White Lion's Lady

by Tina St. John

  “How long have you known about me?” Griff asked, his voice low, cold, even to his own ears. “Did you know I was born of Montborne when you charged me with the kidnap of Sebastian’s bride?”

  Dom feigned a measure of surprise. “What? You, a Montborne! I had no idea—”

  Griff put his rage into his answering thrust, a violent blow that nearly knocked Dom’s weapon from his grasp. “The truth, damn you, or I’ll slay you where you stand.”

  The earl’s throat convulsed. “I might have had my suspicions, but I—”

  This time Griffin’s jab bit into the fleshy part of Dominic’s upper arm.

  “All right!” he relented, jumping out of Griff’s path as he glanced down to his torn sleeve and the dark stain that seeped into the white linen. “All right … I knew.”

  “How long?”

  Dom sniffed, tilting his chin at an arrogant angle as he considered. “Since Alys died. She had some … letters. They were written by a highborn cousin of hers—Joanna of Montborne. One of my servants found the box that contained them hidden in Alys’s chamber. I read the letters,” he said quietly, “and then I burned them.”

  “Bastard,” Griff growled. He swiped at him, but in his fury, his aim was off. The earl feinted to the side and Griffin missed his mark. “You stole my life, Dom. You denied me the information of my birth and then you sought to use it against me by hiring me to steal my own brother’s bride. Would you ever have told me?”

  “Oh, yes,” Dom replied. “Indeed, I had every intention of telling you—”

  “After Isabel was delivered to John and you had your payment,” Griffin finished for him. His foster brother’s flat stare was ample confirmation. “Jesus, Dom. Can you hate me so much?”

  “The truth is what you crave?” he asked, his teeth bared in a parody of a smile. “Yes. I hate you that much.”

  Griff stared at the leering stranger standing before him, the vacant-souled beast he had fought for all these years, protected like his own kin. “You hated me, and so you cared not that your plot against me would have likely sent an innocent woman into a living hell? She nearly died because of your damned orders.”

  “The chit was merely a means to an end.” Dominic chuckled. “It was you I meant to send into a living hell, brother.” Slyly, he inched his way along the perimeter of the room, his subtle steps carrying him nearer and nearer to the partially open door. “You say I stole your life? Nay. ’Tis you who is the thief—you and Alys both! The two of you conspired to steal my father’s affection. No doubt you would have stolen Droghallow from me as well, had my weak-hearted fool of a sire not perished before you could wheedle the demesne out of him.”

  “I never sought to steal a thing from you,” Griffin said, moving closer to the door himself, anticipating Dom’s likely flight. “I never wanted to replace you in your father’s esteem, nor did I ever have designs on Droghallow.”

  “Oh, no?” Dom scoffed. “Then why else would you have stayed all this time?”

  “Because I made a promise.” Griff saw the earl’s slight flinch over the statement, the falter in his smug, scornful smile. “Your father asked me to stay here, Dom. He made me swear to him that I would remain at Droghallow in service to you where I could see that you ruled as he would have you do. He didn’t want to go to his grave worrying that his son would pander away everything he had worked so hard to build.”

  “Liar!” Dom blurted angrily.

  “I failed him,” Griffin said, “but surely no more than you have in your greed and dishonor.”

  Dominic’s gaze narrowed to lethal slits that burned a rage so deep it was visible across the distance of the darkened room. His glance slid beside him to where a water ewer sat atop a sideboard near the door. Griff lunged forward just as Dom hurled the pottery vessel at his head. He ducked, and the ewer shattered against the wall where he had been standing.

  The momentary diversion was all the opportunity Dom needed. He bolted out the chamber door and into the corridor, the soles of his bare, wet feet smacking on the stone floor with each hasty step, his untucked tunic flapping around his knees. He slipped and skidded around a bend in the passageway, bellowing for his guards from the top of the spiraling stairwell.

  Griff fell in behind and gave chase, ignoring the instinct that told him to turn instead for the other set of stairs, where he might manage to escape to save his own skin. But his issue with Dom was not yet satisfied. Until it was, he fully intended to play out this confrontation to its end—even if it meant charging headlong into a sea of armed Droghallow guards.

