by Tamara Leigh
“Why should it matter to you?”
“It does, that is all.”
Abel stared at her, wishing she was as easy to set from his mind as other women whom he had known more than he knew Helene of Tippet. Or had he known them more than this one he had not even kissed?
“You should leave,” she said, her voice a wisp of a thing.
She was right. He pushed upright only to lurch when his leg cramped. “God’s teeth!” he growled and dropped back into the chair.
An instant later, Helene stood over him, and he thought she must have unfolded her wings and flown to him.
“The sleeping draught is taking effect,” she said.
Grinding his teeth against the pain that shot knee to hip, he reached for his leg. “I did not drink it. ‘Tis a cramp.”
She looked to the fingers he plowed over the straining muscles, then dropped to her knees, pushed his hand aside, and applied both of her own. As she kneaded the muscles, more careful to avoid the injury than he had done, Abel gripped the chair arms and pressed back in the chair.
“Lord!” he growled. “Is this to be my life?”
“It is not.” Her fingers pressed and pulled and rolled. “For I know you will not let this burden you to your end days.”
She sounded so certain that he could not argue—longed to believe in himself as she believed in him.
Gradually, the cramp eased, fading into jerks and twinges until, at last, he relaxed into the chair.
“’Tis gone?” Her hands stilled upon his thigh.
He opened his eyes. “It is. I thank you.” In the next instant, he regretted being so quick to assure her, for she removed her hands and stood.
Abel reached and caught her arm. Only after he closed his fingers around it did he realize they belonged to his right hand that would not hold her for long if she did not wish to be held.
But she did not wrench free when he pulled her forward and drew her so near that he felt her breath on his jaw and saw uncertainty in her eyes, so near he was achingly aware of her thin chemise and how little it covered her, unlike her heavy woolen gown.
Tempted as he could not remember being tempted, he murmured, “Helene,” and imagined pulling his fingers through the thick plait that hung between them.
To his surprise, she moved nearer, angled her head, and touched her mouth to his. “Abel,” she breathed his name into him.
He slid his other hand around her waist and pulled her down onto his thighs. Only vaguely aware of the discomfort of her weight upon his injury, he lifted her chin, and this time it was he who kissed her and with more hunger than was good for either of them.
She kissed him back, drew a hand up his neck, and slid it over his scarred, bearded face.
Abel knew he should stop, but he had thought on her too long to let her slip away.
It was Helene who ended the kiss. “’Tis as I feared,” she whispered. “I like your mouth upon mine far better.”
As he leaned in to reclaim her lips, she inserted a hand between them. “Do you know what I am saying, Abel?”
He knew enough—that such intimacy with him was more pleasing than any she had known. “What a man most wishes to hear.” He kissed her fingers.
She pulled her hand back. “’Tis more than that—more that you should know and that, as much as I wish to keep it from you, I cannot.”
Her words bothered, and even before he said, “Then make it so,” he guessed what she would tell.
“This day, Sir Durand kissed me in the wood.”
Something of great volume and enormous heat filled him, causing his sword hand to ache over the absence of steel.
“Abel!” The urgency in her voice told that she felt his roiling. “I did not tell you that your wrath might rise against Sir Durand. Or me. I told you so that what happened—what did not happen—would not be a secret between us.”
He hated his inner warring, this wanting her off his lap that vied with wanting her nearer. “What did not happen?” he ground out.
“Anything beyond a brief kiss that we both acknowledged was sorely lacking.”
“Did he force it upon you?”
She hesitated. “He sprang it upon me, but ‘twas not ravishment and certainly not seduction. How could it be when his heart lies elsewhere just as mine does?”
Her heart? What did she mean? Did she speak of love?
“Friends,” she said. “That is all Sir Durand and I will ever be.”
Not if Abel had any say in it. And he did, for he had won the wager. He nearly reminded her of it, but something made him look closer upon her words and he realized her confession was not complete. “Where does Sir Durand’s heart lie, Helene?”
“I now know the tale, and though there is much of it to which I should not be privy, he told me so that I might understand why he left me to the brigands as long as he did. And I do understand, though I am sorry if you believe my knowledge trespasses upon the Wulfrith name—and their pride.”
Though part of him struggled to keep hold of his anger, the greater part grudgingly admired her honesty—that she was unafraid to call up his wrath, that she did not play games and shirk the truth in order to appear better than she was. Helene was not one to withhold the truth as his wife and her family had done, setting a trap for him that had nearly seen his life sundered. For certain, he did not know all there was to know of this woman, but he did not think he could have liked her better.
He looked from her face to the plait that rested across her shoulder, then slid his hand down it and tugged off the scrap of linen that bound its end.
“Abel?”
He drew his fingers through it, loosening its weave and confirming that the strands were like silk against his skin.
“You should not,” she breathed.
“This I know.” He glanced at her wary eyes. “For I cannot make a life with you.” At least, not yet. That last thought was unexpected and unwanted, and yet there it was.
