Mary Reed McCall

by Secret Vows

  And then suddenly, her body wasn’t hers to control any longer; she screamed aloud as she climaxed, pulsing around him, coaxing him to rapture along with her. Roaring her name, Gray thrust once more and sheathed himself to the hilt, filling her with his hot, liquid flow…

  And delivering her at long last into a paradise of love and completion she’d never dreamed she’d find.

  After a few moments, Gray rolled away from his wife. Reaching to his side, he grabbed his long cape and tucked it around them against the chill. Then he just lay back and allowed the feeling to seep through him. Warm and sated. He shielded his eyes with his forearm, willing his breathing to slow. But no matter how his body rested, his mind continued to churn. Something was amiss. Something important. It had shadowed his thoughts while they were making love; now it returned with a vengeance.

  His wife wasn’t a virgin.

  There’d been no barrier to break. No innocence to shatter. She’d been smooth and achingly sweet when he took her. So sweet that even now the thought of what they’d done, of the pleasure she’d given him, caused his groin to tighten again in anticipation. But hurt lanced through him as well; she’d lied to him. A lie of omission, by keeping the truth of her lost virginity from him.

  Lifting his arm a little, he peered from beneath its shelter to gaze at her, wondering what she was thinking. How she was feeling. She hadn’t uttered a word since their explosive climax. She rested next to him in silence, still but for the even rise and fall of her breast. Her eyes were closed, her face inscrutable.

  She didn’t look guilty. She wasn’t acting afraid or nervous, or like a woman who was deceiving him. But then how to explain her lack of innocence?

  Suspicion began to wind dark tendrils into his heart again, bringing with it memories of all the other times he’d felt this twinge in the past weeks, of all the other disparities he’d ignored because of his deepening feelings and his need for her. But they glared through his brain now, relentless, taunting.

  He’d felt them from the start, from the moment he’d lifted her veil on their wedding day. There’d been her people’s false description of her and King Henry’s pointed comments about her changed appearance. And then the portrait. He remembered her strange reaction to it when Eduard presented it as a gift, and again later, when he’d caught her weeping over it. So many inconsistencies…

  Elise opened her eyes. “Gray, there’s something I need to tell you. Something I should have told you long ago. ’Tis awful, and I pray you can forgive me for keeping it from you.”

  Gray lowered his arm slowly, still looking at her. The tone of her voice had sent a shock up his spine; her expression was deadly serious. She turned to stare at him, eyes huge in her face, and he couldn’t keep back the renegade thought that those eyes were pleading with him, silently begging him to understand something that meant life or death to her.

  Christ. He’d suspected right. She’d been hiding something, and she was about to tell him of it. Pain and doubt cut through him anew. That she’d lied to him about anything was serious; aye, especially if it had been a deliberate deceit on her or Montford’s part to shame him. But she was acting as if she feared for her safety now, and that hurt him almost as much as her deception. She should know him better than that by now.

  He began to speak but then stopped, so bothered by her stricken expression that the words lodged in his throat. She looked as if she was about to cry, or get on her knees and pray, or throw herself at his feet and implore his mercy. It made his skin crawl the way it did right before a deadly battle. It was damn unsettling.

  Both to stem his feeling and to ease her anxiety, he reached out and grazed his thumb across her kiss-swollen lips, heat rising again in a heady swirl at the feel of her, at the warm, lush sight of her. Her scent lingered on his skin, reminding him of their lovemaking and sending a pleasant twist into his belly. He tried to push the warmth aside. He needed to stay focused. Stay clear. “Elise,” he said quietly, “just tell me who it was and why it happened, and we’ll—”

  “Gray! Gray, where the hell are you, man?”

  The deep voice rang through the clearing, accompanied by a crackling, banging noise as if from a hundred stomping feet. Gray reached for his sword, cursing under his breath, even as he moved to shield Elise from the intruders’ gazes.

