The most virtuous? How did he form that notion? Dislodging her hands from his panicked grip, she steeled herself to enter the birthing chamber.
* * *
A lifetime later, Katrin crept from the sickroom, feet so leaden with weariness she could barely lift them. But she would have walked on fiery coals to escape the shrieking corner of Hell that chamber had become.
She eased the door closed, afraid to make a sound lest she dislodge the girl’s tenuous grip from the thread of life to which—against all hope—she managed to cling. The midwife had sworn not to leave Aelfwydd alone for a moment. Although Katrin barely knew the girl, no woman deserved to be racked by the torments this one had endured.
She’d stood witness, hugging herself in silent anguish, while the midwife disposed of the poor stillborn child. She’d choked back tears, haunted by the memory of her own dead babe, the spark of life extinguished—stamped out like the flame of her love for the sire.
Now, released from her vigil, Katrin stood no chance of managing the miles of twisting stairs and sleet-hammered passages that lay between her and her welcome bed. Shivering, she sank into a chair before the fire. Whatever happened, she must not fall asleep here.
Hours earlier she’d piled her hair into a careless coil. Now the pins were gouging craters in her scalp. Sluggishly, she pulled them out, and the tangled mass spilled down. Groaning, she rolled her head from shoulder to shoulder, working out the knots.
From the shadows, a boot scuffed on stone. Borovic’s haggard features emerged from the darkness. The ravages of grief had carved grooves around his mouth, and sunken his eyes in caves of shadow.
Praise God, he knew already. The dowager had told him, and left him alone to absorb it.
Wordlessly she gestured, speaking the sympathy she couldn’t voice. He dropped down at her feet.
“So,” he said harshly, staring into the fire. “God rewards my prayers with another dead son.”
“Hush,” she whispered. “At least your lady lives.”
“Aye, and for how long? If she survives this one, the next will kill her.”
“Hush,” she said on a soft exhalation, knowing he spoke the truth.
“What I cannot fathom is why? I’ve a score of bastards, hale and thriving, scattered like wheat chaff around this shire. Why does God deny me the legitimate heir Argent must have?”
Dragging a hand across his eyes, he bowed his head against her knees. His big shoulders knotted. Hesitant, she touched his shaggy hair, offering comfort. He turned his face and rested his cheek against her knee. Together they watched the fire.
“Surely God seeks to punish me,” he murmured. “When I lost my first wife, I was certain of it. This was many years ago—I was young then. You won’t hear her spoken of, for I’ve forbidden it. I couldn’t bear to hear her name spoken lightly, when I loved her more than my own life and killed her. Aye—she died in childbed, and our son with her. I thought I’d run mad with grief.”
She sat, still as her own shadow. Here it was spoken at last, another of the dark secrets that haunted this castle. He flung a clumsy arm across her legs and bowed his brow against her knee.
“Her name was Sorcha,” he said, muffled. “You’re very like her. When I saw you at the tourney, I thought…”
He heaved a breath and didn’t finish, but clung to her legs like a drowning man, desperate and without grace. She sat rigid beneath his clutch, recalling the way he’d stared that day—as if he’d known her and longed for her all his life. She swallowed past an unexpected thickness in her throat.
“Then there was Aelfwydd,” he sighed. “God forgive me, I never loved her as a man should love his wife. She was like the little sister I had once—did Rafael tell you? Her name was Gudrun, and we all adored her. But she died of murrain when she was only six…in the same epidemic that killed everyone else.”
Katrin murmured in sympathy, fingers limp in his tangled hair, her eyes at half-mast.
“When Aelfwydd arrived, she was no more than a child herself, don’t you see? To me, she was Gudrun come again. It was two years before she bled and the marriage could be consummated, but my heart was never much in the bedding.”
His voice thickened. “Then she began to lose the babes, and each time is worse than the last.”
