by Secret Vows
“I did my best when you sent me ahead to seek information about her. But Montford kept her so secluded within the keep, ’twas impossible for me to gain an audience with her. I told you the only information I could gather from the people of the village. They described Elise de Montford as small and fair-haired. One of the villeins even likened her to a tiny sparrow.”
Gray choked back a laugh. “Was the poor wretch blind as well as addled?”
“After having seen her myself, I would have to say he was, though he appeared as sound of mind and body as either of us.”
Gray’s mouth stiffened, and he felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. “Aye, well my wife is more akin to an warrior queen than a sparrow. She barely needed to lift her eyes to meet my gaze. And that face…”
His fist clenched as the image of her came to him again, lush and vibrant. Her unusual appearance had struck him like a blow to the chest. She was tall and solemn, her midnight blue eyes staring up at him, her face framed in rich brown waves that spilled from the circlet on her brow to fall below her waist.
“Damn Montford. The bastard played another farce, allowing me to think her a delicate Court beauty.”
“He’s more the fool then,” Alban said. “You’ve never cared for the fashions of Court, especially when it comes to women.”
“Aye, and yet I still lose. You of all people know why. God help me, but Elise de Montford is all that I vowed never to touch. Never again.”
Alban shook his head. “Let it go, Gray. You’ve served penance long enough. Accept your lady wife for the boon she is and move forward.”
Swallowing his retort, Gray reminded himself that his friend saw the world through clear eyes. Sir Alban Warton had no sin to hide, no rage churning relentlessly in his breast.
He clenched his jaw and looked away, glancing around the richly appointed solar of Ravenslock Castle—his castle—the most grand of the many strongholds he’d won through bludgeoning opponents in countless battles and tournaments for King Henry. He’d worked hard for all he’d gained. Spilling his blood was but a small part of what he’d suffered in the past seventeen years. He’d gone through hell and back before managing to earn this measure of success and prosperity.
And yet for all his efforts, for all his sacrifice, it had all almost slipped through his fingers only a few months ago. He’d almost lost everything, thanks to his new bastard of a brother-in-law.
As another of King Henry’s champions, Montford had envied Gray’s success. He’d wanted the same rewards, the same honors as Gray, whether he deserved them or not. And so to bring him down, Montford had ferreted out and exposed Gray’s darkest secret. He’d told everyone at Court that Gray had killed his own twin sister nearly two decades ago—that he’d murdered his own sweet Gillian.
Gray breathed in sharply, the pain of Gillian’s death still fresh even now. Montford’s accusation had merely piled shame atop his misery, because he couldn’t deny it. Not in essence, anyway. ’Twas true. He, Baron Grayson de Camville, King Henry’s High Champion on the field of honor, justice and truth, had been culpable in his own sister’s death.
Eduard’s public accusation had disgraced him. It had pushed him to the brink of personal disaster. But it had also sparked volatile disputes at Court. Sides had been chosen and alliances made, lighting the wick to political unrest that had threatened to lead England’s barons into Civil War.
Peace had finally been restored by the king, but not without a price…and Gray had paid it today in his marriage to Elise de Montford—the all too tempting sister of the wretch who’d tried to destroy him.
He cursed aloud. “I can’t do it, Alban. I can’t stay bound to her. I was a fool to think I could.” Gray walked to the end of the heavy table, searching beneath its edge to retrieve the silken pouch with its iron key. Pushing aside the tapestry on the wall, he exposed the door that would lead him into the tilting yard and away from the rage and the agonizing memories that haunted him. “I’ll seek an annulment.”
“No you won’t. There’s too much at stake,” Alban said. “King Henry commanded this union, and if you deny it now, you’ll only awaken his wrath anew, which at the very least will mean losing your chance to be appointed Sheriff of Cheltenham come Christmastide.”