  Alban and three young knights came crashing into the glen atop their steeds; Alban jolted his stallion to a halt when Gray glared up at him from his position concealing Elise on the ground. Reining his mount back, Alban shooed the younger knights from the glen, muttering something about taking care of it himself and ordering them to return to the village to await Gray’s arrival there. Then, red-faced, he dismounted and walked toward his friend.

  “I’m sorry to have disturbed you both,” he muttered, “but it could not be helped. You must come back to the village with me, and quickly.”

  “What the hell is it?” Gray snapped, tucking his cloak around Elise, who sat up, silent and wide-eyed, as he stood to lace his breeches and slip his shirt over his head.

  “’Tis a bloody brawl. A half dozen lads from beyond the valley, newly-knighted, I’d say, from the looks of them, took insult at something young Drake said. Before anyone could intervene they were at it with our squires and young knights, swords drawn and fists flying.” Alban leaned down to pick up Gray’s surcoat, which had been thrown in a heap at the far edge of the clearing. His brows lifted, and he whistled appreciatively, shaking his head as he tossed it back to him.

  Gray scowled and pulled it on, indicating that they should move farther away to give Elise some privacy to dress. From the corner of his vision Gray saw her stir from beneath the security of his cloak. Pulling Alban more deeply into the brush, he asked, “How bad is it?”

  Alban shrugged. “Bad enough to convene a manorial court. At least five are wounded. One might not live. Many of the sellers had goods destroyed. Tables were knocked over and produce trampled. We’ve got it contained for now, but ’twill need your judgement as Lord of Ravenslock to dispense justice.” Reaching into his tunic, Alban withdrew a sealed parchment. “And then there’s this. A message arrived for you from the king.”

  Gray took it and broke the seal, reading it quickly before cursing aloud. “I’m to depart without delay for a grand assize in Cheltenham. King Henry wants me there as a representative of the Crown.” He tucked the parchment into his shirt. “I’ll go as soon as the problem in the village is cleared. Elise?” he called over his shoulder. “Come, we must hurry.”

  “I’m right here,” she murmured behind him. He almost jumped with her nearness. Mother Mary, but his wife was quicker at dressing herself than any woman he’d ever known. He covered his surprise with a command and action. “We must mount up and return to the village. Fighting’s broken out and I must call a manorial court to deal with the accused.”

  He moved to follow Alban to the horses, but Elise tugged his sleeve, pulling him back. “Wait!” she whispered, sounding almost frantic. “Please, Gray, just a moment more. I must tell you before ’tis too—”

  “We’ll have to talk about it later,” he broke in. “I cannot tarry here or lives may be lost.” Clenching his jaw, he guided her to her mount and helped her up. He struggled to mask his emotions, hiding them behind a stony expression. And he seemed to accomplish what he intended, effectively stopping any further conversation. They mounted up and headed for the village without another word between them.

  Scowling as they rode, Gray tried not to think about what his wife was preparing to tell him. About the man who’d taken her virginity or why she’d kept it from him for all of this time. He only focused on the path ahead, glad that there was something tangible awaiting him in the village. Something he could handle and solve.

  His secretive wife was more than he could deal with right now. For Elise, with her wide blue eyes, her sweet disposition, and her soft body was beginning to get the best of him…

  And he’d be damned if he’d allow himself to
accept defeat that easily.

  Chapter 11

  Catherine hunched over her mare’s neck, clutching her reins until the blood left her hands as their mounts crashed through the woods. ’Twas fortunate that Gray and Alban led the way back to the village. Even at their breakneck speed, she couldn’t seem to focus on the trail ahead; she barely managed to duck when a fir branch snapped back at her, and just a moment ago she’d almost lost her seat when her horse had stumbled on the rough terrain. Her thoughts kept dwelling on one, festering point.

