LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride

by Tamara Leigh

  Though she was certain he and his father were not of the same ilk, the man Maxen had become at Hastings and nearly again upon his brother’s death, was better explained.

  “What will he do?” she asked.

  “Bide his time.”

  “He will not try to gain William’s ear?”

  “You misunderstand. Likely, the king received news of Elan’s spoiling before I. With the betrothal broken, my father will think naught of casting further dishonor upon her by making known what happened. He will have his revenge, and it will be sweeter with others cheering him on.”

  She shuddered. “I do not think I would like to meet your father.”

  “If I can keep him from our walls, you will not.”

  It seemed always there was something new to worry over. “Will you make me a promise, Maxen?”

  His lids narrowed. “Ask it.”

  “I would have you work no revenge on Edwin until you know the truth of what was done to your sister.”

  “Rhiannyn, I know it pains you to hear this, but whether or not Harwolfson did what is told, his death will be sought. The only question is the manner in which his life is forfeit.”

  True, for hardly a day passed without word of his raids and pillaging. Three days past, a messenger from the north had stopped at Etcheverry to rest his horse and replenish his food and drink. While at Maxen’s table, he had spoken of his lord’s wooden castle set afire by Edwin and his growing army of Saxons. It was this news he was to deliver to King William, and a pleading for aid to fight the ruthless Saxon wolf. And yesterday, news had come that the king had raised the reward for the one who brought him Edwin’s head. It was a staggering amount.

  Aye, Edwin’s death would be sought even were he innocent of ravishment, but Rhiannyn was not certain his death would be gained—providing she could prevent Maxen from being the one to confront him.

  “Promise me,” she pressed.

  “Do I meet him again, I will give him a chance to prove he did not do what is said of him.”

  She leaned down and put her lips to his cheek. “I know you do it for me.” Just as he had set free Aethel and the others, just as he had several times visited the bedside of Hob and assured him he could leave Etcheverry whenever he wished. That last made Rhiannyn smile. Having believed himself dead by way of a Pendery, Hob acknowledged the scar he would ever bear was not of Maxen’s doing and had begun to hint he might remain here.

  Maxen sighed. “Do I do it for you, Rhiannyn?”

  She pulled back. “Do you not?”

  His smile showed few teeth, but it was real. “Anything for you.”

  Soul reaching toward his, she also smiled.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Another month passed, and fall fell into winter with the arrival of one who came without warning.

  Upon a chill wind, a dozen riders descended upon Etcheverry and were allowed within its walls. Though the demeanor of the pretty young woman at the center of her escort suggested shame, often she lifted downcast eyes and peered around with childlike excitement.

  “You are welcome at Etcheverry,” Maxen said, lifting his sister from her mount.

  As she settled on her feet, she peeked up at him. “I fear it is not good tidings I bring.”

  “I guessed as much. We shall speak of it later.”

  “Elan!” Christophe pushed his way toward his sister and embraced her. “Years,” he said.

  “Too many,” she agreed.

  He looked at her head to toe. “You have grown!”

  A smile leapt to her lips, but she put it away as if remembering it was not fitting. “As have you,” she said in a soft voice that did not agree with the glimpses thus far afforded of her.

  Mayhap I look too hard, Rhiannyn thought. Mayhap I want too much to find something that is not here, something to prove she speaks false about Edwin.

  Unfortunately, it was hard to be fair to one she had come to resent these past weeks. As Maxen had predicted, his father had dishonored his daughter by making public what had befallen her. Now word was among knights, men-at-arms, and servants that Edwin Harwolfson had defiled Elan Pendery.

  Maxen motioned his father’s knights to dismount. “Wine and mead await you in the hall. Come warm yourselves.”

  It was a quiet procession that ascended to the donjon, Rhiannyn walking behind Elan who was flanked by her brothers, the others following farther back. But once inside the hall, voices rose and became a clamor as drink commenced flowing.

  While warmed wine was served at the high table, those seated around Maxen watched the young woman in their midst.

