Misbegotten

by Tamara Leigh

  "He is gone, my lady."

  Gone. Surely he could not mean Liam had already left for Thornemede. He would not have without first . . . Nay, Liam Fawke owed her no parting words, she reminded herself. He would come and go as he pleased without warning or farewell.

  "Gone where?" she asked.

  "The fields, my lady. He ought to be back ere nightfall."

  She could wait until he returned, Joslyn knew, but then she might not have the opportunity to speak with him in private. "I would like to go to him," she decided.

  The man's eyes widened. "My lady?" "Would you arrange it?" "But—"

  "You will accompany me, of course," she said, knowing that regardless of her station at Ashlingford, she would not be allowed to ride from the castle unescorted.

  "I first must speak with the captain of the guard, my lady," the man said.

  Joslyn nodded. "And then we shall be on our way."

  14

  ,4s she rode through the countryside, Joslyn beheld much of the beauty fatigue had blinded her to yesterday. Pushing up through the earth was woodruff, fennel, daisies, and the flourishing plants of sown crops. Overhead, birds joyously soared the clear skies and called to one another with voices sweet and melodious. Along the roadside, hares and other small animals bounded through the grass. And in the fields, villagers coaxed life from the earth as their children made games of chasing off the birds who sought to steal their sown labor.

  Everything felt new, Joslyn thought, just as heaven had meant it to be. Reining in her palfrey alongside her three escorts, she watched one of the workers of an immense fallow field tramp toward them.

  "Has Lord Fawke been here?" one of the men-at-arms called to him when he was within hearing distance.

  "Aye, and still is," he answered. Turning, he pointed to the farthest corner of the field, where a handful of workers were plowing up a strip of earth. "There."

  Joslyn was relieved to have found him. At each of the three previous fields, she had been told he had already gone on to the next. "You may await me here," she instructed her escorts. "I shall not take long."

  As she rode the perimeter of the field, Joslyn searched for the telltale red of Liam's hair. However, though a horse that must have been his stood nearby, there was no sign of him.

  Frowning, she settled her gaze upon the workers. One man grasped the handles of the plow, his great body forcing it to follow alongside the strip of land previously turned. He was assisted in his labor by another ahead of him, who drove the team of oxen by whip and bellow, and four behind— two men and two women—who wielded clubs to break up the clods the plow cut from the hard earth.

  It was strenuous work, Joslyn knew. Though she had never done any of it herself, as a child she had often watched the villagers toil in the fields of their lord—

  She looked sharply at the plowman a second time. He wore a hood, its loose ties flapping against his chest as he thrust the plow ahead of him. His tunic, near all of it darkened by perspiration, clung to his broad shoulders, followed the contours of his muscled torso, tapered downward past his abdomen and hips, and molded to muscled thighs that strained with each step he took.

  With each step Liam Fawke took. Joslyn acknowledged the man for who he was. As that unwelcome part of her stirred, she pondered why he did the work of the common man. After all, no lord was expected to actually work the land himself. . . .

  Liam might never have looked up, so intent was he on the plow, if not for George. The man leading the oxen was first to catch sight of the figure riding toward them. Lowering his whip, he and the beasts ground to a halt. Almost immediately, the workers with their clubs also paused to take notice of the lady.

  "God almighty," Liam muttered. He had left the castle early today for just this reason. Joslyn Fawke. After another restless night filled with visions of her surrender and vivid remembrances of the taste and feel of her, he had risen and gone straight to the fields. Now here she was destroying what little peace he had found. But he knew why she had come.

  Liam released the plow handles, rubbed a forearm across his beaded brow, and propped his soiled hands on his hips to stare at her as she approached.

  "I would speak with you, Lord Fawke," she said as she drew near.

  He withheld his reply until she was close enough for him to see the clear amber of her eyes. Then he said, "I trust 'tis a matter most pressing that brings you into the fields, Lady Joslyn."

  Looking far too lovely in gold-trimmed green, she drew to a halt a short distance away. "It is."

  He looked over his shoulder. "Take the plow, Henry," he called to the one he had relieved of it earlier.