  How could she have been so selfish? She’d had a chance to tell Gray the truth with no one near to report of it back to Eduard, and yet she’d put her own wants, her own decadent, carnal desires, ahead of her children and their safety. Her face felt hot and her stomach rolled with guilt and dread. She’d waited too long to tell Gray and beg his aid, and now the opportunity was lost. Such a chance might not present itself again for days. Perhaps even weeks, and by then it might be too late. Eduard might have returned to Ravenslock to demand her fulfillment of their foul bargain.

  She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, relishing the bone-jarring pace and alternating between reviling herself for her weakness and trying to plan what she could do to make it right.

  They passed through another clearing and more woodland before reaching the village, which consisted of two score rough, thatched-roofed cottages clumped here and there among several larger buildings. As they entered the main thoroughfare, chickens ran squawking out of their way, but before they reached the square, Catherine saw telltale signs of the fighting that Alban had witnessed.

  Ale barrels lay overturned, their rich, golden brown contents trickling onto the road. As they rode farther, the damage looked worse. Two or three wooden display stalls were cracked in pieces on the ground, and blood clotted the soil, staining it dark red. At first she thought it gory evidence of the brawl, but a closer look calmed her fears.

  ’Twas animal blood, she was almost certain. One of the broken stalls must have offered poultry, since fowl carcasses were strewn about the area; several dogs growled over the birds, snatching them in their jaws to lope off and rip them apart without interference. Catherine frowned, her mind straying from her own troubles for a moment as she wondered why none of the villagers made any move to stop the beasts from gobbling up the goods. Then she saw what held their attention so inexorably.

  The angry mob surrounded nearly two dozen young knights who stood bound in pairs or threes to stakes in the middle of the square. Even with many of them slumped over from exhaustion or pain, Catherine recognized some of the lads as being from among those Gray and Alban were training at Ravenslock. Four of the remaining knights were strangers to her.

  All of the men were bound, but someone had tied the unknown knights’ hands behind their backs. These four looked more disheveled than the rest from what must clearly have been vicious fighting, and yet they stood rigid, their faces wary against the snarls and insults thrown at them by the crowd. They tried to hide it, but they were frightened. Aye, so much so that it made their skin gleam pasty in the late day sun.

  All but one, anyway.

  He was the largest of the captured knights, and he also seemed to be the oldest, appearing to be of some nineteen or twenty years. He stood firm, his blond head held at a regal angle, his bloodied face a mask of hate and derision that blasted the villagers all to hell. Catherine shuddered, unable to dismiss the thought that if this young man could have disemboweled those taunting him with a look, he would have done so without a second thought.

  The shouts and jeering began to die away when Gray strode into the circle. He stood taller than everyone, knight or villager, his head easily visible above the crowd; everyone backed away and made room for him as he passed. Alban stayed close by him, but Catherine lingered at the edges of the crowd, allowing two of Gray’s men to help her dismount so that she might stand within their protection to witness the proceedings.

  Gray didn’t speak for a moment, seeming to assess the condition of those bound before him. Catherine saw his gaze flick over some of the lads he knew so well—among them Matthew Osgood, Bernard de Varienne, and wiry Derrik Lowes—before settling with stern concentration on the four unknown men.

  Without looking away, he called for Stephan Baker and Clyde Potter to step forward. The two men, both freeholders of Ravenslock land, pushed through to stand proudly next to him. But in the next instant, someone from the crowd hurled a rotten apple into the square; it hit the blond knight in the chest, spattering his face. He threw himself forward against his bonds, sneering and calling out curses upon all of them as cowards.

  “Enough!” Gray roared, his command ringing through the village and bringing everyone to silence. He cast his gaze around before coming to rest again on the captured knights. A shiver tingled up Catherine’s spine.

  “This will be settled peaceably. As Lord of Ravenslock, I hereby convene a hallmote. A jury will decide the guilt or innocence of each accused man. Clyde Potter and Stephan Baker will serve as manorial officers to choose the remaining ten witnesses of the court. Once we hear both sides of each case and the jury passes verdict, I will dispense justice.”