“I think you must wait before you try again—”
“Wait? If I don’t wish to kill her outright I must put her aside, and bring all her Cornish kinsmen howling down on my head. But if Argent’s to be secure I must have a son, which means I must take another wife.”
Suddenly his head lifted, like a hound catching a scent. His hazel eyes glittered. “And for that, I would marry an aetheling.”
Too slow to have seen where this was leading, exhausted almost to tears, Katrin could only stare. I cannot possibly deal with this, tonight of all nights.
But she dared not let it pass. Too often she’d let such moments pass, and now here was the consequence. So she marshaled her strength to meet this new hurdle.
“You’re already allied with Ethelred—”
“But the marriage contract isn’t signed.” He rose to his knees, as if the very notion revived him. “It can still be altered.”
“Not without my consent. And that I will not give.” The need to deal with what was rapidly becoming a crisis lent her a tincture of strength. No matter the gratitude she’d felt for his friendship, she clung to one certainty now.
“I’m already promised to Rafael.”
“A promise can be broken.” He was convincing himself even as they argued. “I know you fancied my brother at first, with his pretty face and foreign ways, but that will pass. Do you think Ethelred will insist on Rafael once he learns he can ally directly with me?”
Panic fluttered in her chest. Indeed, Ethelred would see the situation exactly so. Though Borovic could be generous and charming when he wished, she’d no wish to marry a man who saw his dead wife whenever he looked at her.
Chin lifting, she stood to confront him. “I’ll never consent to it, my lord, whatever the king might say.”
“Oh, won’t you?” His voice deepened with intent. Hard fingers gripped her shoulders, tangling in her hair.
Fear struck her like a blacksmith’s hammer. She recoiled until her scalp tingled and tears rose, but still he held her.
“Won’t you, my fine lady?” he said roughly. “You’ve bewitched me, so I think of nothing but bedding my brother’s wife. By the Rood, brothers in this clan have killed each other for less! For five weeks I’ve been patient and played your game, but my patience is at an end.”
Surely he’d gone mad—his mind snapped beneath the terrible strain of this night. In his eyes, she saw a grieving man’s despair. She was afraid of him: afraid of his physical power, and the violence he could unleash if she angered him.
Yet she mustn’t let him see that he frightened her. The wolves had taught her that.
“Unhand me this instant! Or I’ll scream the roof down, and create such a scandal they’ll tell it from Devon to the Danelaw.”
“By God, even your defiance inflames me. Should I overpower you, so you can pretend it’s rape?”
“I’m not pretending, for the love of St. Wilfrid!” she hissed. “Borovic, let go of me—”
“No woman refuses the earl of Argent, and I won’t be denied within my own walls.”
She gathered breath for a scornful retort, but he swallowed her words when he kissed her. She was stunned by this sudden assault, by the quicksilver change from grief to a man’s passion. For weeks she’d held him at arms’ length; amused and tolerant, he’d allowed it. For her, the bear had sheathed his claws.
Yet she’d always known he was dangerous to cross.
She blurted an outraged protest against his mouth and pushed against the shocking breadth of his sh
oulders to thrust him away. He growled deep in his throat and tightened his embrace. For a dreadful moment, memories of Maldred’s violence rose up to sicken her, and she didn’t know what to do. But the image of Rafael’s dark beauty restored her to her senses.
Do not fail me, he’d warned her. Again she felt that powerful current of connection sweeping her toward him, inevitable as destiny.
Gasping, she shoved against Borovic’s broad chest. But she might as well have tried to push the castle down. In desperation, she sank her teeth into his lower lip and tasted salt on her tongue.
With a muffled oath, he pulled away—yet still held her prisoned. His look of surprise would have been humorous, were her circumstance less dire.
“Fie, my lord!” She didn’t need to feign anger. “I’m not some serving wench to be pawed in a corner. Release me!”
“Pawed indeed.” He chuckled. “I should be offended.”
“For the love of God, come to your senses, Borovic! Your poor wife lies in the next room half-dead with grief and despair. Do you truly intend to tumble your good-sister here on the floor?”
