Enduringly Yours
Enduringly Yours
By
Olivia Stocum
Copyright © 2014 by Olivia Stocum TangledMoon Books
Cover Design by Stephanie White
www.stephscoverdesign.com
ISBN-13:
978-1502436443
.
All rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental.
Praise for Olivia Stocum’s novels:
“The research was impeccable and the story is lovely and compelling. I found the relationships well thought out and believable. This type of writing deserves to go on for longer than a single book. I’m looking forward to her next novel.”
~Ionia Martin, book reviewer for Readful Things http://readfulthingsblog.com
"Olivia has crafted an adventurous love story with two unforgettable characters. Her vivid descriptions paint an epic journey of boundless love between two souls who must become one. Her tender and poetic prose reminded me of the book, “Cold Mountain.”
~Stan Bednarz, award winning author of Miracle on Snowbird Lake.
“What do you get when you add the beautiful 1600s Scottish countryside, men in kilts, and the women who love them to a story that features a virile, cloaked defender known only as Blackhawk? An exciting, captivating page-turner by Olivia Stocum, that's what! DAWNING has a home on my 'keepers' shelf!”
~ Loree Lough, bestselling author of 100 award-winning books
Novels by Olivia Stocum:
Historic Scotland ~
Dawning
Moonstone
Starlight (release date TBA)
Historic England ~
Enduringly Yours
A Worthy Opponent (6/15)
Dedication:
To my parents, for teaching me the importance of knowing when the haggis is in the fire, and more importantly, when to go ahead and let it burn.
Chapter One
Havendell, England
The Year of Our Lord, 1192
“Thank you, Sir Peter. You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“’Tis no trouble, Lady Havendell.” Peter hopped down off the ladder and handed the matron a bundle of freshly cut apple blossoms.
“They are Lord Havendell’s favorite,” she said. “He has always loved the scent of spring.” She held them to her face, her chin pressing into her wimple. “I probably should have asked a servant to do this. I have depended on you too much this past fortnight. Just because Edward was your friend . . .”
“I do not mind,” Peter said, wondering if he would always feel guilty about having survived his tour in the Holy Land when his close friend, Edward, had not.
“I miss my son.” Lady Havendell’s fingers stilled for a moment, then she turned away, wiping her hand on a dirt-smudged apron. “You are too busy for these visits of yours.”
“My brother is Lord Ravenmore, not I.”
“Still, you have obligations.”
There was another, very important reason why Peter rode out to Havendell every morning, but he wasn’t willing to tell her that it was more than survivor’s guilt at work.
“Mother?” Zipporah—his reason—came down the garden path toward Lady Havendell. “Why did you not ask me to help?”
The young woman walked right past him. She was wearing a woad-blue kyrtle that matched the color of her eyes. Her long black braid hung down her back, encased in matching blue ribbons. He couldn’t help but notice the way her leather belt hugged her hips as she moved.
They were hips that he was all too familiar with.
“’Tis fine, daughter,” Lady Hanover said. “Peter volunteered to climb the ladder.”
“It would not have hurt me to do it.” Zipporah slid a sidewise glance his way, her braid creeping down her back like a desert asp.
Peter knew the way her hair smelled, like juniper, and the texture of the heavy strands beneath his sword calloused fingers. He had seen her several times since returning from the Holy Land a fortnight ago. She had done her best to avoid him. He really couldn’t blame her. They had a past as long as the sea voyage he’d taken to Antioch and back again.
He kept coming to her castle anyway, because the in the wake of her father’s illness, Sir Gilburn was in control, and the man could not be trusted. She was no longer safe in her own home.
Call it guilt. Call it . . . he wasn’t sure what to call it. But he’d known since the moment he’d first climbed the trellis to her bedchamber window—pricking his fingers and tearing his tunic sleeves on briar roses—that she was going to be a permanent part of his life.
“Should you not greet Sir Peter?” her mother said, returning her attention to the blossoms.
Zipporah faced him. “Sir Peter,” she said, smiling through her teeth.
“My Lady.” He shifted closer. “Are you well?”
“I am fine.”
“And Gilburn?”
“Stop asking,” she whispered. “I can take care of myself.”
“You do not know him like I do.”
“Of course not, because you always know everything.”
Peter wanted to laugh, but he knew better. She had always been prone to dramatics. It was part of her charm.
“Let me help you, Mother,” she said, turning her back on him.
“Nay.” Lady Havendell took up her bundle of blossoms, now deftly tied off with a green ribbon. “I will see to this myself. I hope they give your father some comfort. You take in the fresh air.”
“I assure you that I am fine,” she called.
“You have been cooped up with your father all morning.” Lady Havendell waved her off. “Have Sir Peter walk you around the garden.”
“I have many duties to attend to today.”
