not been here an hour." She ducked her head, suddenly uncertain despite a welcome that was far more than she had dared hope. "I've had no word from you," she murmured. "I—I wondered if all was well." She bit her lip. "You'll not send me back, will you?"
A streak of longing, like a molten blade, cut through him. The way she nibbled her lower lip left it dewy and moist as summer rain. The blaze of heat gathered low in his middle was a painful reminder of their closeness—and of how long it had been since he had touched her, kissed her, made love to her ...
Send her back. He had despaired the loss of her soft form nestled warm and pliant against his own far too many nights to say her nay. He could no more send her back than slice off his sword arm.
His hand tightened ever so slightly where it rested on her shoulder. "The roads are not safe for travel these days," he said curtly. "You risked much by coming here—but aye, you may stay."
Shana released the pent-up breath she'd been holding. This was hardly the hearty approval she'd have liked, but at least he was not angry. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her inside the hall, away from the cold toward the hearth
There he halted. He set aside his helm, then slowly turned to face her. His hair was rumbled in a way that made her long to reach out and smooth the glossy black locks across his forehead. Her heart went out to him, for his features were drawn. He appeared immensely tired. He stared at her; she was struck anew by the somber air that clung to him. Only then did she sense a wholly uncharacteristic uncertainty in his manner.
A tingle of unease slipped up her spine ... "Thorne, what is it? Is something wrong?"
Thorne sighed for he knew he had no choice but to tell her the truth. He had delayed too long already. " 'Tis Barris, Shana."
"Barris." His name was but a breath. Wide gray eyes locked on his face.
He gripped the hands she unwittingly flung out. "At first our search for the Dragon proved fruitless," he began quietly. "Indeed, he eluded our troops for so long I thought mayhap he'd left Wales."
He stopped. Shana's breath came fast, then slow, then fast again.
"A fortnight past, several of Lord Newbury's soldiers caught sight of him. They succeeded in trailing him to a village in Glamorgan where he took shelter for the night in a sheepherder's hut." There was a stifling pause. "At dawn they set the hut afire."
Every vestige of blood drained from her face. Her throat worked convulsively. "His body..."
She could say no more, nor was there a need to. 'There was no need to search for a body. Someone guarded the hut throughout the night, Shana And they
remained until it was burned to the ground." The timbre of his voice grew rough. "Barris is dead, Shana."
He felt the jolt of shock that ripped through her, as surely as he felt her strength begin to ebb. She staggered, her knees threatening to crumple. But when he would have reached for her she wrenched away with a sob that wrung him in two. Thorne watched her flee up the stairs. He made no move to follow her. Slowly he made his way to the table and called for ale.
A shadow fell over him. "You are quick to seek respite in drink, man," growled a voice from above. "You are even quicker to evade your duty to your wife!"
It was Sir Gryffen, his countenance aglow. Thorne row to his full, imposing height. "You dare much, old man," he said tautly. "Indeed, you make me sorely want to forget you hold my wife's affections so dearly. Mayhap you should recall that were it not for my restraint, you would even now lie as cold as the Dragon."
Gryffen paid no heed to the dangerous glitter in his eyes. "Ah, so now you would tout your merciful ways! But methinks otherwise, milord, for I would never forsake the lady of whom we speak—most especially in a time of such need! Can you say the same?"
Thorne's eyes flickered as he realized the old knight was seething. He snorted. "What do you imply, old man? That my lady has need of me? You," he stated grimly, "know far better than any other of all that lies between the lady and I. She does not turn to me—indeed, she makes it plain she wants me nowhere near!"
Gryffen shook his head. The bite in his tone was gone as he added, "And I would remind you, she had no one to cling to when she lost her father .With death visited upon her once again, 'tis not right that she should be alone."
Thorne made no effort to hide his bitterness. "She weeps for the man she loves."
"No," ne refuted quietly. "She weeps for the man she once loved." When Thorne said nothing, Gryffen laid a hand on his shoulder. "I think you're wrong, boy. I think she'll not push you away, for there is no grief greater than one borne alone. And you are not half the man I believe you to be if you allow her to suffer when you have the power to ease it."
They were strange, those gruffly spoken words, considering all that had passed between the two of them. Yet all at once it was neither in his mind nor his heart to question them. Thorne turned and followed in Shana's path without a word.
With one hand he eased the door open. A dreary light from the window revealed her lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, those beautiful silver eyes shimmering with tears. Even as he watched, she rolled to her side and brought her knees to her chest, huddling into a small tight ball. He crossed to the bed and touched her shoulder. She stiffened at his touch but did not leap away, as he had feared. Praying as he had never prayed before, he turned her toward him. His tanned fingers very dark against the delicate line of her jaw, he whispered her name.
Her eyes cleaved to his. The pad of his thumb was rough where it grazed her cheek, but the gesture spoke of infinite tenderness. Something came undone inside her.
She gave a dry, heartbreaking sob that was like a blade tearing deep in his gut, reaching for him blindly. Thorne needed no further invitation. His arms engulfed her, bringing her shaking body dose. He felt the great jagged breaths she drew in an effort not to cry. His heart wrenched. His arms tightened. He held her close while shudders racked her slender form and whispered against her temple, he knew not what. He'd been so convinced he could lend no comfort, but he was wrong. Soon she melted against him as if he were all she craved.
Thorne knew from the deep rise and fall of her breasts that she had fallen into a light sleep. For a long time he simply held her, for the moment was steeped with an odd contentment. Reluctantly he arose and bathed, then went below to fetch food for them.