  Dom was only a few steps ahead on the winding stairwell. Still screaming for assistance, he half stumbled down the stairs, his sword sparking off the curving stone wall as he fought to keep his balance. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Griffin behind him, gaining on him.

  At the base of the stairs were two tall iron candelabras; Dom deliberately knocked them both over as he passed, throwing the obstacles into Griffin’s path. Griff leaped off the last couple of steps with a snarl. Having cleared the flaming mess, his spurs bit into the floor of the landing as he set off down another passageway, fast on Dom’s heels.

  He kept waiting for a retinue of knights to step into his line of sight, kept waiting to feel the bite of steel in his back, or the sudden jarring impact of a crossbow’s bolt. But no interference came from Droghallow’s garrison, and in the next moment they would be too late, for Dom was within his reach.

  Griff seized him by the scruff of his tunic, pulling him up short. His footing lost, Dominic began to choke. His weapon slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. Clawing at the garroting fabric at his throat, Dom sputtered and cursed. But Griff was too far gone in his rage to care; he only pulled the collar tighter. He jerked Dom off his feet and shoved him face first into the stone wall of the corridor. Coming up close behind him, Griff jammed his blade against the earl’s spine.

  Dom gasped, screwing his eyes shut, his lips dry and bloodless. “Kill me and you’ll never get out of here alive,” he growled. “You must know that, Griffin. Don’t be a fool.”

  With Dom’s warning came the confirming sound of heavy, booted footfalls echoing from the head of the corridor. Several dozen knights were making their way into the keep, armor jangling, spurs clacking with each urgent step. Griffin shook off his hesitation and savagely hauled Dom around, forcing his foster brother to face him. He raised the point of his sword, holding it at Dom’s throat. The blade cut in, drawing a bead of blood at the place where his pulse hammered wildly.

  The knights were coming closer, nearly to the bend that would deliver them to where Griffin stood, intent and ready to slay their lord. The earl blinked away a trickle of sweat that rolled from his forehead into his eye. One of the guards shouted his name. Dom drew in his breath, then swallowed hard, as if he meant to answer the call, and quickly thought better of it.

  Griff brought his arm up, leveling the blade for a lethal thrust. “I warrant you are deserving of a far slower death than the one I give you tonight, Dom.”

  His hand flexed around the sword’s leather grip. Dominic averted his gaze, turning his head so as not to watch the blow that would seal his doom. The guards, meanwhile, had rounded the final corner of the passageway. They were nearly upon them now.

  Griff’s nostrils flared with the deep breath he took in preparation for what he was about to do.

  At his back, he heard the soldiers draw to a halt. There followed a deep, rational voice he had come to recognize in the course of the past few days. “Griffin. He’s not worth it, my brother. You are better than this.”

  “Am I?” he muttered, wanting to spill Dom’s blood even though he knew the satisfaction of seeing him dead would be fleeting. Still, he did not back off so much as a fraction, and Dominic’s eyes, now open, grew wide with the realization that he might yet die. “I should kill him for what he would have done to Isabel, for what he did to me, and you … for everything he’s done.”


  “You no doubt have a thousand good reasons to slay him,” Sebastian reasoned calmly as he placed his hand on Griff’s shoulder. “But it is not your place to do so, nor is it mine. Surely you do not mean to deny King Richard the pleasure of dealing with this treasonous rabble as he sees fit.”

  Griffin considered his brother’s words, and slowly, he relaxed his hold on Dom. The earl sagged against the wall once Griff brought down his weapon and started to move away from him. A nod from Sebastian sent two of his guards forth to seize the earl bodily, taking hold of him by the arms, while another man bearing an official’s scroll stepped forward to address him.

  “Dominic of Droghallow,” the king’s official said. “As sheriff for our lord and king, Richard of England, I hereby arrest and charge you with the counts of kidnap, conspiracy, and treason against the crown. You will stand trial for your crimes by week’s end. Meanwhile, your titles, lands, and all your possessions are declared forfeit and shall be surrendered at once.”