That undeniable fact sank into Gray’s bones with the swiftness of an executioner’s blade. Alban seemed not to notice. Looking away, he added, “Of course, if you no longer wish to gain the position, or any others that might come along—”
“You know I do.” Gray leaned against the door. His head ached, and his shoulders tightened until it seemed as if his muscles must shred from his bones. Christ, why couldn’t he quench this constant need? Why couldn’t he be satisfied with what he’d already gained? But he couldn’t rest. He craved more power, more influence, more security, like his body thirsted for water or air. And he knew that when it came down to it, he’d do anything necessary to achieve his purpose.
Right now that meant being married to Elise de Montford.
Gray cursed softly again. “You know what this will mean, Alban. I’m not made of stone.”
His friend didn’t reply at first, but his quiet expression told him more than words ever could. “It might not be so bad,” Alban offered. “’Tis not as if you need to fall in love with her to enjoy her. I know of many men who see their wives seldom at best. They needs only be alone with them when they wish to, ah…” Alban’s face reddened, and he coughed. “Well, what I mean to say is that you need only forsake your privacy when you wish to get heirs on her.”
Get heirs on her? Gray fisted his hands as tight as the knots in his stomach. God’s bones, he’d never allowed himself to think that far ahead. He’d always taken precautions to ensure that his seed never took hold in any of the women he’d bedded. There had been many of them, but he’d never made a mistake.
After Gillian died, he’d known that he wasn’t worthy to bear the responsibility of being any child’s sire. He didn’t want to be a husband, either, especially not to the bewitching creature who was his rival’s sister, but it appeared that he’d have no choice in the matter. Not unless he wanted to risk losing all he’d worked so hard to gain.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, running his hands through his hair. When his arms fell to his sides, it was with a sense of defeat greater than any he’d ever known on the battlefield. ’Twas no one’s fault but his own. He’d gotten into this mess by himself. He and his damned ambition. If he’d done as instinct had prompted, if he’d stood firm and refused the king’s outrageous plan for peace from the start, he wouldn’t be in this chamber, drinking water like a parched sea sponge and avoiding a woman.
A woman who now shared his name and his life.
With a growl of frustration, Gray picked up his empty goblet and hurled it against the wall, not caring that the emerald-encrusted vessel would be ruined from the impact. It was inescapable. With or without his liking, his marriage to Elise de Montford was achieved, and he needed to accept it.
Bitterness gripped his innards. Striding to the door that connected to the great hall, Gray swung it open and scattered several revelers who’d been drifting past. Then he gestured to the opening with a flourish, even as he mustered a sardonic smile. “Come, my friend, and accompany me. It can be postponed no longer. ’Tis time for me to join my lady wife and celebrate the joy of our marriage.”
Catherine watched Grayson emerge from the far end of the enormous hall, grim purpose etched in every sculpted line of his face. Without wanting to, she tensed, her hand tightening around her tiny silver cutting knife so that it gouged into the bread trencher in front of her. “Sweet Jesu, Eduard,” she murmured. “What if he’s discovered our deceit?”
Eduard leaned in, his whisper a sinister reminder of all that she stood to lose if she failed in the task he’d given her. “Control, Catherine. Don’t let your weak-minded tendencies get the best of you. He knows nothing. ’Tis impossible for him even to suspect.”
Despite that reassur
ance, Catherine couldn’t suppress the shudder that rippled through her. Eduard rolled his eyes. “Really, Catherine, your constant quivering begins to wear on me. ’Tis not as if you’re an untouched maid about to be deflowered.” Grasping her hand, he pushed it and the knife she held to the table. “Just don’t fail to act that part when you join Camville in his bedchamber, or complications will arise that might be less than pleasant for you and your children.”
Catherine hid her reaction to his threat behind her wine goblet, swallowing some of the tart liquid before attempting to answer. “If you’d have bothered to fully warn me about my husband beforehand, I might feel more prepared.”
But even as she spoke, she knew that nothing he could have said would have readied her for the impressive sight of Grayson de Camville. Still, she’d touch hot coals before she’d admit that or any other truth to Eduard.
He shrugged. “I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t expect you to react like all of the other wenches who go aflutter with lust upon seeing him.” Pausing, he glanced across the hall. “But alas, poor Catherine. Your husband is quick approaching, and he doesn’t seem likewise affected by your charms.”