“I suppose I don’t,” he said slowly. “Still, it’s sweet to hold you in my arms, even when you’re angry with me.”
Even tousled and worn with worry, the earl was not unattractive. Sandy hair fell over his brow, and a trace of chagrin lingered in his eyes, which she greatly preferred to lust.
Likely no woman has ever refused him, with his wealth and title. But irresistible he is not.
“I won’t tumble you on the floor,” he conceded. “But one way or another, Katrin, I intend to have you.”
“I will never marry you. I’ve given my promise elsewhere.”
“Have you?”
Suddenly she shivered, as if a storm cloud darkened the sun.
Then his features cleared. He even smiled as he released her. “There are many paths to a woman’s heart. Remember that I told you, when the time comes.”
Chapter Eighteen
She should never have allowed matters with Borovic to progress so far.
In her dayroom, Katrin frowned absently over her loom, attention divided between the unwelcome chore of correcting Cate’s abysmal weaving and an uneasy sense of guilt over her encounter with the earl. Though she hadn’t sought to encourage him, had her own behavior been above reproach? In her loneliness, had she somehow invited his interest?
Shortly he’d descend on her apartments as usual, encumbered by a flurry of barking dogs. When footsteps rang on the stair, she resolved to comport herself as though nothing had changed.
Alix burst into the room, orange kitten clinging gamely to her kirtle.
“Milady! Belmaine has returned!”
Profound relief swept through her, tension draining from her neck and shoulders. The wedding stood less than a week away, and too much depended on this alliance to undo it. She hadn’t been certain how long she could hold Argent at bay. Indeed, the coming of Christ could not be more welcome than Rafael’s return—before matters spun entirely out of hand.
“Praise God for his safe return,” she murmured. Sulking over her tangled weaving, Cate cast her a keen look.
A glance in the mirror reassured Katrin her appearance left nothing wanting. The deep blue gown brought out her fair skin, and burnished hair coiled smooth beneath her fillet. Violet shadows lingered beneath her eyes—testimony to Aelfwydd’s ordeal and the sleepless night that followed. But exhilaration made her eyes flame like candles and brought color to her cheeks.
He’ll like what he sees well enough. Breathless, she hurried down the stair.
Rafael resided in a cavalier tower overlooking the gate, separate from the castle proper—an arrangement that hinted at unease between the brothers. Two of his Anjou knights warded the entrance.
Assailed by sudden doubt, she hesitated before these grave-faced giants. But they bowed and stepped back, allowing her to pass.
Perhaps Rafael would find her overbold, seeking him alone in his privy chamber. But they were only three days shy of Easter. In three more days, they’d be man and wife. He could hardly think her forward if she sought a private moment.
For certain, she wanted to gain his ear before his disapproving mother reported how much time Katrin had spent in Borovic’s company.
More than that, she wished to learn in private how she’d feel seeing Rafael again. Likely she’d feel nothing but a wife’s dutiful welcome—and that was all to the good. It was not as though she were in love with him.
Her heart was fluttering with more than exertion by the time his austere valet opened the door.
“A good morrow to you, Pierre,” she said, breathless. “Is my lord within?”
“He is, madame. I regret to say he cannot be disturbed.”
“Surely he’ll receive me.” She pretended at confidence she hardly felt. What if he already knew of her indiscretions?
Perhaps Rafael le Senay had decided to return to the Church. Or perhaps he’d realized that the pope’s own pupil could look for a better bargain than a dishonest Englishwoman with a scandalous past.
Biting her lip, Katrin decided that if he’d elected to renege on their arrangement, she’d hear it now.
“Pardon me, Pierre, but I must see my lord at once.”
Sliding past the valet, she ducked inside and stopped short. There before a roaring fire, immersed to his chest in a tub of steaming water, was Rafael. Soapy water ran in rivulets over lean hard muscles in his arms and shoulders. Crystal beads of moisture glittered in the dark curls framing his face. As she stood arrested, his green eyes locked with hers.
