by Tamara Leigh
He snatched up his hood, crossed to an immense gnarled oak, and sat back against it.
Joslyn followed but remained standing, and after some moments he said, “Each time Maynard returned to Ashlingford, we argued. It was the same the last night he rode out from the castle.”
“You argued about money?”
“Aye, he wanted more.”
“For gambling?”
“Of course. There was a game in London he wished to join.”
The same that had delayed her father’s return to Rosemoor? “You refused him?”
He studied the hood he held, then tilted his head back against the tree. “Maynard was named the heir of Ashlingford. Thus, he had a right to its profits.”
“But?”
“Not to the extent his habit depleted the coffers. I would not—could not—allow him to reduce Ashlingford to the state it was in when I returned to manage it.”
“What happened?”
His eyes turned distant. “Maynard drank heavily at supper and cursed me for treating him like a child. But he agreed to what I proposed—a generous sum, though he said it was not enough. As I filled his purse, he struck me.”
Joslyn frowned. Maynard had been a good-sized man, but he had not been as large as Liam. She could not imagine him landing a blow to his brother.
A wry smile lifted Liam’s mouth. “From behind. With a fire iron.”
She sank her teeth into her lower lip, shamed by the dishonor of the one who had fathered her son. But then, he had not been honorable in other things.
“When I roused, he had gone from the castle.”
“With all the barony’s money,” Joslyn concluded.
“That which was in the one chest. Had he known where I kept the other, he would have taken that as well.”
“Did you give chase?”
“I should have, but I was weary of dealing with him. And though I knew funds could prove scarce in the months ahead, there was enough to manage the barony until the next harvest. It seemed best to deal with him later.”
Selfish Maynard who, when her father could not pay his gambling debt, had demanded Humphrey Reynard’s only daughter in marriage—half the debt settled upon consummation, the other half upon the birth of a male child.
How Joslyn had rejoiced when the midwife raised up the babe and showed it was a boy. Her duty done, her father’s debt settled, she had welcomed Oliver into her arms and heart with the blessed knowledge that never again must she receive Maynard in her bed—a vow she had extracted the night he had come to her to settle the first half of the debt.
She looked back at the man who watched her. “And so he met his death.”
“Aye, he strayed from the road—assuredly the drink in him—and went down in a ravine. Somehow he managed to climb out and walk back to within sight of the castle.”
Recalling the priest’s comment that Maynard had died in his arms, Joslyn asked, “Was it Father Ivo who found him, Liam?” and inwardly winced at once more addressing him with the familiarity of a loved one.
The flicker in his eyes told he noted it as well. “Nay, I did. He was halfway to death when I carried him up to the solar.”
Touched with more sorrow than expected, she asked, “He died shortly thereafter?”
“He did not. He lingered until Ivo was summoned to bear witness to the existence of his heir. Your son.”
Joslyn stepped nearer. “I am sorry.”
“Why? Because Oliver is indisputably legitimate? Because he prevailed over one as common as he is noble?” Blessedly, the bitterness in his voice was not as thick as when he had stood before the king.
“I can do naught about it,” she said, “but I now know you were cheated, that Ashlingford should have been yours.” She looked to her hands. “As I know you were not responsible for Maynard’s death.”
He laughed. “But I am responsible—in part.”
She snapped her chin up. “How?”
After a long silence, he said, “Our father favored me, the son gotten on the common Irishwoman he married. After my mother died birthing me, he wed Lady Anya, to whom he had been betrothed for years. But though she and others wished him to send me to live among his tenants, as is common with illegitimate children born of nobles, my father asserted my legitimacy and raised me in the castle. Even when Anya finally bore him a son, he refused to send me away. His great error was that he did not hide his preference for me—that he loved me as he never loved Maynard. And Anya and Ivo made certain my brother knew it well.”
Liam pushed a hand through his hair. “Eventually, it turned Maynard to drinking and gambling, and for that he is dead. Thus, my part in it.”
Looking from his hard-set jaw to his hands clenched on the hood, Joslyn felt what she fought not to feel. As Queen Philippa had said, his had not been an easy life. True, he’d had his father’s love, but with it came the burden of costing Maynard love and earning Liam hatred and resentment.
Joslyn sank to her knees, set a hand on his arm, and before he could cut her with angry words, entreated, “Do not say I cannot feel for you. I wish…” She moistened her lips. “I wish you free of your pain.”
The sharp gleam in his eyes softened, and in a resonant voice, he said, “How do you propose to free me, Joslyn?”
Though she sensed danger in being so near and touching him, she ignored the voice that warned her to move away. “I know not all of what has gone before me, but it cannot be your fault Maynard drank and gambled. The blame lies with him, Anya, Father Ivo, and your father. Not you.”
As he leaned toward her, the muscles of his arm flexed beneath her hand. “Is this guilt, Joslyn?”
For having birthed Oliver? Nay, if it was guilt, regret would follow, and never would she feel such for her son. He was all the good of Maynard. “Not guilt.”
“Then what is it you feel for me? What makes you care?”