Catherine pretended to ignore the jab. After almost eight years of marriage to Eduard’s brother, such remarks were to be expected. Every time Geoffrey de Montford had insulted her excessive height and peasant build, every time he’d cursed her like her father before him because she wasn’t dainty and pale like a true beauty, she’d told herself that it didn’t matter. But it had. The constant debasement had hurt in a way that went as deep as the bruises he’d periodically inflicted on her flesh; it had lodged an ache in her heart that refused to go away.
Taking a breath, she raised her gaze just in time to see her new husband halt directly in front of her; she struggled to adjust her expression, to appear pleased, as befit the bride of a successful man. It was an effort made possible only by thoughts of Isabel and Ian’s safety.
“My lord,” she managed to murmur, tilting her head with what she hoped was polite grace.
“Lady,” Gray responded, gazing at her for a brief moment. A shadow darkened his sea-mist eyes, and it sent a renewed stab into her heart. Eduard was right. Her lack of beauty disappointed her husband, and that meant she would be beaten for it later. She shuddered as she imagined the damage that this man’s hands could inflict on her.
“I trust that the feast meets your favor, lady?”
His solicitous question startled her. Geoffrey had never cared if she enjoyed a meal. He’d usually been too drunk to notice. Twisting her fingers in her lap, Catherine murmured, “It looks superb, my lord. But I—I haven’t tasted of it yet.”
Gray scowled. “Why not?”
Catherine felt herself flush. “I thought it only fitting to wait for you, my lord.” She decided not to add that she possessed absolutely no appetite. Not with Eduard sitting at her elbow like one of hell’s gargoyles.
Her husband’s face revealed no change, though the shadow deepened in his eyes. He looked away. Finally he said, “’Tis not my custom to dine with women, and I cannot be expected to remember the niceties of such occasions.”
Waving his hand almost angrily, he gestured for someone to fill his goblet. A page darted forward with a cider pitcher, his young face stiff. The boy filled his master’s cup with a trembling hand, and Catherine felt a prick of sympathy. It seemed she wasn’t the only person who feared the presence of Ravenslock’s Lord.
And so when her husband quaffed the contents of his cup and reached out to affectionately ruffle the boy’s hair, it sent a thrill of shock through her. The feeling intensified when the boy grinned, his chest puffing out with pride and his grip steady as he refilled his lord’s cup again. Then he bowed and retreated to his place along the wall.
Without comment, Grayson stalked around the end of the banquet table, making his way to the dais. It was all she could do not to stare. How strange that the man who seemed every inch the hardened warrior had just treated a boy with kindness.
She allowed herself to study Grayson as he strode nearer to his place next to her at the table. She hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on much more than his face during their wedding, but now she could see that his form matched his visage. He was clad all in black, though his cloak and the sleeves of his tunic bore an intricate design embroidered in emerald silk.
When he sat beside her, Catherine caught a faint scent of spice mixed with smoky leather; it tickled her senses, and she dared to turn and stare openly at him. She’d rarely known men to smell good. Geoffrey, Eduard, Father—all had carried with them a scent that at its mildest couldn’t be termed pleasant.
“Is something amiss, lady?” Grayson swung his gaze to her after she’d been looking at him for what must have been a full minute without blinking.
Her breath stuck in her throat. “Nay.” She felt her cheeks heat, her tongue tripping like a three-years’ child. “Nay, ’tis just—” The force of his attention unnerved her, though not in the same way that her father or other men she’d known frighted her. Of course they had usually followed their intimidation of her with a slap or blow, and that possibility seemed unlikely right now, considering that she and Grayson were newly married and in the presence of scores of wedding guests.
Glancing down at the table again, Catherine willed the shaking in her hands to cease. “’Tis just that you’re—you’re quite different from what I envisioned.”
“As are you, lady. Very unlike what I was led to expect.” He paused, and she felt his gaze bore more deeply into her before flicking to Eduard. “I cannot help but wonder why I was so misled.”