She was awake when he returned. He frowned when she partook rather sparingly of the trencher he'd heaped for her but did not chide her. Her mood disturbed him, for throughout the meal she was quiet, almost subdued. Afterwards she moved to stand at the window, her gaze fixed in silent concentration upon the far-distant hills of Wales. The profile she presented was outwardly calm, yet Thorne was not deceived. While her tears had deserted her eyes, they had not deserted her heart.
"It will not be long, will it?"
There was no need for pretense between them. He knew instinctively she spoke of the war.
"I suspect it will be over in a matter of days," he told her quietly. "There are reports Llywelyn rallies for support but none is to be found. Edward's fleet mounts an offensive on the western coast. We have intensified the overland attack from Langley and all along the eastern border."
A ringing silence ensued. Shana did not look at him. Thorne's expression turned brooding, his eyes bleak. It was almost as if he could see her receding from him, slipping away into a realm where he could not reach her.
"I can be no less than honest with you, Shana. 'Twould be cruel to let you nurture hope when none exists." He did not mean to be unkind, and he prayed she knew it.
She turned slightly. Her eyes grazed his. "I—I know." The words were but a wisp of sound.
This time it was Thorne who remained silent. All at once he stood abruptly, as if he had come to a sudden decision. His gaze trapped hers.
"Come here, Shana." Oh, he knew he sounded every inch the master in command. But inside he found he was holding his breath, praying she'd not refuse. If she did, pride would dictate he compel her compliance. And he did not want that ...
Time hung suspended. For a neverending moment, Shana did not move—or speak. Seeing Thorne again, so tall and commanding, his stance
so arrogant and proud, she felt a painful torrent of emotion sweep through her being. She loved him, but she hated the power he wielded over her emotions; yet her feet began to move of their own volition.
Her steps slowed as she neared him. Their eyes collided for what was surely the longest moment of her life.
He reached for her, his hands warm and large upon her waist. His gaze lowered to her mouth. "I would know, wife, have you missed me as sorely as I have missed you?"
Her heart lurched like a sotted knight. He had missed her! Her hands crept up to rest on his chest. Her eyes clung to his.
"Aye," she whispered helplessly, and then again "Aye!"
She flushed, for his gaze had fallen to her thickened waist. She was nearing her fifth month, and her clothing did not entirely hide the slight swell of her belly. But the curious tenderness which lurked in those night-dark eyes made her heart turn over.
"I've worried about you by day," he confided huskily, "and longed for you by night." He searched her face anxiously. "Have you been well?"
She nodded. "The sickness that plagued me has passed. Adelaide says if I continue to eat as I do, this babe will be born a full-grown knight."
Thorne caught his breath at the soft curve of her smile. But alas, it wavered all too quickly. Her eyes glazed over with sudden, startling tears.
He gave an impatient exclamation. "No, Shana, do not turn from me! Is it Barns that distresses you so? Did you—love him so much then?" He girded himself for her answer.
" 'Tis not that," she said in a strangled voice that cut him in two. "Thorne, I am ... afraid."
"Afraid! Of what?" The shield around his heart vanished. He bent and lifted her, bearing her to the bed. There he cradled her within the protective binding of his arms.
He trailed a hand the length of her spine and back, the motion soothingly monotonous. His breath grazed her temple, stirring the golden strands scattered there. 'Tell me," he whispered.
His hold on her was immeasurably gentle, yet she faltered, unable to meet his gaze. Instead she focused on the springy dark hairs spilling over the neckline of his tunic and began unsteadily.
"You say the war will end soon. But I fear the bitterness will never end. And I—I tremble to think what chaos this babe will be born into." Her hand slid protectively to her middle. "Will he be despised by the English because his mother is Welsh? Hated by the Welsh because his father is English? And will he co
nsider himself English—or Welsh? I—I do not want him to be torn—as I am torn. I do not want him to hate either England or Wales or ... to be hated in return. Yet I greatly fear it can never be otherwise."
A heady tenderness stole through him. His chest swelled. For so long now she had hidden so much from him—she was so strong and defiant, staunch and determined not to reveal weakness to anyone, least of all him! But now she had roused a fiercely protective instinct that made him long to shelter her from any and all harm.
His fingers slid beneath her hand, splaying possessively on the mound of her belly. "English ... Welsh ... Shana, it does not matter! Would you love this child less because a part of him is English? And will I love him less because of his Welsh heritage?" He chided her gently. "Nay, for I want this child, and I do not think of him as English or Welsh—but ours! This child, whether son or daughter, is a part of you—a part of me— and that is cause for joy, not pain."
She savored the dark velvet of his voice. With a breathless little cry, she wound her arms against his neck. She clung to the moment and to him, for she had known precious little happiness these days. Oh, but this was a moment to cherish!—a moment she would hoard deep in her soul for all eternity.
A finger beneath her chin, he tipped her face to his. A tremor shook her as she stared into the dark intensity of his features. He was so strong, so handsome, and she was his wife—his wife!—and he was neither angry nor indifferent that she was to bear his child, but glad ... and suddenly she could ask for no more. She faltered no longer, wordlessly offering soft, tremulous lips. His kiss was long and infinitely sweet, but time spent apart had sharpened the ravening pangs of hunger within them. It took naught but a single kiss to kindle the sparks of passion into a raging storm.
Never had he made love to her with such lingering tenderness, sliding his palms over her breasts, skimming her nipples, grown dark and achingly sensitive with her pregnancy. He kissed the tightness of her belly where their child lay curled deep in her womb. Fever burned inside her, a sizzling streak of fire.
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