  With a nod, the thickset man laid his clod-breaking club aside and started forward.

  Knowing that with dirt and perspiration covering him he appeared as much the commoner as any of the others, Liam strode the unbroken ground to where Joslyn awaited him.

  From her perch atop her palfrey, she looked down on him, but not with the distaste many a lady would have—and neither was her face drawn with anger as he would have expected. Instead, out of the depths of her eyes shone curiosity.

  "What is it you want?" he demanded, sorely wishing she were the unbecoming waif she had been at Rosemoor, when she had been covered in near as much earth as he was now.

  She glanced past him to the workers. "Can we not speak elsewhere?"

  Though the plow was moving again, they were still an object of interest to the villagers. Still, Liam would not have cared had not the task required the closest attention if none were to fall peril to it. "The reins," he said, lifting a hand to accept them from joslyn.

  Wordlessly, she laid the leather strap across his palm.

  Off the field and toward the wood Liam led her horse, his mind going ahead of him to the icy stream where he could refresh himself and wash off some of the dirt.

  "This will do," Joslyn said as the trees of the wood rose up before them.

  "A bit farther," Liam said over his shoulder.

  "Lord Fawke, it would be unseemly for me to go into the wood with you without an escort."

  He could not say she hadn't cause to be worried considering what had thus far passed between them—and most especially what had not—but if she was going to take him from the field, he would at least use the time well. "No more unseemly than your seeking me out among the fields rather than awaiting my return to the castle," he said.

  She had no reply for that.

  Sighting the stream, Liam dropped the reins and, without a backward glance, walked to where the water ran cold and shallow as the devil's heart. "Speak to me, Lady Joslyn," he invited as he lowered himself beside the stream.

  After a moment, she said, "You had no right."

  Nay, he hadn't, but that was before Ivo had jumped in to answer a question Liam had intended to evade. Tugging off the hood that plastered the hair to his head, he tossed it to the side and plunged his hands into the water. "To—?" he asked, purposely obtuse.

  "To tell Oliver of his father's death, of course. It was my place to do so, not yours."

  For the moment, Liam put aside the fact that it was Ivo who had done the telling. He splashed the water over his face and head, pausing to relish the shock of it against his heated skin. Nay, it was colder than the devil's heart, he decided, though not quite as cold as Ivo's.

  "Lord Fawke, why did you tell my son of his father's death?"

  He could just as easily accept the blame as given, Liam thought. After all, the responsibility was his for not having anticipated that, in showing Oliver his father's solar, the boy would ask uncomfortable questions. However, if Joslyn was seriously to consider his warnings about Ivo, she needed to know the truth.

  "I explained it to him," he admitted, "but you are wrong in assuming it was I who told him." "I do not understand." "Aye, you do."

  A moment later, she asked, "Father Ivo?"

  As she had her answer, Liam returned to his bathing and, without regard for her presence, dragged the tunic ov
er his head. Behind, he heard Joslyn draw a sharp breath—as if she had never before seen a man's naked flesh, he thought wryly. Bared to the waist, he began scooping water over his shoulders and chest.

  "I will go now," Joslyn said.

  The heat of his body greatly dissipated, much of the perspiration and dust rinsed away, Liam stood and turned to face her. "That is all you wished to speak to me about?" he asked.

  A blush stole up her neck. Quickly, she turned her attention to the reins she held and pretended an interest in them. "I would thank you, Lord Fawke, for being gentle in telling Oliver of his father's death," she said, "though I must admit it surprised me to hear Maynard had gone to heaven. Imagine, a warrior for God."

  Bunching his tunic, Liam used it to blot the moisture from his face. "To be honest would have been cruel," he said.

  She allowed his remark to pass without comment.

  Wiping the tunic down his chest and abdomen, Liam asked, "Why did you not tell him of Maynard's death?"

  Joslyn looked sideways at him, then back down. "I thought it best that we first settle in at Ashlingford. It... it was not pressing."

  Not pressing because Oliver had known so little of his father he could not possibly feel the loss of him, Liam wanted to say. "What did Ivo tell you about Maynard's death?" he asked.