“Madame.” One brow arched. “You will, I trust, forgive me if I fail to rise?”
“Oh,” she said faintly, face scalded by embarrassment.
Why hadn’t she anticipated that the first comfort a man would seek, after weeks on the road, was a hot bath? Why hadn’t she guarded herself against the impact of seeing him again?
Grasping after her scattered wits, she curtseyed and said the first thing that came into her head. “Ah…I hope you encountered no difficulty collecting the tithes?”
A second brow climbed to join the first. She should have said something dutiful and wifely, spoken sweetly, told him she’d missed him. But he would know—somehow he always seemed to know when she lied.
“Nothing of consequence.” Rafael grimaced. “One of the churls has quarreled with his sire over when to rotate their crops, and run off with the sheep in pique—which I’m told should be a hanging offense. Then there’s a destitute widow whose neighbors are convinced she cursed their hens. It took three days of jurisprudence to persuade these good folk she should not be taken up for a witch. Next I found that the miller has been happily cheating our family for years beneath Bannan’s unsuspecting nose.”
He paused. “Do you wish to hear more these scintillating tales, or can that wait until I’ve assumed my clothing?”
“Marry, I beg your pardon,” she said in a rush. “I wished to be the first to greet you, but I didn’t intend—I should leave—”
“Nay,” he said, as she pivoted to flee. “I would have you stay.”
She glanced back, her startled eyes meeting his. Unsettled though she was, he looked as composed as though he received female company in his bath ten times a day.
All the while, she tingled with the knowledge that he was naked beneath the water—and that naked, there was nothing priestly about him. He possessed the hardened body of a fighting man, sinuous muscle rippling like serpents under tight-stretched skin. A vivid image seared her eyes: the Black Fox’s twisting prowess as he swept across the battlefield like a dark flame.
She stared into his gaze, her soul reaching toward him on tiptoe, tugged off balance by his magnetic pull. Even now, he was beguiling and beautiful as Lucifer before the fa
ll. Aye, he wanted her to stay—but no more than she wanted it herself, a moth drawn in tightening spirals toward his fatal flame.
“Pierre,” he said softly. “Leave us.”
After the valet left, silence opened in the air between them. Katrin looked anywhere but toward the bath.
Sweet Heaven, she was a fickle, inconstant woman! Convincing herself she’d loved Eomond; drawn to Borovic’s immense and dangerous power; and now fascinated by this enigmatic stranger. But there was no place in marriage for what she felt for Rafael. Her first husband had taught her that.
“Come here,” he said. Black lashes obscured his eyes, making him harder than usual to read. But he focused on her with a single-minded intensity that drew her toward him like a net.
Tracing dry lips with her tongue, she crossed the chamber, footfalls loud in the stillness. Unable to look at him and retain any semblance of composure, she kept her eyes on the floor.
With infinite patience, he waited. When her kirtle brushed the tub, she halted.
“Closer,” he breathed, the husky vowels of France thicker than usual on his tongue.
Carefully she knelt, hands clasped behind her, eyes lowered—exquisitely aware of him. The sweet odors of cloves and mint swam in her head.
He lifted her chin, close enough to feel his banked fire licking at her skin. Her eyes flickered up for a bare instant, caught by the diamond beads of moisture glittering along the elegant planes of his face. His green eyes were wide and wondering, innocent—except that she knew he wasn’t. Simultaneously she wanted to scramble back from him and linger in his dizzying orbit.
He held her chin on the edge of his palm. “Do you fear me?”
“Sometimes,” she whispered.
“Then you’re wise. I’m not a man to trust, or be trusted.”
Even as he warned her, two fingers stroked the sensitive skin beneath her jaw. Her pulse leaped wildly against his fingers.
“Knowing the risk, Katrin…do you still intend to marry me?”
“It’s a risk we share, for you must also take me on faith. You must know…”
By Royal Command Page 22