by Ann Lawrence
In a bound, Gilles leapt from his horse. Trevalin’s beast floundered to his feet and shot from his master’s grasp to race from danger. Emma rose, water streaming over her body. Gilles felt the icy water, knew she would die of the cold ere he could save her. She stumbled toward him, hand outstretched. Trevalin jerked her after him. They disappeared in a wall of fog.
When Gilles took a step; his foot sank in the glutinous suck of shifting sands. He whipped his stick from his back and probed the surface. The distance was lengthening between them. The water and mist intensified their every sound, though, and Gilles followed the thrashing noises, the grunts of Trevalin’s efforts to drag a reluctant Emma through the surf.
Gilles swore and moved as quickly as he could, testing the surface. If he fell, if he was trapped, Emma was dead.
With a gust of wind, the mists swirled open, like a curtain parting. Trevalin’s pace had slowed, hampered by Emma, who dragged her feet and flailed her arms.
“Trevalin! You’re mad!” Gilles cried. “You’ll drown.”
“Get back,” Trevalin shrieked. “Get back. I’ll kill her.” He jerked Emma against his body and Gilles saw the knife against Emma’s throat.
With hands out to the side, Gilles halted. His feet felt numb.
“Let her go, Trevalin. Let her go, I beg you. I will not stop you. Flee if you want!”
Trevalin shook his head like a slumbering wolf wakened from a winter nap, and hauled Emma a few more feet away. Emma screamed. She went down in a hole, twisting in Trevalin’s arms.
Gilles charged toward them, all thoughts of his own safety forgotten as Emma struggled in nature’s grip. Trevalin pulled on her for a moment, then dropped her arm, backed away, and began to run in a shambling gait toward the far shore and Lincolnshire.
Gilles swerved toward Emma.
“Nay. Leave me! Catch him,” she cried. “Don’t let him get away.” She dragged at her skirts.
Trevalin turned at her words. Waves foamed about his calves. A wall of mist rolled toward them. “You sorry bitch. I killed William to save you and you betray me!”
Gilles ignored Emma’s entreaties and sloshed through the low waves to her. He grasped her arms and pulled.
“I can free myself. Go.” She pointed at Trevalin.
“He doesn’t matter. Only you matter,” he gasped. “Sweet God, without you there is nothing.”
Trevalin cut parallel to the coast and widened the distance between them. In moments, his retreating figure was lost in the fog.
Gilles hauled at Emma’s arms. She slipped from his grasp. With an oath, he cast off his rags. He tore the belt from about his waist and threw it around her. He cinched the buckle beneath her arms and twisted his hands in the loop. He pulled with all his strength.
“Leave me, Gilles. I’ll free myself. You must stop him. He can prove your innocence.”
He ignored her entreaties. She had no idea how close to death she was. They both were. Her skirts were thick with sand and water, weighing them down. He held the belt with one hand and knotted his hand in the rent in her gown where Trevalin had stabbed her. He tore the cloth apart, freeing her.
With a cry, she stumbled clear of the sinkhole that had nearly claimed her life. Gilles no longer felt his hands and feet. To be sure he did not drop her, he kept his eyes on the belt and the grip he had on it. When she was able to gain her feet, he wrapped his arms about her and they stumbled toward the shore.
Three men coalesced from the mist enshrouding the land. They moved cautiously toward Gilles and Emma, weaving left and right in the shallow water as the surface beneath their feet proved unstable.
“Take her,” Gilles gasped, near to the limit of his strength, as one man ran ahead of the others. “She will die of the cold.” The man, his long tunic tucked up at his waist, hooked his fist in the belt beneath Emma’s arms and hoisted her before him.
The fog shifted. Smoke and flames were visible on the shore. Safety. So close. Too far. Gilles sank to his knees. His body shuddered with cold. Mist swirled to claim him.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Gilles woke in his bedchamber, the sun striping the floor by his bed. He groaned and sat up. His shoulder ached beneath a mound of bandages.
His bedchamber.
His heart in his throat, he threw off the blankets. Where was Emma? He closed his eyes. His memory provided only the image of her in a stranger’s arms, disappearing into the mist.
With shaking hands, he dragged on the clothing laid out carefully across his coffer: fine linen, the tunic he’d been married—and buried—in.
“Gilles!”
He turned to the door. Emma ran across the room and threw herself into his arms. “Thank God, my love,” he whispered between hard kisses. “I thought you lost.” He set her at arm’s length and inspected her. “Your wound?”
“Nothing compared to yours,” she said, encircling his waist and hugging him close.
He ran his fingers along her cheek and tipped up her chin. “How I love you,” he said against her lips, marveling that she was well and in his arms. He pulled her hard against his body. For a brief moment, she melted against him, her kisses as ardent as his. Then she leaned back.