  Dom dropped his head in defeat as the sheriff and guards led him away.

  “Richard will be looking for a new lord for Droghallow,” Sebastian said as he came up beside Griffin. “Perhaps I will make a recommendation on your behalf when I next have audience with the king.”

  “No,” Griff replied. “I want nothing more to do with this place.”

  “What of Montborne?”

  Griffin turned to regard his brother, frowning at Sebastian’s enigmatic smile. “What of it?”

  “I have decided to join the king on crusade in the Holy Land. The call for soldiers and arms has gone up again, and I am going.” Sebastian raised a brow, his gaze lighting with a spark of excitement. “I will need to place Montborne under someone’s charge while I am away. Someone who could hold the fief, should anything happen—”

  Griff swore a curse. “I cannot do it. You must know I cannot …”

  “I would trust no one else to this.”

  Griffin stared at him, shaking his head at the enormity of the request. And there was another concern, too. “What about Isabel?”

  “Come,” Sebastian said. “We can talk on the journey back home.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  More than a week and a half had passed since the night Griffin left Montborne. By morning Sebastian had been gone as well, accompanied by a retinue of soldiers. While neither man had disclosed their plans of where they were headed, Isabel harbored any number of fears that, somehow, they would both end up at Droghallow.

  She knew Griffin too well to think otherwise, certain that no matter his plans for his future, his pride would not allow Dominic’s treachery go unchallenged. As for Sebastian, well, she need only know his brother to understand how he, too, would be compelled to take issue with a knave like Dom. But suspecting where they had gone did not ease the worry of what might befall either one of them once they arrived on Droghallow’s soil.

  Meanwhile, at Montborne, wedding preparations were well underway. Isabel had observed the activity of servants and seamstresses with an odd sense of detachment, as if the ceremony set to take place in a fortnight concerned another woman, not her. She had endured the fitting and hemming of her bridal gown in a state of emotional numbness, unable to look for more than a moment when the maids brought her to stand before a polished glass mirror, unwilling to acknowledge the farce to which she had subscribed.

  How would she ever be able to wed Sebastian when her heart yearned for his brother? That he had not repudiated her upon learning of her indiscretion with Griffin bespoke of his honor, but what of her own? How could she allow herself to pledge before God that she would keep Sebastian as her husband, forsaking all others, when she would never stop loving Griffin?

  She had posed these very questions to Lady Joanna in the days they had spent together at Montborne, days in which the two women had formed a close bond, each of them waiting for word, worrying for the men who mattered most in their lives. To Isabel’s concerns about her pending marriage, Lady Joanna had simply embraced her, advising her to trust in God that everything would work out as it should. Isabel was not so confident.

  Retiring to the solace of her chamber after the midday meal, she took up a seat at the small desk situated next to the window. Beside her on the smooth oak writing surface was a folded square of parchment, addressed to a certain convent in France—her letter of apology to Maura, a sister’s deep regrets for not being able to send for her after all, for being unable to fulfill her promises to both Maura and her betrothed. Isabel had written the letter in the hours after she had first arrived at Montborne; today she would finally send it on its way.

  A beeswax candle burned in an iron holder on the edge of the desk. Isabel reached for it, bringing it over the missive and tipping the shallow metal dish to pour a dollop of melted wax onto the parchment as a seal. She nearly dropped the entire thing when the herald’s call sounded from high on the tower’s ramparts. The series of staccato blasts rang through the keep, rousing all within earshot to the joyous announcement.

  Montborne’s lord had returned.

  Her heart heavy for the news she would deliver him, Isabel could not bear to look as the bailey filled with the clank of the rising portcullis and the subsequent beat of horses’ hooves, thundering through the gates and into the courtyard. There was a flurry of activity below, folk rushing to greet Sebastian and his men. Inside the castle, servants scurried about excitedly.

  Isabel rose and moved away from the desk, her letter to Maura clutched in her hand. She hardly had time to gather her resolve before a maid rapped softly on her partially open door.