  “Elan,” Maxen said, “I present Rhiannyn of Etcheverry.”

  Rolling the goblet between her hands, his sister moved her gaze to the woman beside her brother. “Of Etcheverry?”

  “Oui, she was of this place before it was Pendery.”

  “She is Saxon.”

  “I am,” Rhiannyn answered for herself.

  Interest lit the young woman’s eyes, but she veiled it by fluttering her lashes down. When she lifted her lids, her eyes were still. “What does she here at your side, Brother?”

  “Rhiannyn serves as lady of the castle.”

  Elan glanced at Rhiannyn’s left hand. “Yet she possesses not your name. To share a bed with a man does not make one a lady. It makes one a…” She gave what sounded a nervous laugh, though discomfort did not reach her eyes.

  Rhiannyn let the spark in her rise to flame. “Ah,” she said, “but I also share his bath.”

  From Maxen’s stiffening, she knew he was as angered by her bold claim as his sister’s malice.

  But there was one who found humor in Rhiannyn’s frankness, she who had little to gladden her since Christophe had wearied of her lack of dependability and replaced her with Meghan. Reduced to cleaning and serving at table, Theta was more spiteful than ever, looks more slaying, words more cutting. Now she snickered, sloshing ale over a knight’s hand as she poured, but whatever angry words he unleashed upon her were lost beneath Maxen’s.

  “Rhiannyn is the lady, Elan,” he said, “and while you reside at Etcheverry, you will show her the respect accorded to one in her position.”

  His sister opened her mouth, but Christophe said, “Elan, allow me to introduce Sir Guy Torquay.” He gestured at the knight beside him.

  Elan snapped her teeth closed and turned to her younger brother.

  Refusing to meet Maxen’s gaze, Rhiannyn looked past him to his favored knight who, for once, appeared interested in something other than duty to his liege.

  “Sir Guy,” Elan said. “I…” Her voice trailed off, and she swung her gaze back to Rhiannyn. “I know your name! You are the one Thomas wished to wed.” She sucked a breath. “The one who led him to his death.”

  Feeling Maxen’s tension rise, Rhiannyn said, “It is true Thomas wished to wed me.”

  “That is all you have to say? No apology for being the cause of his death?”

  “As she is not responsible,” Maxen said, “she can hardly accept the burden of it.”

  His words rooted Rhiannyn to the bench. Elan, however, shot up from hers, causing heads to turn. Eyes losing their studied demureness, she spat, “You, Thomas’s brother, defend her?”

  “Seat yourself,” Maxen ordered.

  She drew a whistling breath, teetered, and dropped back onto the bench.

  “When you have finished your drink,” Maxen said, “you and I will talk of the reason you have come to Etcheverry.”

  She huffed. “Surely you already know.”

  “Later,” he growled.

  Touched by his open defense of her, Rhiannyn hardly noticed what followed.

  But Maxen was beyond aware of the next hour. Ignoring the pull of the woman at his side, he watched his little sister and assessed all she had come to be since last he had seen her more than two years past. She had been reckless then, quick and sharp of tongue, but the woman she was fast becoming—or perhaps not so fast becoming—seemed to
have magnified every one of her undesirable traits.

  She was well acted, he conceded as he attended to her conversation with Sir Guy and Christophe. Of greater concern, she was overly adept at drawing men’s notice. Though Guy was mostly immune to the advances of women, deciding for himself when and where he would better know one who caught his eye, his usually set face reflected rapt interest in Elan’s smiles, fluttering lashes, and husky voice.

  It caused Maxen to entertain the possibility Rhiannyn was correct in defending Harwolfson against the charge of ravishment. But why would his sister claim such?

  “You are finished,” he said when Elan emptied the last of her drink.

  “One more,” she implored and raised her goblet to be refilled.

  “You have had enough.” He took the vessel from her, set it on the table, and stood.

  She looked as if she might protest, but when he took her arm and raised her beside him, she lowered her eyes. “As you will, Brother.”

