“Oh, Griffin,” she sighed, dropping her forehead to rest against his breastbone, her body still warm and trembling in his arms.
With the edge of his fist, Griffin tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you do not want me as much as I want you?”
She stared up at him in mute torment, her jaw quivering, mouth trembling but giving him neither confession nor denial. Finally, she shook her head. “No,” she said, and Griffin watched in humbled amazement as a single tear rolled down her cheek. She backed out of his arms, eyes glistening with a well of damning, heartsick tears. “Heaven help me,” she whispered, “but I cannot tell you nay.”
Pressing the back of her hand to her kiss-bruised lips, she pivoted on her heel and ran to the door, flinging it open and nearly stumbling down the stairwell in her haste to flee him.
Chapter Fourteen
What was she thinking? Mother Mary, what had she done?
Shamed by her actions, horrified by her terrible admission to Griffin, Isabel could not run away fast enough. She descended the tower stairs and fled down the snaking corridor, heading in no particular direction, not caring where it led. She needed solitude. She needed guidance.
Following the dimly-lit passage around one corner and the next, Isabel let the dark artery carry her deeper into the heart of the castle, beyond the hall, beyond the solar and common rooms—anywhere, so long as it carried her far from Griffin. She could not face him now. She could not face a soul now, not when her lips still burned from Griffin’s kiss, her throat yet constricted with tears and this new, profound humiliation.
What sort of woman was she to invite such a breach of honor? What sort of wanton would let a man kiss her so brazenly—let him touch her so illicitly—when she was pledged to another? What sort of fool would forsake a solemn vow for a few moments of bliss when it would mean certain heartache, certain and duly deserved condemnation?
Isabel was reminded at once of the hopeless lady in the bard’s tragic ballad. Heaven help her, but she would not follow that same path. She would not give herself to a man she could never have, a man who would use her and toss her aside for a handful of silver. If she possessed even so much as an ounce of will, she would not give her heart to Griffin of Droghallow.
She would not love him—she could not.
That phrase became her prayer, a silent, desperate plea as she navigated the gloomy corridor, breath hitching, heart hammering in her breast. Finally her feet simply stopped moving, her legs refusing to carry her any farther. Disoriented, uncertain precisely where she was, Isabel looked around and realized she had paused outside the keep’s chapel. It did not surprise her that even without design she would end up there.
So often during her time at the abbey, she had sought solace and answers in the peaceful silence of the chapel. Hexford’s chapel was smaller than the one at the abbey of St. Winifred, but its whitewashed walls and flickering altar candles promised the same sanctuary—a holy place that smelled of incense and tradition and merciful absolution, a haven far removed from the bustle of the castle and the churning confusion of her thoughts.
Isabel entered, breathing an inward sigh of relief to find no one else about. Her leather-soled shoes padded lightly on the stone floor when she advanced toward the nave, her soft scuffs and the hiss and pop of melting wax the only sounds to disturb the quiet of the vacant chamber.
Alone with God and the weight of her recent sins, Isabel sank to her knees before the altar and bowed her head in prayer. She did not know how long she was there, asking for strength and guidance and forgiveness. She prayed for relief from her feelings for Griffin, for fair weather and clear roads that would deliver her in all haste to Montborne before temptation claimed her again.
They were selfish prayers, all of them, but she was desperate.
Was this queer confusion she felt merely a woman’s desire, or was it something deeper? What was it that made her yearn to be near Griffin yet made her tremble in his presence? Why did it seem so natural to let him touch her, to let him kiss her and hold her, when everything she knew, everything she had learned in this life, proclaimed it to be wrong, to be a sin?
This thing she felt for Griffin was like the devil’s own temptation, a test of honor that Isabel was failing miserably. He had asked her if his kiss felt right to her, if it pleased her to have him touch her, if she shared any measure of what he so aptly called a fierce longing.
Even now, on her knees in the house of God, with the crucifix and Holy Mother staring down at her in mute judgment, Isabel could not deny it. She longed for Griffin. She yearned to feel his warm caress, his strong embrace … his sensual, dizzying kiss. She wanted all of this and more. She wanted his heart.
Though it was wrong—a sin to so much as think it—she wanted his love.
“Please,” she whispered beseechingly through fresh tears, her fingers twined together before her and held tight as a vise. “Please, Lord, I beg you. I don’t want to feel this … show me what I am to do.”
A sound at the back of the chapel startled her: the shuffle of footsteps, the swish of long silk robes. Isabel quickly dashed away the wetness from her cheeks and pivoted her head over her shoulder to see who had entered.
“Oh. Forgive me, my child,” Father Aldon, Hexford’s visiting old priest, said when his gaze lit on her. “I’m afraid I did not see you there. Please, do not let me disturb your prayer.”
“ ’Tis all right, Father. I had finished; I was just about to leave.”
She started to rise and found that her legs were slow to cooperate, having been folded beneath her and pinned against the damp stone floor. The priest saw her struggle and hastened forward, offering his hand to help her up. His wrinkled skin was cool and thin against Isabel’s fingers, but his smile was gentle as he assisted her to her feet. His expression muted to concern the longer he looked at her.