  She started to look toward him again but caught herself. "That he rode from the castle drunk," she said. "That a fall from his horse caused his death."

  Knowing Ivo as he did, Liam was sure there was more to it. "What else did he tell you?"

  "That..."

  "That?" he prompted.

  She shook her head. "It does not matter. Truly."

  Irritation flaring, Liam strode the floor of the wood and caught hold of Joslyn's arm. "It does matter," he said. "What did he tell you?"

  She glanced from his hand upon her to his eyes. "That though you did not kill Maynard, you are as responsible as if you had."

  Liam released her. At least he could content himself with knowing the treacherous Ivo so well. "You ought to be on your way," he said, and turned and started back toward the stream.

  "Is it true?" she asked, need in her voice to be told otherwise.

  He halted, briefly considered her words, then continued on.

  Why would he not defend himself? Joslyn wondered. Surely he knew his uncle had cast him in the worst light. She dismounted and followed him. "I wish to know the truth," she said, but it was as if she was not even there.

  His back to her, Liam bent and snatched up the hood he had earlier tossed aside. "Return to the castle, Joslyn," he ordered.

  Refusing him, she closed the distance between them and came to stand at his back. "I am done thinking the worst of you, Liam Fawke," she said. She laid a hand upon his shoulder, but in the next instant pulled it back with the realization of what she did. To touch him would only lead her in one of two directions—rejection, as he had shown her at the king's palace, or further humiliation in his arms.

  She drew a deep breath. "Though for years I lived in fear of your one day coming to Rosemoor, I know now that my fears were unfounded—that what Maynard told me of you cannot be true. I beseech you, tell me of his death so I may put it to rest forevermore."

  He turned around, but whether or not he intended to oblige her was not to be known, at least not immediately. With sudden recognition lighting his eyes, he reached forward and grasped between thumb and forefinger the sleeve of the gown she wore.

  "Anya's!” he said.

  The backs of his fingers brushing Joslyn's breast caused awakening to tremble through her. "Emma brought these things to me," she breathed. "My own garments are being laundered."

  Liam captured her gaze. "I do not wish ever again to see you wearing them."

  Baffled, Joslyn said, "Tis true they do not fit well, but Emma says they can be altered—"

  "If you need gowns, they will be made new," Liam said, his voice carefully controlled.

  Joslyn shook her head. "I do not understand." Though she knew Maynard's mother had been instrumental in securing Ashlingford for her legitimate son, was Liam's anger so great toward the woman that he could not even bear to look upon garments she had worn?

  Liam dropped his arm back to his side. "Suffice it to say that had Anya Fawke been born a man it would have been difficult to tell her apart from Ivo," he said.

  That explained some of it, though what was unspoken must surely make more sense. "If it so pleases you," Joslyn said, "when my own gowns are returned I shall give these back to Emma."

  "It pleases me."

  She clasped her hands before her. "And now will you speak to me of Maynard's death?"

  Liam considered her request a moment, then walked past her and lowered himself to sit before a great gnarled oak. It was some moments before he spoke. "Each time Maynard returned to Ashlingford," he began, "there were always arguments. It was the same that last night he rode out from the castle."

  "About money," Joslyn supplied, remembering what Ivo had told her.

  "Aye, he wanted more."

  "For his gambling?"

  "Of course. There was a game in London he wished to join."

  Fleetingly, Joslyn wondered if it was the same game that had delayed her father's receipt of her message. Taking a step toward Liam, she asked, "And you refused him?"

  Liam turned the hood in his hands, studied it a moment, and then tilted his head back against the oak. "Nay, I did not. Ashlingford was Maynard's, and as such he had a right to its profits/'

  This was certainly not the impression Ivo had left her with. "But?" Joslyn prompted.

  "But not to the extent that his habit depleted the coffers. I would not—could not allow him to reduce Ashlingford to the same state it was in when I returned to manage it for him."

  "What happened?"

  Though Liam's gaze held hers, a distance came into his eyes. "Maynard was angry," he said. "At supper, he drank heavily and cursed me for treating him as if he were a child. In the end, though, he agreed to the sum 1 proposed—a rather large sum—though he said it would never be enough. I was filling his purse when he struck me."