Heart beating fast, she lifted her hand from him and clasped it with the other. What did she feel for him? Compassion? Pity? Love?
That last shaking her, she lowered her gaze. Of course she did not love him. How could she? It was attraction she felt. Only that.
He lifted her chin. “What, Joslyn?”
Fearing that if she examined the answer too closely she might confess to something more damaging, she said, “Compassion. That is what I feel for you.”
He lowered his eyes to her mouth, and in a voice whose caress raised the fine hairs on her arms, said, “I would rather you desire me.”
She did, as he knew from her response on the wall. She wanted more of his kisses. More of his touch. More of what her husband had not made her feel.
Shame flushing her, she lowered her lids. Maynard was not entirely to blame. After all, she had consented to become little more than a brood mare, wed and bedded to make the son who had stolen what was twice promised to Liam.
Opening her eyes, she found Liam’s face near hers, and when his thumb traced her lips and settled at a corner of her mouth, she was flushed with the temptation to sin—to allow him to give her what they both desired.
Or did he desire her? It had seemed with little difficulty he had pulled back from her upon the wall, leaving her aching with humiliation.
She let out a breath and dropped back on her heels. “I will not allow you to do this to me again.” She started to stand, but he caught her wrist, rose to his knees, and with the green of his eyes eclipsing the black, drew her back.
“This time, I will not deny us,” he said and covered her mouth with his.
Once…twice…three times Joslyn told herself not to respond, then leaned into him.
As he deepened the kiss, his hands moved over her. Across her shoulders. Down her sides. To the small of her back. Up her neck into her hair.
Pleasure flared through her. And more brightly when he trailed his mouth over her throat.
This is wrong, the right of her said in a small voice.
Ignoring it, she slid her hands up his chest.
“This time we finish it, Joslyn,” he rumbled.
Meaning there must be an end to it? Why?
Because you are not a harlot. That voice again, still small.
Liam pushed aside the neck of her gown, kissed her shoulder. “Once,” he said thickly.
Once? This time the voice was not small, nor when it called to her, Awaken ere ’tis too late!
She opened her eyes. “Once, Liam?”
He lifted his head, and she looked into a face so familiar it was as if she had always known it, from the strong line of his jaw to the curve of his lips to the red hair brushing his brow.
“’Tis all it will take.” He brushed his mouth across hers. “I promise you.”
Then after they made love, he would be sated such that he had no further need of her?
There could be no other meaning. He wanted her, and though he believed once would be enough, it would be too much for her, leaving her with such raw hurt she might never heal. And the sin of it…
Good. The voice was almost consoling. Now you are awake.
“Do not!” she choked and splayed her hands on his chest and pushed.
Though he allowed her the space, he kept hold of her. “What is it, Joslyn?”
“I will not let you make a harlot of me. ’Tis wrong!”
His brow furrowed, and a muscle in his jaw convulsed. “You know it can never be more than this. Absurd though ’tis, the Church says you are now my sister.”
“So it does. But by your own words—your assurance you need only satisfy yourself once with me—you want no more than that I lie down for you.”
Was it regret that eased the tension from his face? If so, was it for having revealed his motive? Or for speaking so foul?
He groaned, then loosed one of her arms and cupped her cheek. “Forgive me. I do and yet do not know what I do.”
Something tugged at her heart, and she imagined it was a hook whose string was strung taut from him to her. And once more she longed for his kisses.
Stay awake! the voice warned, and as she felt herself begin to move toward him, it reminded her of what he had said on the wall that had so pained her. “’Tis good we end this,” she said, “for you will surely hate yourself do you lie with one who was first Maynard’s.”
He released her, muttered, “You are nearly as cruel as I, Joslyn Fawke.” Then he stood and looked down at her.
She steeled herself for his loathing, but it did not appear on his face. Only more regret.
“You are right”—he nodded—“I would hate myself, though not for the reason you believe.” She frowned, but rather than explain himself, he said, “’Tis past time you returned to the castle.”
She stared at the large, calloused hand he offered, long fingers tapering to the blunt tips that had touched her.
“Joslyn?”
She placed her hand in his, and he drew her up beside him and released her. Then he snatched his hood from the ground and started out of the wood. He had gone only a short distance when he broke stride and looked back. “Be quick. Best we not give the villagers anything more to make rumors of.”
They had been in the wood a long time. But worse than the talk of villagers was the talk of her escort who might ponder aloud in Father Ivo’s presence what Liam and she had done out of sight.
Resenting the priest for knowing her desire, and wishing for some way to rid herself of the man, she lifted her skirts and hurried to her palfrey.
Once again behind the plow, Liam watched Joslyn ride away. He had come near to making her his, and might have had he not voiced what he longed to believe—that once with her would exorcise his desire. He had hurt her with that, though he had not realized it until she had tossed it back at him. And when she had reminded him she had first been Maynard’s, it had not repulsed him. It should, should it not?
Seeking an outlet for the anger directed at himself, he thrust his body forward with the plow. And vowed he would remove himself from Ashlingford as soon as was feasible.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
He was gone.