  A low murmur of approval rumbled through the crowd, though Catherine saw the blond knight scowl and spit off to the side. But the other young men seemed to relax a little, the panicky look easing from their faces.

  Soon the remaining ten witnesses were chosen from among the freeholders and knights, and the accused men, whether they were lads from Ravenslock or the strangers, were brought forward one by one. Each had witnesses stand to represent him and argue his case; for each a verdict was delivered and, if necessary, a fine imposed. In some cases, the young knight in question agreed to make restitution with work, rather than with money, to those whose property had been destroyed, while in others, the jury determined innocence of the charges.

  Catherine watched Gray where he stood at the makeshift table that had been set up for the jury. She saw him working with his people—freemen, low-born, or noble—lending his view, or nodding and observing with serious concentration, but always serving as a powerful, stable presence in the center of the gathering. She marveled at his skill, his composure. It was amazing, really, his ability to arrive at this scene of chaos and wrest a civilized proceeding from the midst of it.

  Pride burned in her breast. And love. Aye, she could deny it no longer. She loved Gray in a way she’d never thought it would be possible for her to love a man. He’d won her heart with his goodness and passion, with his sense of right and wrong, and his determination to see justice done.

  She brushed her finger over her swollen lips, remembering the feel of his mouth taking hers as he stroked deep inside of her this afternoon. Her cheeks burned as she stared at him now, here in the square, gazing at his striking face, his powerful body…those graceful hands that were strong enough to kill with one pass of his sword, or gentle enough to caress her into mindless ecstasy.

  She ducked her head as the memory of their lovemaking washed over her again, filling her with renewed heat. Darting her gaze to the people surrounding her, she prayed her expression hadn’t given away her thoughts.

  A jolt went through her. Someone was watching her. He crouched, motionless and furtive, about ten paces away through the crowd. ’Twas the deformed man, the one she’d first seen peering at her from the shadows of the corridor the night of the king’s feast weeks ago. He wore the same, swathed garments that obscured his face from full sight, but she knew by the chill up her spine that he stared nonetheless.

  Just like that first night, his gaze sliced into her, hard and penetrating. Then, suddenly, he looked away and ducked into the shifting masses of the crowd. No one else seemed to have noticed his presence—or her discomfort. All eyes were trained on the proceedings.

  Catherine craned her neck to try to see where he’d gone, but he’d disappeared as if he’d been no more than a figment of her overwrought imagination. She suppressed a s
hiver, cursing that there was nothing she could do about him, or anyone else she might suspect as one of Eduard’s spies, other than to be more careful than usual about what she said or did.

  She glanced back to the jury table. The last of the accused was being readied for trial; it was the blond knight, but as he was led from the stake to face the council, he shook himself free of those who held him and walked to the table unaided, his gait cocky.

  “Your name?” Clyde Potter asked, nodding for him to stand nearer to the scribe.

  “Gilbert de Clare.”

  “Clare?” Gray’s gaze snapped to the young man. “Be you kin of the king’s former regent, William Marshall?”

  “Aye,” the knight answered insolently. “William Marshall was my father’s cousin.”

  Another low murmur swept the crowd, and Catherine took a step forward to see the man better. If what he said was true, he was aligned with one of the most powerful houses in all of England. William Marshall had been dead nearly fifteen years, and yet both the country and King Henry still reaped the benefits of his great influence. Henry had been crowned at the tender age of nine, but in the three years William served as his Regent, he’d guided the boy-king through the intricacies of fair and noble rule.

  “Any kin of William Marshall is welcome at Ravenslock. However, you’ll still need to answer to this day’s charges against you, the same as any other,” Gray said, nodding to Stephan to release the young knight’s bonds. “What brought you so far from home, son?”

  “I am no green boy to be addressed so,” Gilbert scoffed, shaking his hands and rubbing his wrists to restore the feeling in them. “My travels lead me on the same path as my renowned cousin. I intend to make a name for myself.”