Her mother ignored her. Zipporah looked at Peter. “What are you doing here?”
“Keeping you safe. You are welcome, by the way.”
“I did not ask you to.” She looked away, her dark lashes casting shadows over her cheekbones. She had a mole on her temple, over her right eye. He used to kiss her there.
She seemed vulnerable. She was vulnerable, and that stirred a number of responses in Peter.
“At least you have not climbed the trellis to my window yet,” she said.
Peter faked a smile. “I have to come,” he said, “what with Gilburn scenting after you like a randy stallion.”
“He is not scenting after me.”
“He wants you.”
“Peter . . .” She sighed. “We had better walk to appease my mother.”
“Walking with me? How will you survive?”
“Just a walk. Just for my mother.”
Peter offered his arm, but she refused it, crossing hers over her chest.
“Do not expect me to talk to you,” she said.
“I think you already are.”
“Not of my own volition.” She muttered something under her breath. “You have not changed at all.”
She was wrong. He had changed. He was no longer the boy who had left her three years ago. There was nothing he could have done about the leaving. He’d been expected to prove himself to King Richard by going on Crusade, but he’d left behind unfinished business, and he regretted that.
Peter felt around his belt, pulling out the piece of parchm
ent he had tucked into it. The paper was sealed with wax and folded into quarters. He’d wanted to give it to her all along, but the timing never felt right.
He held it out.
“That is not . . .” She paled at the sight of it.
“Just take it.”
Slender fingers curled around the parchment.
“Tear it up, burn it,” he said. “Do whatever you want. But do me the courtesy of reading it first.”
“I cannot believe you kept it.”
“I could not believe that you had it brought all the way back to me.”
“That was Gilburn’s idea, not mine. I was going to destroy it.” She looked at the letter, frowning.
Peter had written the missive to her while he was in the Holy Land, and sent it home with a returning knight who had agreed to do him the favor of delivering it. The parchment, already feathered from its long journey, crinkled under her grasp.
“Leave, please,” she said, her voice breaking. “I . . . please just leave.”
Peter nodded. He’d accomplished what he’d hoped to, at least for today. “I am leaving,” he said.
“Good.” She sniffed. “Very good.”
* * *
Zipporah slipped into the dark interior of the castle keep, closed the heavy oak door behind her, and stood frozen with her back pressed against a cold, damp wall, Peter’s missive still in her hand.
She listened to the sound of her heart in her ears. She breathed in the familiar mustiness of the castle, along with the faint hint of apple blossoms.
“Zipporah?” It was her mother. Lady Havendell’s blue eyes were sympathetic. Something about sympathy weakened Zipporah and a soft sob escaped her. “Peter is trying,” her mother said, hugging her with one arm.
“I cannot be around him.”
“You need to try. You will have to do something soon. What better choice do you have than Sir Peter?”
With her father ill, her brother gone, and Sir Gilburn now holding a claim on the land through Prince John, Zipporah and her mother’s fate hung in the balance.
Marriage was the one way Zipporah could guarantee that she and her mother would always have a home. Peter was right, Gilburn did want her. And given that she had no proof of purity, it left her vulnerable.
Zipporah looked down the stone corridor and saw no one. “My dreams about her have returned,” she said. “Seeing him only makes things worse.”
“I suppose that is to be expected. Peter is different now. I can tell. War will change a young man. Some return ruined. Some return fixed.”
“Ruined, fixed, what does it matter? We are not good together. We will only cause each other pain.”
“Finish your walk alone. Think things through. You have been spending too much time in your father’s sick chamber and it is not good for you.”
“I will walk, but I do not think it will help.”
“Thank you for humoring me then.”
Zipporah knew she was exhausting her mother. She had done nothing but tax the poor woman for the majority of her life. Opening the wide oak door, she blinked into the sun then made her way down the garden path. No amount of air would make anything better. She wanted her brother alive. She wanted her father whole again. She wanted to take back the last three years of her life and start all over.
But none of those things were going to happen.
“My lady?”
She recognized Sir Robert of Gilburn’s voice. Everyone called him Gilburn. It had been his request when he had first come to live with them as a child, in memory of his home, which had burned to the ground.
Zipporah shoved Peter’s missive into her belt, then turned and graced Gilburn with her most polite smile and a small curtsy.
He ducked his head in response. “Is your father resting comfortably?”
His deep voice gave her chills. She nodded, rubbing her arms. “As well as to be expected.”
“I am glad for that small blessing,” he said.
Gilburn dressed all in black. Zipporah assumed it was because he took pride in being intimidating. Black leather jerkin, hose, and boots. His attire accompanied his dark hair that fell around his shoulders in heavy waves. Even his eyes were the color of damp soil. He was tall, broad, and not unhandsome. But fear was not an attractive quality to her.