“We are not alone,” she said, smiling up at him.
Gilles turned, but kept her tightly within his embrace.
Roland strode across the chamber, followed by three strangers.
Roland went down on his knee before Gilles.
“What are you doing?” Gilles asked, touching Roland’s shoulder.
“Begging your forgiveness. I let Trevalin get away from me. I let him take your lady. I should be stripped of my rank, lashed at—”
“Enough! Emma is here and quite well. Now rise.” Gilles could not keep a touch of humor from his voice. “Truly, she is in better shape than I.” He gently touched her waist where Trevalin had stabbed her. He felt the bandages beneath her gown and frowned.
She covered his hand. “I am quite well. A scratch only. Now, these men have news for you. We have been waiting for you to awake.”
Roland presented the men, pilgrims who had camped on the shore of Hawkwatch Bay, their journey to see the abbey relics interrupted by the rising fog.
One man, the eldest, stepped forward and bowed. “My lord, we must bear the news that the man who entered the water with you and this fine lady has been found, drowned, his body washed ashore this morn.”
“I must thank you for saving my lady wife. She is everything to me.”
“Are you not curious as to why you are here and not in some beggarly bed in the village?” Nicholas d’Argent asked from the doorway. He came to stand at the pilgrims’ side.
“I did wonder, but then thoughts of Emma drove it from my mind,” Gilles said, and pulled her close to his side.
“It seems these good men saw you ride into the surf and followed, sure you would need aid. They heard every word Trevalin said—you know how sound travels on water. When we have broken our fast, we are off to the Duke of Norfolk.”
“We understand the poor soul killed a valued knight and saw this fine lady, and then you, blamed for it,” one of the pilgrims said. “It is our duty to present the truth. He was taunting you with his triumph. Surely, God is seeing to his punishment now.”
“Aye,” Gilles said softly.
They stood in somber silence for a moment, then Gilles thanked the pilgrims again for rescuing Emma and bringing him to shore.
As the party departed, one man turned back. “We wanted to return this to you.” He held out the belt Gilles had used to save Emma. “I suppose ‘tis ruined; the colors have run,” he said and left.
Emma held the belt. “Nay, ‘tis not ruined.” She looked up at Gilles. “The designs are no longer linked, they are blended, no longer separated one from another, as we are no longer apart. It seems right, somehow.” She looped the belt about Gilles’ waist and buckled it. She stroked her fingers along the fine linen and silk threads. He covered her hands.
&nbs
p; Nicholas cleared his throat. “There will be enough opportunities for that later. It is time you took your proper place.”
Gilles looked at his son. “A few months ago, I considered myself at the end of my life, this manor a responsibility to be avoided. No longer. Now I feel as if I’ve all the time on God’s green earth to live. I shall spend every moment of it trying to be what I was not—a proper father. A better husband.”
Color flooded Nicholas’ cheeks. “Think not that you are the only one who needs to examine his behavior. I fear I owe Emma and you an apology. She is your perfect mate. Two more stubborn people I have never met!” He grinned.
Gilles embraced his son. “Come. I will need you by my side.” He took Emma’s hand and led her from his bedchamber. Together with Nicholas, they took the stairs to the hall, crowded with what seemed to be every person of the manor.
Gilles approached the raised platform before the great stone hearth with a sense of being home.
“Gilles!”
Silence rolled through the hall as all turned to the flaxen-haired tot who stood with arms upraised to the tall man who stood with her mother.
No one spoke.
He went down on one knee. His voice was gentle. “Angelique.”
Tears pricked at the edges of Emma’s vision.
Angelique sidled closer to the man who knelt very still before her. Her thumb slipped into her mouth. She studied him from his close-cropped hair to his black eyes. She reached out and touched his chin with the tip of one tiny finger.
“No beard,” she said in a whisper.
“No beard,” Gilles repeated.
Her little finger traced the line of his jaw. “Gilles,” she said more loudly.
“Aye, my child. I have been to heaven and am now returned.” He scooped her up, then tucked her into the crook of his uninjured arm. He extended his hand to Emma. She smiled and linked her fingers with his.
Holding her hand, his son at his side, Gilles stepped up onto the dais and took his place, once more, lord of the keep.
The End
About Ann Lawrence
Award winning author Ann Lawrence writes both historical and paranormal romance with strong heroes and equally indomitable heroines. Her books reflect her love of English history and Arthurian legend. But whichever genre Ann chooses, she likes to include a puzzle for her readers to solve. Ann loves hearing from her readers.
Ann welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email addresses on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Lord of the Keep
ISBN 9781419945175
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Lord of the Keep Copyright © 1999, 2013 Ann Lawrence
Cover design by Dar Albert
Photos: Chorazi, CURAphotography, Vladimirs Poplavskis and Sly/Fotolia.com
Electronic book publication March 2013
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