“Because of your wife?” she asked.
He jerked. “Curse Durand!”
She gasped. “Do not! Mayhap he should not have told me, but that I am perched upon your lap in near darkness with your hands and mouth upon me surely means I ought to know. Unless, of course, play between the sheets is all you want from me.”
“’Tis not all I want,” he snapped.
“Then to make me your leman?” She shook her head, causing the strands between his fingers to slip free. “I will not be that to you.”
He had vowed never again to wed, but that was before he had known this woman. Accursedly, now that he did know her, he was unable to perform the duties required of a husband—and a father.
He dropped his head back against the chair and lowered his hand so it would not be tempted to her hair again. “You should not have come to Soaring.”
Her silence was so thick it seemed that the keenest knife would struggle to slice through it, and so he left it to her to undo.
“I had to,” she finally said, “even if I shall leave less whole than when I arrived.” She eased off his lap. “Should I retrieve your staff?”
Then they were done here. “Nay, I am well enough rested and the cramp is gone, for which I thank you.” He raised himself, braced his body, and stepped past her. But they were not done.
Upon reaching the door, he looked around and wished he had not, for the glow of the brazier slipped through the weave of her chemise. “I would not dishonor you by asking you to be my leman,” he said. “I want more than that, but unless I can defend you and John, I can offer you naught.”
There was more, and though one of the lessons his father had taught him would be violated, he said, “Come the morrow, I will again take a sword to hand and, if God wills it, I will reclaim what those miscreants stole from me.” He dipped his head. “Good eve.”
Hardly able to breathe, Helene wavered between sorrow and joy. Sorrow for his hatred of Aldous and Robert Lavonne that would only draw him farther from God and, quite possibl
y, poison him against her, and joy for what he had revealed in so few words. He wished to defend her and her son and, once he was able to—and she had to believe it was possible—he would be with them.
Though joy inched nearer, she pushed it behind her, knowing it would hurt all the more if she yielded to it only to have it slap her in the face should this man she loved turn from her. And he might do so even if he regained enough of the warrior he had been that he could be with John and her, for as honest as she strove to be, she still could not bring herself to reveal she was as much a Lavonne as any born to the name, legitimate or otherwise.
Hearing the last of his footsteps and the creak of the door below, she returned to her bed and this time hardly noticed the mattress’s welcoming embrace.
You must tell him of the blood that runs through your veins more thickly than even it runs through Christian Lavonne’s.
“I shall,” Helene assured the voice she recognized as belonging as much to herself as Sister Clare.
Now, Helene.
“I cannot.”
Already you have waited too long.
“Have I?” She shook her head upon the pillow. Had she told him when she had first stood before him in his chamber, that very day he would have seen the back of her, for she could not have stood firm against his hatred for her father and brother—hatred for which she would surely have become but another vessel. Too, even had she been able to stand against that hatred, once his family had known her secret, they themselves would have seen her away from Soaring.
Even so, you should have held your head high and told the truth, for you are not responsible for the sins of men you hardly knew, men who abused you.
She squeezed her eyes closed. “I would not have been given the chance to help him, and I have helped Abel, have I not?”
You think that justifies a lie?
“I have not lied to him.”
What you hide holds meaning for him. To deny him is as much a lie as if he guessed and you told him nay.
“It is not my sin.”
Tell him!
“He will not understand.”
Then he is unworthy.
“He will hate me.”
The longer you wait, the more deserving you will be of his hatred.
Shivering at the thought of how he would look upon her, so different from when he had kissed her, she dragged the pillow over her head.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered, “I have but the breath of a promise from him, and yet I so fear losing it that I turn from doing what I know is right. I should pray for strength to do what You would have me do, but I do not want that strength. I do not want him to see the men responsible for all he has lost when he looks at me—more, when he looks at John.”
She breathed out what should have been a sigh but was nearer a sob.
“I cannot even ask for Your forgiveness.” Certainly not as long as she refused to turn the way she knew He wished her to go. “I cannot.”
What had he done?
Not what he had intended to do, which was to remain true to the vow he had made himself all those years ago—a vow that had kept him alive and at peace far better than when he had wed Rosamund and bled for all the lies she and her family had told and the truths not told. The latter were the worst, of course, for no defense could be mounted against what had been omitted about the state of his wife’s mind.
Helene is different, he told himself where he lay upon the mattress. She is true.
With her and her boy, he could make a life beyond Wulfen Castle. A good life, providing she would wait for him as was necessary for him to become again what she and John needed—a man able to protect them and their home, who did not require a staff to keep him upright, whose sword swung swift and true.
More than even when he had been capable of all those things and had carried her from the cave, it was what he longed for. Too much, indeed, for he had given her hope as he should not have done. Not yet.
Was it love that had made him speak what he should not have spoken—that emotion that was more dangerous to a man of the sword than any other and to which his eldest brother had succumbed? Was it that which Helene felt for him? When she had spoken of Durand, she had said her heart lay elsewhere. Surely that meant she loved…
Abel grunted. Had he never met Helene, he would not be plagued by such ponderings.
