by Secret Vows
Catherine nodded, weak-kneed, as she followed him back into the clearing. She picked up the wooden sword he handed her and tried to concentrate on the strokes he began to demonstrate. But her mind kept straying, even as her arms performed the motions of the practice.
There’s naught to fear. He knows nothing. She repeated the phrases in her mind like a prayer as she moved through the strokes. For now everyone was safe. As long as Eduard believed that she would carry out his evil plans against Gray, her children would remain unharmed. And as long as Gray knew nothing of the truth—of who she really was, and of what game she played with him—her life could continue secure and unscathed.
And yet somehow she sensed that ’twas not her life that was in danger here at Ravenslock Castle. ’Twas a far more serious risk she took, with each breath, every minute, each day she stayed in the company of the castle’s great lord. Aye, evil plots or no, she needed to tread very carefully…
Because she sensed that Baron Grayson de Camville might well possess the power to steal her heart and soul away from her forever.
Chapter 8
The sun was just coming full above the edge of the horizon when Gray strode up the stairs to his bedchamber the next morn. He felt invigorated by his ride, full of energy and anticipation.
And hope.
For the first time in years, he’d risen from bed looking forward to something other than battle. The new day was fresh with possibilities, not the least of which was another opportunity for private weapons training with his wife.
Memory of yesterday’s lesson with Elise still burned in his mind. Whenever he thought on it, a strange thrill shot through his body and up to his face, making his mouth want to edge up into a smile. Just last evening he’d had to subdue the impulse with force; he’d been overseeing his squires’ efforts at polishing armor, and one of the lads had caught him grinning at nothing while he rubbed down a rusty helmet.
Such strange behavior wouldn’t do, especially around the men. But it had been difficult to maintain a serious expression. Pleasant thoughts seemed to overwhelm him without warning: thoughts of Elise’s eager efforts to maintain her sword stance, or the feel of her graceful body pressed against his when he’d guided her through that series of strokes. Or the sight of her in those breeches…
He grinned again, taking the last three steps to the landing in one bound. When he’d left her this morning, she’d been sleeping peacefully. Now he hoped to awaken her with a kiss and ask her to prepare for another round of training before the sun rose too hot in the sky. A quick lesson in lunges, perhaps, after breaking their fast. Aye, that sounded like a plan.
But as he approached their chamber, a strange noise made him pause. His grin faded under a tingle of warning. He heard crying. Soft, heart-wrenching sobs that made him scowl as he got closer to the room’s portal.
Lifting the latch quietly, Gray nudged the door open with his toe and peered inside. The chamber sparkled with morning light, illuminating a scene that took his breath away. ’Twas the embodiment of a stained glass window he’d once seen in a great cathedral in France, depicting the Virgin Mother, praying as the angel Gabriel descended to tell her of her Immaculate Conception.
Like Mary in the picture, Elise knelt by their bed, a shaft of sun streaming in on her and imbuing her flowing, turquoise robes and rich brown hair with celestial radiance. But unlike the Blessed Virgin, his wife wasn’t praying. She was weeping over something she held clasped in her hands. Something small and oval, compassed in a golden frame.
’Twas the portrait of the twins, the same likeness that had produced such a strange reaction from her when Eduard presented it at the wedding feast.
Gray pressed his lips together, the tingle in his belly intensifying. Why in hell did it disturb her so? This weeping, this grief over something so simple seemed unnatural.
He nudged the door open wider and stepped into the bedchamber. “Elise?” he called.
With a gasp, she twisted to look at him, scrambling to her feet and leaving the portrait lying half-covered by the folds of blankets. She swiped her hands over her wet cheeks. “My lord—I mean, Gray! I did not expect you soon. I—I thought that you would be sending for me at a later hour.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
She looked as though she wished to say something more, but then she only exhaled softly and remained silent, casting her gaze to the floor.
Gray tried to keep his suspicions from overwhelming him as he glanced to the oval likeness still hidden in the bedcovers. After a pause, he asked, “Your niece and nephew, I’ve forgotten what they are called.”
“Ian and Isabel,” she whispered, as if saying their names pained her in some way.
He nodded, keeping his expression even. “Aye. You were crying over them. I wish to know why.”
Elise paled, standing before him as still as a statue. But then she blinked, and her gaze seemed to search him for a moment before veering away to stare again at the floor.
“’Tis nothing but a woman’s weakness, my lord,” she finally murmured, “to weep over what she has left behind. ’Tis the way for every new wife, is it not?”
“Perhaps. But ’tis also a husband’s duty to ensure his wife’s comfort and happiness, in so far as he may,” Gray answered, even as he questioned her explanation in his own mind.
She seemed not to breathe as he walked over and picked up the portrait, running his finger over it. As before he was struck by the likeness these children shared with her. Of course, that was explained easily enough; they were of her blood—her brother’s offspring.
He suppressed the twisting in his gut and handed the portrait back. “Why is it that you feel the absence of these children more keenly than any other person from your life before we wed?”
Her gaze remained steady on him. “There is no one else for me to miss. I was never close to Eduard. And Geoffrey and…and his wife I but saw infrequently these past years. As I told you whilst I stitched you after the mélée, the twins often came to visit, and I grew close to them. I cared for them,” she said, clenching her jaw and looking away, “as if they were my own babes.”