  "He struck you?" Joslyn gasped. Though Maynard had been a good-sized man, he had not been as large as Liam. She simply could not imagine him landing a blow on his brother.

  "From behind." Liam explained, a wry smile lifting his mouth. "With a fire iron."

  Joslyn could not help but be shamed by the dishonorable act of the man who had fathered Oliver. But then, he had not been an honorable man.

  "When finally I roused," Liam continued, "it was to discover him gone from the castle."

  "And all the barony's monies with him."

  "All that was in the one chest. Had he known where I kept the other, I am sure he would have taken that as well."

  "Did you give chase?"

  He shook his head. "I should have, but I was weary of dealing with him. Too, though I knew funds would be scarce in the months ahead, there was still enough left to manage the barony until the next harvest. It seemed best to let him go and deal with him later."

  Selfish Maynard, Joslyn thought. The same man who, when her father had been unable to pay his gambling debt to him, had demanded Humphrey Reynard's only daughter in marriage—half the debt settled upon consummation of their union, the other half upon the birth of a male child. How Joslyn had rejoiced when the midwife raised up the babe and showed her he was born a boy. Her duty done, her father's debt settled, she had welcomed Oliver into her arms and heart with the blessed knowledge that never again would she have to receive Maynard in her bed-—a vow she had extracted from him the night he had come to her to settle the first half of the debt.

  Realizing her thoughts had carried her away, Joslyn looked back at Liam and found his gaze intent on her. "How did he meet his death, Liam?" she asked.

  His eyebrows drew together. "As Oliver told you, he took a fall from his horse."

  She had done it again, Joslyn realized with a jolt of embarra
ssment. She had addressed him with the familiarity of a loved one. "That night?" she asked.

  "Aye, he strayed from the road—assuredly the drink in him—and went down in a ravine."

  Remembering Ivo's comment that Maynard had died in his arms, Joslyn asked, "Who was it that found him? Father Ivo?"

  As she watched, Liam again slipped inside himself to that place of Maynard's death. "Nay, Maynard walked back to the castle himself," he said, a tightness entering his voice. "He was halfway to death when I carried him to his solar."

  Joslyn felt a sadness she had not expected. "He died shortly thereafter?"

  "Nay, he lingered until Ivo was summoned to his side, that he might bear witness for him to the existence and naming of his heir. Your son."

  Oliver, who had taken everything from him just as Maynard had planned it. Drawn to Liam, Joslyn stepped nearer him. "I am sorry," she said.

  He swept his gaze back to her, causing her footsteps to fall silent. "Why?" he asked. "Because your son is legitimate? Because he prevailed over a bastard?"

  There was bitterness in his voice, though not as deep as it had been in the king's presence. "Though I can do naught about it," she said, "I know now that you were cheated. That Ashlingford should have been yours." His eyes upon her making her uncomfortable, she looked down at her hands. "And that you are not responsible for Maynard's death."

  He laughed at that, surprising Joslyn into looking at him again. Then, his laughter subsiding, he said, "But I am responsible, at least in part."

  Joslyn shook her head. "How can that be?"

  The silence surrounding Liam grew so long Joslyn began to think he had no intention of explaining himself, but then he spoke.

  "My father loved me as he never loved the son born to him in wedlock," he said. "He favored me, the child he had gotten on a common Irishwoman, a woman he had loved and would have given up the barony for in order to wed, had she not died a few hours after birthing me." He paused a moment before continuing. "Following my mother's death, my father wed Anya, the woman he had for years been betrothed to, but though she and others wished me to be sent to live among the villeins as so many bastards of nobles are, my father refused them and raised me up in the castle as if I were legitimate born. Never did he make any attempt to hide his feelings for me from his wife, nor his preference for his "little bastard" when Anya bore him Maynard. You see, it was something Maynard had to contend with all his life, something neither Anya nor Ivo would let him forget." Liam pushed a hand through his hair. "It turned him to drinking and gambling, which is why he is dead now, isn't it? Thus you see my part in it."