Nor is it likely you would have ventured from this chamber—or do what you determined to do when you told her you would again take up a sword.
“Aye,” he murmured, then turned his thoughts to the morrow and flexed his left hand as if to grip the wire-wrapped hilt of the sword he would wield against his opponent—in this case, the man who had kissed Helene of Tippet ahead of him.
Chapter Fifteen
He had not taken his sleeping draught on the night past and was as absent from his chamber as he had been from the hall where she had expected to find him breaking his fast. Had he accompanied Lady Beatrix and Lord D’Arci on their ride? She rejected the possibility, certain Abel would not insert himself between his sister and her husband.
Hefting the tray, Helene wrinkled her nose at the wine-drenched scent of putrified herbs and wondered how well Abel had slept without benefit of the draught. Had he forgotten to drink it? Or decided it was too much trouble to retrieve the goblet?
She sighed and carried the tray down to the kitchen where a boy hastened forward to relieve her of the burden.
“Thank you,” she said, “Have you seen Sir Abel this morn?”
He bobbed his head. “Was here at dawn. Had me fill a skin of wine and wrap bread and cheese for him.”
Unable to keep surprise from her voice, she said, “Do you know his destination?”
His round-as-apple cheeks rose toward his eyes. “I would guess the training field since he did wear a sword upon his belt—the same as Sir Durand.”
Helene sucked a breath so sharp she had to cough to keep from choking on her saliva. When the boy’s smile faltered and he took a step toward her, she waved a hand, said, “I am fine,” and hastened to the garden door.
Flooded with imaginings of Abel and Durand meeting over swords and certain Abel would endure only as long as his opponent deigned to toy with him, Helene ran and keenly felt the weight of her skirts that sought to upend her.
Deciding her ankles could do with an airing, she raised her skirts high, not caring what any thought, knowing only that she must stop the foolishness that had made Abel challenge Durand—a knight who might not have been the warrior Abel had once been but would now have little difficulty besting him.
The inner training field to the far right of the gatehouse was occupied, but it took only a sweep of the eyes to ascertain that Abel and Durand were not among those who practiced at arms. Of course not, for it was not practice they were at, was it?
As she looked over the buildings and enclosures within the outer bailey, her gaze found the captain of the guard who advanced on her.
“What has so roused you, Helene?”
She quickly gained his side. “Sir Abel and Sir Durand—have you seen them?”
“They rode out a half hour past.”
Her heart surged. “Where did they go?”
“They do not answer to me, but a meeting of swords can be heard coming from the north meadow beyond the rise.”
She started to step around him, but he gently caught her arm. “Surely you do not intend to go there.”
“I do.”
“They are practicing at swords.”
Should she tell him she believed it was not mere practice they engaged in, that never would Abel agree to such? That what had once been friendship between the two men was, at best, bitter rivalry that could turn deadly if it had not already?
She swallowed. “Sir Abel is my patient, and I have not given him leave to engage in such activity.”
“He appeared most ready. And eager.”
She nearly pointed out that she was the healer, but she knew the man was only trying
to be helpful. She eased her arm out of his hold. “I must needs speak with him. Now.”
He sighed. “I would accompany you, but I am needed upon the walls. If you wait, I will find a man-at-arms to take you.”
“I thank you for your concern, but I do not require an escort.” She stepped around him and, with his protest sounding in her ears, continued to the gatehouse and over the drawbridge.
Unfortunately, there was no road by which the north meadow could be reached and the tall, prickly grass caught at her hose as she raised her skirts higher to more easily forge a path toward the rise whence the ring of steel issued.
It was not a long distance but, with her heart pounding and a light wind in her face, it seemed ages before she reached the top of the rise. And there they were below in the center of that broad bowl of a meadow, both on horses drawn alongside to allow the riders to come within striking distance of one another.
Abel’s struggle was immediately evident as he not only wielded a sword with a hand unaccustomed to the weight and precision needed to do so, but Durand had the greater advantage of a right-handed grip that did not require him to reach his sword across his body and horse as Abel’s left-handed grip forced him to do to defend his person.
Helene ran down the slope. “Cease!” she cried, but they seemed not to hear her above the clash and ring of met blades.
As she neared, Abel spurred his horse aside, turned it to face the same direction as Durand’s, and once more drew near his opponent. Having removed one of the obstacles presented by his left-handed grip, he drove his blade against the other knight’s with such force that, were it night, sparks would surely be seen.
Knocked to the side, for a moment it appeared that Durand might lose his saddle, but he righted himself, turned his horse, and spurred it to the opposite side to once more force Abel to reach his sword across his body.
“Cease!” she called again.
And, perhaps, her voice was as much Abel’s undoing as his battle with Durand. His gaze landed on her a moment before his opponent delivered a blow to his blade that knocked him sideways. And, unlike Durand, he was unable to recover quickly enough to remain astride.