“You’ve been weeping, child,” he said in a sympathetic tone, retaining his feeble grasp on her hand. “Perhaps you would like to tell me what troubles you?”
Isabel shook her head and casually slid her fingers out of his hold. “Thank you, but no.”
“You know, daughter, a burden shared is a burden lifted.”
She forced a smile. “I was feeling a bit melancholy but my time in chapel helped. I am fine, Father, really.”
To say that she was fine was an outright lie. She hoped Father Aldon would believe her, that he would accept her casual dismissal, give her blessing and bid her good day. But he only seemed to study her more closely, his silvery eyes lingering on her face as if he could see her pain. As if he could see right through her to the lies and sin that corrupted her wicked soul.
Isabel found she could not hold that wizened gaze. She glanced down at her hands, clasped together now at her waist—a waist that bulged awkwardly with further evidence of her mendacity. Calculating the distance between herself and the door, she looked up and started to give the priest her excuses to leave. “I have been here overlong, Father. By your leave, I should like to return to the hall and let you get back to what you were doing.”
But the old clergyman seemed more interested in her now. “You are not of the flock here at Hexford,” he remarked thoughtfully after a long moment. “A pilgrim, are you, my lady? Recently come to take shelter through the worst of the weather?”
Isabel nodded. “That’s right, Father.”
“Yes,” he mused, wagging a finger at her in recognition. “Now that I look upon you, I do recall seeing you and your husband at sup last eve. Traveling from somewhere in the north, I believe someone said?”
“To the north,” she corrected, guilt making her reply a bit too hastily, a bit too urgently. “We are on our way north … to visit with my family.”
“Ah, journeying home for the birth of your babe, then?” he suggested. “I wager ’twas an arduous enough prospect without the beleaguering rains. Your husband was wise to stop and wait out the storms. After all, you
’re carrying precious cargo, are you not?”
“Yes … of course,” she answered, scarcely able to get the deception past her tongue because of the false smile she struggled to muster at the same time. She felt herself blush and for once she welcomed the tendency. Perhaps Father Aldon would think her stammering and awkwardness merely the outward abashment of a shy new bride.
“My sister lives in the northern country, outside of Yorkshire,” the priest said, seeming intent on engaging Isabel in friendly conversation. “Lovely area. And neighboring Rievaulx Abbey is a sight to behold. Have you ever seen the place, my child?”
She shook her head and Father Aldon went on to describe his last visit to the large Cistercian foundation, regaling her with his impressions of the nearly six hundred monks, lay brothers, and servants who lived at the abbey, a massive population that was of late turning its combined efforts toward the lucrative new venture of sheep farming. Isabel listened patiently to the priest’s report, even though she was growing anxious to be out of his company.
She felt conspicuous in Father Aldon’s presence, as if his casual talk was merely a means for him to delay her, to observe her a while longer, his gray eyes keen and watchful. She wondered if her shame still showed in her face, wondered if the priest could read her thoughts, if he could read the sin and worry that she was trying so hard to conceal.
“I take it you have been long away from home, my child.”
“Forever,” Isabel answered. After all, it was true enough. She blinked past her pang of sadness to offer Father Aldon a smile. “I suppose I have been here in chapel overlong as well. My husband will begin to worry about me if I do not soon return to the hall.”
“Protective of you, is he?”
“A bit,” Isabel answered.
“Well, that is understandable, I expect, given the circumstances.”
Isabel looked up suddenly, caught off guard by the comment. Too late to call back her startled expression, she realized only belatedly that he was referring to her presumed delicate condition. The breath she exhaled in relief sounded a trifle shaky, even to her own ears. “Will you excuse me, Father? I really must be going.”
She took a step to leave and Father Aldon reached out to her, placing his hand on her arm. “Are you certain there is nothing troubling you, my child? Nothing you wish to confess before you go?”
Isabel’s gaze snapped to him. “Confess?”
He tilted his chin down, his lips pressed together in a knowing smile. “I suspect that things are not quite as they seem between you and that man … are they?”
“W-what?” she asked, taken aback, fretful to hear him suddenly refer to Griffin as that man. She attempted a look of mild confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Father.”
“Do you not, child?” He asked the question gently, but the look he pinned her with was unyielding. “He is not your husband, is he? The both of you are masquerading for some reason, pretending to be wed. And you are pretending something more, are you not?”
Isabel blanched under Father Aldon’s unwavering stare. She knew full well what he was insinuating. Of their own accord, her hands drifted down, settling atop the rumpled gown she concealed beneath her dress, a deception that felt so false, so wrong in this place of truth.
“Does he pose some manner of threat to you?” Father Aldon pressed, his voice careful but probing. “Are you in some sort of danger with this man, my lady?”
“No,” Isabel denied at once, shaking her head vehemently and shocked that he had been able to unearth so much of her guile from just a few moments in her presence. “No, he poses no danger to me at all. I appreciate your concern, Father, but I assure you, all is well. I am fine.”
But it seemed he believed it no more now than he had the first time she had tried to convince him of that fact.
“Why don’t you tell me what this is about,” he suggested kindly. “Perhaps there is some way that I can help you.”