“And that is why you were weeping just now?”
She nodded, her lips trembling.
“Then ’tis simple enough. If it distresses you so to be parted from them, I will arrange a visit to Faegerliegh Keep, so that you may see them and put your heart at ease.”
“Nay!” Elise gasped, blanching as her gaze snapped back to him. “’Tis not possible, or at least ’tis not wise to do that.”
“Why not?” he asked quietly, studying her.
“Because the twins do not reside at Faegerliegh Keep any longer.” Her fingers squeezed tight round the gilded frame. “For the past year they’ve fostered at Denton, another three days ride beyond Faegerliegh. Too far to go for the sake of my foolishness.” Abruptly, she walked over to the chest and deposited the portrait beneath its lid. “’Tis of no matter, my lord. I’m sure that I will see them soon enough, without a special trip.”
Her back was to him as she spoke the last bit, but he saw the stiffness of her spine and the way her hands clenched down on the trunk until her knuckles turned white. Yet when she spun to face him again, she’d wiped all signs of sadness from her face. All except for the haunted look in her eyes.
Gray frowned. “’Twould be no hardship, lady, to arrange such a journey, even to Denton, should you wish it. Do not hold back for fear of cost or time.”
She only shook her head and struggled to fix a heartbreaking, wobbly smile on her face. “I’m only being silly. I must learn to govern myself better as your wife, not as a childish maiden. The past must be left behind to live in the present, is that not so?”
Another pang cut through him, inciting him to action. He crossed the room and, reaching up, brushed a golden-brown curl from her cheek. He fought the same helplessness that had overwhelmed him two nights ago, wanting more than anything to take away this sadness that seemed to fill h
er.
He threaded his fingers through her hair, cupping her face and leaning closer to brush his lips over her brow. “Ah, Elise. I only wish—I would only that I could make you happy, lady.”
She sucked in her breath, her eyelids fluttering down. “I am, my lord,” she whispered, finally. “In truth when you are near me, I am happy in a way that I have never known.”
He pulled her to him, then, pressing her cheek to his chest, and she wrapped her arms around his waist with a deep sigh. He held her there for a long while, uncertain what else to do or say.
In the end, action seemed better than words. After a few moments more, he released her gently and said, “Then be it as you will, lady, concerning your niece and nephew. For now, I ask that you meet me in the clearing after you break your fast. We should begin your training early today.”
“Aye, my lord.”
He nodded and walked from their chamber. But her sadness seemed to follow him, filling him with shadows that he knew would be difficult to shake. Once again he’d failed to assuage her pain, and it bothered him. He’d wanted to soothe her. To make her happy, as she made him.
He descended the rest of the steps to his solar and pushed aside the tapestry on the wall. Using the key, he strode out of the castle, into the lists and the clear light of day, resolving to put thoughts of Elise and her pensiveness out of his mind for now. After all, ’twas but a small matter, really. Not something he should spend overmuch time trying to understand. He had offered to make the trip to see the twins with her, and if she chose not to go, there wasn’t much he could do about it.
And yet as he strode toward the stable, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about his wife’s sad eyes. Or wondering if he’d ever learn to understand the workings of her enigmatic heart.
Catherine pressed her hand to her breast, trying to still the thundering there. That had been close. How stupid of her, to allow herself those moments of grief for her children. But she’d had that horrible dream about them. About Eduard closing them away in a dark, cold place. Their little faces had been twisted in pain as they cried out to her, reaching out and calling her to save them…
Sucking in a ragged breath, she ran her hand over her eyes and shook her head. She wouldn’t think about it anymore. She couldn’t. ’Twas too dangerous. It left her feeling exposed, vulnerable. She’d almost blurted the truth to Gray when he’d asked her why she was crying over them, and that might have been a terrible mistake. Anyone might have been listening.
“My lady? I’ve brought you some warmed cloths and water for the morn—and this jar of salve from out in the hall.”
Catherine jumped at the brusque voice, whirling to face its owner. Mariah came in the door without waiting for acknowledgement, one strong arm piled high with folded squares of creamy linens and the salve pot, the other gripping the handle of a steaming pitcher. She glanced sideways at Catherine with a penetrating, almost knowing look, as she set down the towels and pot to pour the scented water into the washbowl. Threads of doubt wound up Catherine’s back at the attention.
“Can I get you anything else, milady?” Mariah asked, straightening and placing her hands on her hips.
“Nay, thank you,” Catherine answered, reaching to pick up the jar of salve, glad to have it for some of the blisters that already reddened her palms from yesterday’s training. Perhaps Gray had anticipated her needs and sent it up. But then why hadn’t he just given it to her himself when he came to their chamber?
She frowned. “Where did you say you’d gotten this ointment?”
Mariah scowled. “I didn’t get it anywhere, milady—’twas forgotten in the hallway, on the little table outside your door.” Mariah shook her head and mumbled something about it not seeming meet for the lady of a castle to leave her things carelessly here and there. Then she glared once more at Catherine before sweeping through the door and shutting it behind her.