“I have been meaning to speak with you,” Gilburn said.
“About what?”
“Walk with me first.”
Another walk with another man who wanted to speak with her alone? She placed her hand on his arm when he offered it.
“I’ve wanted to approach you about this ever since your father fell ill, but after my recent poor timing and your brother’s death.” His brow furrowed. “When your father,” he began again, “first gave me the blessing of your hand I was ecstatic.”
Zipporah and her mother had not been. They’d been shocked. And scared. Gilburn was not the kind of man one crossed, and the stretch marks on Zipporah’s stomach could not be denied. Fortunately, her mother had intervened, convincing her father that Gilburn should ask permission to court her first, to give Zipporah a chance to get used to him. But when Gilburn came to Zipporah, asking—tenderly no less—if he could be her suitor, she panicked and told him nay. Then she ran like a coward and locked herself in her chamber for an entire day.
“All that stood in my way was your heart,” Gilburn said. “I rushed you before. I deeply regret that. I should have given you time to mourn Edward.” He turned to face her with a creak of leather. “I feel I have the advantage. You see, I have admired you since we were children. I want to give you the opportunity to see me as more than just your friend.” He ducked his head, lowering his voice. “I would like . . . nay I would love, if one day you came to care for me as much as I care for you.”
Genuine hope reflected in his dark eyes as he looked at her from under his lashes, but she was wary of him.
“Grant me permission to court you, please?” he said. “For as long as you need. I will press you for nothing more. All will be on your own good time.”
“I . . .”
“Thank you, my lady.” He smiled as if that was all the answer he needed. “I will not disappoint you.”
“But I didn’t . . .”
He caught up her hand. “I must leave you now, but I would be honored if you would share a trencher with me at supper.” He let her fingers slip from his, then turned and walked away.
She watched him disappear down the path, realizing he had just made two proposals—after a fashion—and had given her no opportunity to reply to either one.
Fear prickled her skin. She needed to get away. Nay, not run away. Where would she go? She needed to leave the castle grounds for a time, to think things through.
If she was careful, she could saddle her gelding and slip out the village gates before Sir Gilburn knew she was gone. Zipporah clutched the hem of her gown and raced out of the garden.
Chapter Two
Peter swung off his stallion and tethered him to a fallen hazel tree. The palomino war horse arched his neck around to nuzzle him companionably.
“We will head home soon, Evrin,” he told the horse, patting his neck with one hand and wiping horse slobber off his cheek with the other. “There’s something I need to do first.” The stallion tossed his head, pawing the ground as Peter walked off.
He crunched his way through tangled roots and low-hanging branches, finally emerging onto a narrow beach overlooking a lake. This place marked the boundary line between Ravenmore and Havendell. His father and Zipporah’s had both earned their land through knightly service to the king. They were close friends and had received adjoining estates. Peter and his brother John had grown up with Zipporah and her brother Edward. At times, Peter and John had been trained by Zipporah’s father, just as his father had helped teach Edward how to fight and ride.
Peter used to get Zipporah into so much trouble, sneaking her out of the castle to fish at the lake, or to wander the forest like feral c
hildren. Her father finally had a guard posted to keep her from escaping. That didn’t stop them. They found ways.
As they got older, Peter started climbing the trellis to Zipporah’s window. One night he stayed until dawn.
He’d never been with a woman before. Somehow he managed to blunder his way through lovemaking with this perfect girl, who didn’t seem to mind at all his lack of skill.
He was addicted after that. She was reluctant to invite him back into her bed though, for fear of being found out. But he kept coming, like a mangy dog looking for a hot meal. Eventually she gave in, and he found himself sleeping in her chamber more often than not.
Then he left on Crusade with John and Edward. He should have spent his last night with Zipporah, but he’d spent it with the other lads instead, drinking and boasting about what heroes they would become.
He’d never said goodbye.
Peter leaned back against a lumpy willow tree, his gaze fixed on the rippled, earth-brown water. A breeze worked the edges of his flaxen tunic. He let the steady rhythm of the waves numb his mind. This was what he needed. To numb himself.
Pity it was only temporary.
A twig popped in the thicket behind him. Peter slid back behind the tree. After three years of war it was hard not to be paranoid. His hand came to the familiar leather-wrapped hilt of his long sword.
And a moment later she appeared.
Peter was shocked into stillness. After several breaths he found the wherewithal to smile. He was pretty sure it was a stupid smile, but it couldn’t be helped. Zipporah did that to him. His hand moved away from his sword.
Her skirts whipped around her legs, forming against her curves, teasing him. Being separated from her was an acute kind of torture. Like being at sea during a dry spell, when all the rain barrels are empty and there’s nothing to drink, even though you’re surrounded by water.
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