Joslyn had felt it even before she lifted her head from the pillow this morn. Though few words had passed between Liam and her for a sennight, his departure had been in the air on the day past.
Following supper, amid tension inherent with Father Ivo present, she had watched Liam converse with the knights, servants, and steward. Though unable to interpret much of their conversation, she had sensed what was afoot. Now he was gone with nary a word. And it hurt.
“Unca Liam will come back. Aye, Father Ivo?”
Remembering Emma’s promise to bring Oliver to her following morning mass, Joslyn searched beyond those departing the sanctuary ahead of her and glimpsed her son’s upturned face alongside the priest.
Father Ivo stood outside the doors to acknowledge the dozen or so filing out of the chapel—from their demeanor, most grateful his monotonous delivery was finished.
As he bent to the boy’s level, Joslyn worried over how he would answer Oliver. Would he speak ill of Liam? Tell Oliver he wished Liam would never return?
“Father Warren was a dull man,” a knight ahead of Joslyn muttered to another, “but at least he lived what he preached.”
The other knight leaned toward him. “I am told Ivo gave no warning—appeared at mass this morn and told him to leave.”
Joslyn had wondered at the other priest’s absence, but guessing the man did not feel well, had thought no more on it.
The wily Father Ivo—
Nay, Ivo, she corrected, he whose priestly title did not honor the Church. No sooner did Liam depart than the man stole Father Warren’s position just as Maynard had stolen Liam’s. Thus, Ivo would remain at Ashlingford.
At her approach, he straightened from Oliver. “Lady Joslyn.”
She inclined her head.
His smile was strained. “Your son wishes to know when William will return. ’Twould seem he has grown fond of the man.”
“Not Wil’m,” Oliver said. “Unca Liam.”
Lest the priest harshly corrected him, Joslyn laid a hand atop Oliver’s head and said, “Father Ivo prefers to call Lord Fawke by his English name, William. ’Tis just another way of saying Liam.”
Oliver frowned. “I like Liam better. You, Mama?”
“I do.”
His mouth curved in a more pleasing direction. “Wanna see what he left me?”
Only then did she notice he held an arm behind his back. “Show me.”
With a flourish, he whipped the air with a stick, and with much pride said, “For my top.”
“’Tis handsome.” Joslyn admired the branch Liam had pared of its smaller limbs. “It was kind of Lord Fawke.”
Oliver bobbed his head. “Know where he left it?”
“With Emma?”
“Un’er my pillow.”
Meaning while she slept, Liam had come into their chamber to place it there. Had he seen her in her chemise, the covers kicked down around her feet as she had found herself upon awakening?
Cheeks warming, she drew a deep breath. “What a lovely surprise. You must remember to thank Lord Fawke when next he comes to Ashlingford.”
“I will.”
Joslyn looked back at Ivo. “How did you answer my son when he asked if Lord Fawke will return?”
“I told him William will, indeed, return. He always does.”
She reached for Oliver’s hand.
“Lady Joslyn, we need to speak.”
Certain it was Liam’s visit to her chamber he wished to address, she longed to refuse him, but it would be best to have done with it.
“Oliver, there is something I must discuss with…” She nearly omitted the priest’s title, but not in Oliver’s presence. “…Father Ivo. Go practice with your top, and when I am finished we will explore the cellars.”
He turned to where Emma stood outside the chapel. “Wanna see my top spin?”
“I do, little lord.” She held out a hand and he took it.
; Joslyn returned to the chapel and heard the doors close as she lowered to the bench she had occupied during mass. “Aye, Father?” she prompted when he strode past her to the altar.
He turned. “You have not heeded my warning.”
“Your warning?”
“Surely ’tis not necessary for me to remind you of your talk in the wood with William a sennight past.”
He knew more than thought. Although she had hoped his silence these past days indicative of ignorance, he had merely awaited an opportunity to confront her.
“Or did you talk?” Ivo said with a knowing twist of the lips.
“Of course we talked.”
He stepped toward her, said softly, “And sinned, did you not, Joslyn Fawke?”
He guessed right. She had known Liam’s touch, though not as Ivo implied. She raised her chin. “Believe what you wish. Now good day.” She rose and started toward the door.
“Understand this,” he called. “If the wanton behavior between William and you continues, you will leave me no choice but to appeal to the bishop for relief.”
She turned back. “What is it you threaten?”
“No threat.” He clasped his hands before him. “I but tell you what I shall do if you do not cease with William.”
“What will you tell the bishop?”
As if the battle were his, he smiled. “What goes between the two of you.”
“You do not know what goes between us. You only believe you do.”
His nostrils flared. “I know you have lain with your husband’s brother—your brother now, Lady Joslyn. A sin for which punishment is due.”
What punishment would he call for? A flogging? The humiliation of being pilloried for all to scorn? Worse, a far-reaching pilgrimage of penance that would take her from Oliver?
Refusing to give in to fear, she shook her head. “You are wrong. I have not lain with Liam Fawke, and if you speak such to the bishop, I will seek an audience with him so he might be advised of how holy his holy man truly is.”
His eyes narrowed. “I know not what you speak of.”
“The brigands’ attack.”