  Within the privacy of his chamber, Maxen held out a hand. “The missive.”

  Elan removed it from the pouch at her waist and, grimacing, placed it in his palm.

  “The seal is broken,” he said.

  She shrugged. “As it concerns me, I saw no reason why I should not read it.”

  Maxen raised an eyebrow. “What does it say?”

  She lowered her gaze. “Why do you not read it yourself?”

  “I shall, but for now, save me the trouble.”

  When next she met his gaze, it was with long-suffering eyes. “As you know, I was…” She squeezed her eyes closed, drew a breath, lifted her lids. “I was ravished.”

  Though he suspected her pain was not as deeply felt as she would have him believe, his compassion stirred. “I have heard.”

  Tears forming, she launched herself into his arms. “It was terrible. The most awful thing!”

  Inwardly, Maxen groaned. Despite his doubts, this was his sister, and if she was truly hurting, he had no right to deny her comfort. He wrapped his arms around her. “No more can he harm you.”

  She angled her head back to peer at him. “Is it a promise you make?”

  “It is. Whoever did this will not go unpunished.”

  “Whoever?” She shook her head. “It was Harwolfson. Did Father not write it to you?”

  “He did.”

  “Then why do you not acknowledge it was he? I do not lie in this, Maxen.”

  He hoped not—or did he? Was it better his sister was truthful, or Rhiannyn was right about Harwolfson?

  “I have not said you lie, Elan. It is just that Rhiannyn does not believe him capable of such an offense. She submits it must have been another who disguised himself as Harwolfson.”

  “Rhiannyn!” She jumped away and strode across the chamber and back. “She who was betrothed to the Saxon rebel. Of course she defends him.”

  “I also met Harwolfson,” Maxen said, “and neither did he seem to me one who would behave in that manner.”

  Elan swung around. “You do not know him as I do,” she snapped, then her face fell and she pressed a hand to her belly. “Of course you do not.”

  “Are you with child, Elan?” Maxen asked, though he knew it was so by way of her—

  What? he asked himself.

  Performance, he silently named it, recalling the girl who had darted about the castle while her brothers swung swords. With exaggerated emotions and behavior, she had vied for attention, and it appeared the years had not matured that out of her.

  She dropped her hand from her belly. “Oui, your ravished sister is pregnant.”

  Maxen considered her. “You seem not as disturbed as I would expect.”

  She gasped. “What would you have me do? Put a dagger to my wrist? Throw myself from a cliff? Never! I will bear this misbegotten child and…”

  “What?”

  He saw struggle in her eyes, and he hoped it was evidence of a conscience. But the indulgence of youth so firmly a part of her trampled the responsibility of an adult when she said, “I will give the babe to the Church to raise as God wills it.”

  “As easy as that?”

  She laughed derisively. “Surely you do not suggest I keep the child of a man who violated me?”

  “I suggest naught. I simply ask. But tell, why come to Etcheverry rather than enter a convent?”

  She nodded at the missive. “Read it.”

  Maxen tapped the parchment against his thigh, but did not unroll it.

  She sighed. “Father would have sent me to a convent, but I begged him to send me to you for the duration.”

  “Why?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Me in a convent? I would die of boredom or be mercilessly berated—perhaps flogged—for some little thing I said.”

  “You think I will not do the same?”

  She sharpened her eyes upon him, attempted to draw a smile from him with her own, but when he remained unmoved, she said softly, “Would you?”

  “Do not test me, Elan. You are welcome here, but if you wreak havoc on my household, I will send you to the nearest convent. Understood?”

  Though resentment flared in her eyes, she inclined her head.

  Still, he was certain she would unsettle his household, but after chastising himself for the chance he took in allowing her to pass her pregnancy beneath his roof, he said, “Now the rules.”

  She groaned.

  And he began listing the things he would not allow, and what would be expected of her.

  She had barely considered she might become pregnant. After all, she had more than once lain with Royden, her father’s man-at-arms, before duping Edwin Harwolfson into taking the blame for her loss of virtue.