Isabel’s first reaction was to refuse. She need not divulge any of her troubles to the father; while he had divined a portion of the tale on his own, to willingly share the rest could be a mistake. Indeed, it might very well put her in jeopardy. She and Griffin would be on their way as soon as the weather cleared, which surely could not be long.
And then what? she wondered. Several more days of running, of hiding. Several more nights of being alone with Griffin.
Far too much opportunity for temptation.
She knew it was only a matter of time before she gave in to this thing she felt for Griffin, this burning, wicked thing that made her crave his kiss, made her loins tremble with sinful longing. The shame of what she had nearly done with him, the knowledge of all that she might have forsaken for the bliss of his touch, pressed down on her in that moment like a weight too cumbersome to bear. She was a weak woman; if she had not known it before, there could be no denying it now, when the mere thought of Griffin’s caress still beckoned, making her yearn to be back in his arms though the only safe thing—indeed, the only sane thing—to do was to deliver herself as far away from him as she could.
“Child,” Father Aldon said, “you needn’t shoulder your troubles alone. Let me help.”
Isabel stared into the priest’s smiling face, uncertain of where to turn. Should she confide in him? Griffin had warned her to trust no one save himself, but now she questioned if he had done so to protect her or, rather, his own interests. Had he said it to keep her dependent on him alone, to ensure that she did not seek help from someone else, thereby denying him his chance to demand a reward from Sebastian? Would she not be safer under the protection of the church?
And what of Griffin? He was an outlaw now, hunted for his involvement with her. If Dom’s men caught up to them on the road, they would surely punish him, perhaps kill him without delay. Despite all that had happened between them—moreover, because of all they had shared thus far—Isabel could not bear the thought of Griffin’s meeting with harm. Even worse, she could not bear the fact that she would be the cause.
Had she not asked God to help her? Had she not asked Him to show her a way out of her pain and confusion? Perhaps, she thought, this was it. Perhaps this exposure of her lies to Father Aldon—and his offer of intervention—was in fact God’s way of answering her prayers. Perhaps the safest path to Montborne was one she must travel alone now, in faith.
Without Griffin.
Swallowing past a new onslaught of emotion, past the knot of guilt and trepidation that lodged itself in her throat for what she was about to do, Isabel met the priest’s expectant gaze. “I must get to the northern demesne of Montborne, Father—my life may well depend on it. Can you assure me the church’s protection until I am delivered there?”
“Yes, of course, my dear child.” Father Aldon nodded and took her hand in his. “You’ve made the right decision,” he assured her, smiling, the very picture of benevolence and gentle understanding. “I will make all the necessary arrangements at once.”
Griffin’s head was still reeling some time after Isabel had fled their encounter in the tower. Unable to face her rightful scorn and outrage, he had quit the castle and gone to the stables. He shook off the rain and threw a gruff nod of greeting to two squires who sat tending some of the Hexford knights’ gear. He stalked past them to where his and Isabel’s mounts were stabled, pleased to find them near the back for he sorely needed the space and quiet.
He needed time to think, to try to reconcile what he was feeling and, more to the point, what he intended to do about it. He had been horribly cruel to Isabel, behaving like a brute, pawing her like a lust-crazed youth, not ceasing until she was reduced to tears. Around her, he seemed to have no control. She commanded his thoughts, his moods, his actions. More troublesome was the fact that she was also beginning to command his heart, something no other woman had managed to do before. Of course, Isabel was hardly just another woman.
It was easy to forget that she belonged to someone else. Easier still to forget s
he was a virgin, untried and innocent.
He would never in the rest of his days be able to purge from his mind the image of her standing before him in that Edenlike setting of the tower chamber, framed by a garden of painted flowers and wreathed in butterflies. For a moment, he had almost believed that she was his wife in truth, that the blush in her cheeks when she saw him was affection, not surprise, that the swell of her waist was due to his child—their child—slumbering peacefully beneath its mother’s heart.
Even now, the memory brought with it a swift surge of possessiveness.
It was a feeling he had no right to claim. Despite the breathless admission he had coerced from her with kisses and blatant manipulation, if Isabel felt anything for him, he supposed she should feel contempt. Given a chance to reflect on what he had done, Isabel would likely despise him now more than ever. Perhaps it would be better for both of them if she did. It would make it all the easier to keep his distance from her, something he would strive to do if he had even a shred of honor left in his scoundrel’s heart.
Taking a brush down from a shelf beside the gray’s stall, Griffin stepped inside and began to curry the destrier’s coat and mane. Over the rhythmic scrape of brush against hide, he could hear the two squires talking. They spoke of trivial things: tourneys and horses, games and festivals. Griff could hardly remember what it was like to be so young, so pure of heart.
How long would it be before these boys lost some of their zeal? he wondered. How many years of knighting would it take before they learned what it was truly like to make a living by one’s sword, forever serving the whims of another man, fighting not because they believed in something but because it was their duty?
How many nights would they drink themselves into mind-numbing oblivion, trying to wash away the gritty taste of smoke and ash and infamy, trying to drown the man they had somehow allowed themselves to become?
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