Catherine stood, stunned, uncertain what to think. That this mysterious jar of salve wasn’t hers at all seemed the least of her worries; Mariah and her apparent dislike provided more concern. The woman was rather bold for a servant. This wasn’t the first time she’d made pointed view of her, and her expression was never the least bit submissive. It had been the same that first morning, when she’d come at Gray’s bidding to help Catherine with her hair.
Could Mariah be one of the spies Eduard spoke of? Might she have been listening outside the chamber when Gray questioned her about the portrait, to see if she would reveal information that Eduard had forbidden her to tell?
Sinking to sit at the edge of the bed, Catherine hugged the jar to her chest and stared at the unyielding silence of the door Mariah had closed so soundly behind her…
Left, as so often of late, to face her fears and worries alone.
Chapter 9
“Come now, ’tis not so difficult. Just cast to the water and pull back smoothly. The motion must be fluid if ’tis to bear fruit.”
Struggling to follow Gray’s suggestion, Catherine bit her lip and squinted at the offending string dangling from the rod in her hand. A snip of blue feather fluttered near the metal tip at its end, seeming to mock her efforts. The cast-off plumage was supposed to lure the fish, enticing them to bite, though why they’d choose to eat something so awful Catherine couldn’t guess. It didn’t look very appetizing to her.
Giving her pole a few practice flicks, she eyed the dripping feather again. It was a sad sight indeed. Aye, she’d warrant her bedraggled bait had more to do with her lack of success so far this morn than want of proper technique. But she’d not say as much to Gray. To do so would only invite him to devise some practice even more outrageous, she was sure. As it stood, her muscles and joints already groaned from his inventive methods of training these past weeks. When she wasn’t in the clearing practicing sword strokes, she was doing other strengthening skills that he conjured up.
Just two days ago, he’d told her to drag baskets full of dirt back and forth across the tilting yard; last week he’d insisted that she raise buckets of water from the well until she could lift no more. Before that, he’d had her climb a gnarly tree to fetch each of a score of linen strips that he’d tied among the upper branches.
And now this.
Yet she couldn’t deny the success of his methods. Her hands were developing protective calluses from wielding her weapon, and she could sense the growing power in her arms, back, and legs. For the first time in her life she felt strong instead of merely awkward and clumsy.
Still, she’d debated begging off of this exercise today, thinking the better of it only when she realized that, unlike some of the other activities he’d put her to, this task had another purpose; theoretically, there would be fish to eat at the end of it.
Bolstered by the thought, she shot Gray a look, pulled back her arm and cast the line again, jerking it toward the water. She followed his direction to the very point, and was rewarded with naught but disaster; she succeeded only in catching the line in a thorn bush that jutted from the stream. Biting back an unladylike curse, she yanked the pole, ensuring that the string knotted itself more securely on the branch.
“Saints preserve us, but this is useless!” Stomping over to the bush, she began to snatch at the string to untangle it. Thorns jabbed her as she worked, and she gritted her teeth.
The fact that Gray stood there watching only fueled her temper further. She felt his gaze, calm as always, boring into her back. Even without looking, she knew that he stood with his arms crossed, legs slightly apart, with that familiar, mildly amused expression on his damnably perfect face. One brow would be arched, the corner of his mouth lifting in that way that maddened her beyond reason.
Curse him, but he seemed to revel in her struggles—all masterminded by him, she reminded herself—and to take pleasure in her feeble shows of resistance when she found enough courage or daring to show them.
“Aren’t you going to help me?” she finally yelled over her shoulder.
“Nay.
” Gray shook his head and smiled. “One of these days you’re going to learn to harness your anger. It can serve as your best or worst enemy, depending on how you handle it.”
Catherine ground her teeth not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a reply, but in the end she couldn’t resist mumbling, “You’ll become my worst enemy in a moment, if you don’t help me with this.”
Gray made a clicking noise of reproach as he strolled closer. She could still feel his smile on her and, rankled by it, she stiffened. He leaned in, reaching his arm over her head to clip the string from the branches. His breath tickled her ear, sending a delicious tingle down her neck. But she’d not let him know it.
“That passion of yours, lady,” he murmured, “will get the best of you if you cannot learn to govern it. Try to focus. Channel it. Use it to your advantage.”
“And how might I do that, pray tell?” she snipped, turning to glare at him; it was a mistake. He stood dangerously close, and the glint in his eyes made her go still. Sweet heavens, but he was handsome. And when he gazed at her like that…
“You should channel your passions, milady,” he said softly, “into endeavors like this.” All thought ceased when he brushed his lips over hers; he came back to taste again, drawing her into a maelstrom of sensation. She felt like she was falling, drifting to a place both strange and wonderful. Reaching up, she gripped his shoulders to steady herself and found that she couldn’t stop her traitorous hands from moving up to tangle in the dark waves of hair at his neck.
With a growl of pleasure Gray pulled her to him and deepened their kiss, taking her mouth this time with sweet urgency that left her breathless.
Finally, he pulled back a little, smiling. “Hmmm. It seems you’re capable of learning some pursuits rather quickly. I’m relieved, considering your dismal show at fishing.”