Catherine’s stomach clenched, and Eduard coughed. She didn’t dare look at her husband to determine what he might have meant, or even if he was in earnest.
“Elise experiences many changeable moods, Camville. ’Tis part of her nature. Hence no two descriptions of her are completely like, even among those who know her best.” Eduard delivered his answer with smooth skill, leaning forward to pat her fingers as he spoke. It took all of her will not to snatch her hand from beneath his vile touch.
“I’d prefer to hear your sister speak for herself,” Gray said coldly. Catherine’s shoulders hunched, and she slouched forward as she tried to make herself less noticeable.
“My lady, would you care to venture an opinion?” Gray continued to gaze at her, his soft tone belying the granite-hard demand behind his question.
“I—I don’t know what it is that you wish me to say,” Catherine whispered, shrinking away from him as the knot in her stomach turned to nausea. It seemed she’d been wrong to assume that the presence of wedding guests would shield her from a beating so soon. Eduard had said that Grayson was a monster, and judging from the leashed anger in her husband’s voice, it seemed increasingly certain that he was about to lash out at her now. She only hoped that he wouldn’t kill her with the power sure to be contained in a blow from his massive fist.
“All that I require is the truth as you see it,” Grayson answered evenly. “Nothing more or less.”
Catherine felt her stomach unknot a little; she hazarded a glance at her husband. He looked calm, his green eyes directed at her with a warm, penetrating expression.
Uncertainty assailed her; she felt as if she danced on the edge of a dangerous precipice, where a wrong answer might spell immediate, painful retribution. Grasping the only position of safety she could see, Catherine murmured, “My opinion matters not, my lord. ’Tis trivial, while your knowledge is what—”
“And yet I will have it,” Grayson insisted. “I am not accustomed to making requests more than once, lady, however, I’ll ask you again. What is your view on why your own people gave descriptions of you that were so conflicting with your true appearance?”
Catherine flinched and looked to Eduard in desperation, more confused than ever about how to answer. Eduard’s gaze was flat, and the thought flashed through Catherine’s mind, then, of telling her husband the whole truth, so that Eduard
could be detained and prevented from harming her children once the lie was revealed. But at that moment, Eduard lifted a tiny roasted starling from a platter on the table and snapped the delicate bird’s head from its neck. Then he blinked at her and licked his fingers.
Catherine’s idea fizzled to nothingness, doused by waves of fear. Eduard was not stupid. Even if Gray believed her tale of plots to kill him, her children would be doomed. Eduard always protected himself, down to the smallest detail, and he would have foreseen this possibility and prepared for it.
Her only salvation rested in concocting an answer that would sound plausible to her husband. What she had in mind meant humiliating herself, but considering the alternative, it was a small price to pay. Clearing her throat, Catherine shifted her gaze to Gray. “I’m flattered that you wish my thoughts on the matter, my lord. In truth I believe that the contrary description you received of me arose from my peoples’ loyalty to me.”
Gray’s ebony brow arched in the same wicked way she remembered from the chapel. “Explain.” Though the word sounded conversational, nothing softened the severity of his command.
“As you wish.” Catherine flushed but met his gaze straight on, for once confident that the core of what she spoke, at least, would be the truth.
“My lack of attributes has long been acknowledged, my lord. My own father revealed that from infancy, ’twas clear to all that I’d never achieve a state of feminine delicacy. ’Tis a fact that I have learned to accept, though, apparently many of my people do not. In their desire to aid me in gaining a husband, it seems that they painted me in a much fairer light than I deserve.”
The heat burned so in her cheeks that she felt her face must ignite to flames. She looked away, finally, unable to bear Gray’s searching gaze longer, but glad that her humiliating speech was done. She’d simply made use of the truth. Her unfeminine stature had been a source of shame for as long as she could remember. No man could be blamed for being disappointed when he looked upon her, and that was part of the reason, Father had assured her, that he, Geoffrey, or any other who held responsibility over her, found frequent occasion to beat her. She sighed and stared down at her hands folded in her lap.