  Feeling sick down to her toes for all that had gone awry, Elan turned on the pallet which had been overstuffed to accommodate her condition and stared at the shadowed ceiling.

  Ah, the lie of it, she silently lamented as she thought back to the day she had begun this ruse. Following her tryst with Harwolfson, she had ridden back to the castle with well-placed rips in her gown, tangled hair, and scratched face and limbs. She had thrown herself at her father’s feet, and between his shouts that ascended to the beams above and the heavens beyond, blubbered all of what had befallen her.

  But though she had done well to make herself look ravished, she had not thought to stain her skirts with blood. Thus, harboring hope her chastity remained intact enough to give her the appearance of purity so her betrothed would not question it, her father had summoned a physician. In the presence of Elan’s mother, the man had made his examination.

  Recalling when he had straightened and looked into her eyes, Elan shuddered. In his own eyes had shone suspicion that the one accused of ravishing her had not been the first to have her. But perhaps because he was so staunchly Norman, he had not revealed her. Rather, he had muttered about the necessity of cleansing England of the barbarian Saxons.

  When her sire was told she was no longer a maiden, his raging against Edwin Harwolfson had resounded around the hall. Then his wrath had turned from the Saxon rebel to her. And her mother against whom she huddled—a woman of pitifully weak disposition—had spoken not a word in defense of her daughter.

  As the lord of Trionne whipped Elan with his tongue for riding unescorted outside the walls, his wife had simply patted and stroked and hushed her. There had been nothing affected about Elan’s tears then, for never had she been so harshly spoken to, nor so near to being struck. When her father’s fury eased, he had set in motion plans to see her wed earlier than what had been negotiated lest a child grew in her. Providing her betrothed had agreed, a hidden vial of blood on their wedding night would have proved she had come to him a maiden. He had not agreed.

  Elan’s father had counted on the man’s old age to make him ripe for deception. But his years made him wise, and his suspicions caused him to break the betrothal.

  She had been secretly relieved, for though her ploy had been a means of absolving her of responsibility for her los
s of virtue, she had dared to dream she would also be absolved of being bound to a withered old man whose bones creaked beneath flaccid skin and muscle and whose hands upon her would surely make her heave.

  Thereafter, the wait began to see if the handsome Saxon rebel she had invited to put his hands on her had gotten her with child.

  A sob escaped Elan. If her belly had not swelled, she might have persuaded her father to make a better match for her, might even now be wed to one befitting her youth and beauty. But even when this babe was out of her and out of sight, it would not be easy to wed well, for though talk of her ruin might be overcome, there would be other whispers that reached ears she would rather they did not.

  She swiped moisture from her cheeks, hating what tears wreaked upon her face—flushing it an unbecoming color, puffing her eyes red and sore until she could barely see past narrow slits.

  No need to cry, she told herself. Once she birthed Harwolfson’s brat, she could begin anew—providing she survived the birthing. She slid her hands down her hips and wished them a bit wider. She was not such a small thing, but the physician had warned birthing would be difficult.

  Another sob escaped, and she silently cursed the Saxon rebel for being so virile it took but one encounter to impregnate her. Next, she cursed him for being so tall and broad that his child would likely be of a size that further endangered her life.

  “Lady Elan, are you well?” asked one whose voice vibrated through her.

  She swung her head around and found the attractive face of Sir Guy before her where he crouched beside her pallet. Had her sobs awakened him, causing him to rise from his own pallet in the hall?

  She breathed in, liked the smell of him. “I am well.”

  “I heard you crying.”

  She shrugged. “I am sad.”

  “To have left Trionne?”

  “That is some of it.” Not truly, for she did not miss her father’s glower, air of disgust, and harsh words.

  “What is the rest of it?” Sir Guy asked.

  Something inside her shifted, took a peek, and began to blossom beneath his concern. Opening her throat a bit, the better to answer on a husky breath men found so appealing, she said, “Has my brother not told you?”