  “My lady? My lord is arrived at last. He requests the favor of your audience in his solar.”

  “Thank you,” Isabel replied. “I shall be right there.”

  Mustering her courage, she smoothed her skirts, then crossed her chamber and made her way down to the lord’s solar. As she approached the door to the chamber, a servant came out carrying a wooden coffer filled with silver tankards, coins, and other objects of value. He bowed to Isabel, then bustled past, calling to another servant to assist him in gathering up a trunk of clothing for their lord.

  Isabel frowned in curiosity, then stepped into the doorway of Sebastian’s private chamber.

  “Come in, my lady,” he called from where he sat at his desk. He looked more alive than she had seen him before, leaned back in his chair, his booted foot propped up on the desk. His dark hair was wild and windblown, his cheeks flushed ruddy with color. He gave her a reckless, boyish smile, his pale eyes dancing with unbridled energy. “We must needs talk.”

  “Yes,” she acknowledged softly. “I warrant we must at that, my lord. About our marriage—”

  “You should know that I have decided to join King Richard in the war against the infidels, my lady. A ship sails from Portsmouth in a few weeks. I mean to be on it.”

  “You go to join the crusade?” Isabel gasped. “But, my lord, it’s so dangerous—”

  Sebastian’s grin seemed to indicate that he might actually welcome the idea. “Do not worry for me,” he said. “And you needn’t worry for yourself or Montborne, either, my lady. I have made arrangements for someone to stay and hold the fief in my stead.”

  Isabel sensed a sudden shift in the air to her left, a movement in the shadows that sent a current of awareness through her every fiber and left her shaking with anticipation, trembling with a flood of hope. She turned her head and there he was, standing a few paces beside her, all but concealed by the afternoon gloom that stretched into the corner of Sebastian’s chamber.

  “Griffin,” she whispered.

  It took every ounce of control she possessed not to close the distance between them and throw herself into his arms. He was bloodied and travel-worn, but whole and hale, and so very handsome. Seeing him before her once again was a sight so heartbreakingly welcome that Isabel could scarcely breathe. She took a step closer to him without realizing it, her feet moving as of their own accord.

  “I met up wi
th him at Droghallow,” she heard Sebastian say from behind her. “The chivalrous fool might have gotten himself killed if I’d have let him march into Dominic’s lair on his own. I saved his noble arse, and now he’s agreed to do me this favor and hold Montborne in my absence.”

  All the while his brother spoke, Griffin’s stare remained fixed on Isabel. His gaze was intense and unwavering, but maddeningly unreadable in the murky shadows of the room. She wanted to shout her glee at the prospect of Griffin’s staying, but a more reasonable part of her warned that this would be the worst sort of torture, to have him so near when, if she remained as well, she could only do so pledged as Sebastian’s wife.

  “How soon do you leave, my lord?” she asked the earl quietly.

  “As soon as I am packed.” As if Sebastian had followed her train of thought, he cleared his throat, and said, “There does exist one slight dilemma, I’m afraid. The king expects to hear that the demesnes of Montborne and Lamere are joined through marriage. I am loath to go to him without being able to assure him that his will is done. So I think it best if the wedding be conducted without delay.”

  Isabel’s heart lurched. “My lord, I fear I cannot—”

  Sebastian cut her off with a rakish grin. “I realize he is a poor substitute for me in many ways, my lady … but would you consent to take my brother as your husband instead?”

  “My lord?” She gasped, utterly astonished. Her limbs lost all feeling; the letter to Maura slipped out of her slack fingers and fluttered to the floor. “W-would I … what?”

  “Allow me, if you will, brother,” Griffin drawled. He stepped forward and took Isabel’s hands in his. Then he sank down on his knees before her. “My lady, can you find it in your heart to forgive me for thinking that I could live even one day without you? I realize I am least deserving of the gift of your affection, but I beg it of you now, humbly. You are the love of my life, Isabel de Lamere. You are my heart, my soul, my saving grace. You are my home.”