Seize the Wind

by Heather Graham

  She wondered if his concern might be real, or rather, if he didn’t rue the fact that something intended to become his might have been used by another.

  “Nay, my lord, I was not badly treated, merely held until arrangements were made for you to come for me here,” she told him.

  Manning nodded with irritation, glancing up at Sir Waylon. “I had heard tales about these outlaws. That they were curiously chivalrous at times. My men have assured me that their leader spoke to them with civility—until all but crippling them. Still, they are thieves, mannerly rogues, but outlaws just the same, and hanging will be far too good for them when they are caught. And I will catch them. Sir Waylon and I have been mapping out the forest. It will just be a matter of time before I find their stronghold. But you will discover that you have chosen a man of action, my lady. I plan to hang them for you before our wedding, which will take place next Saturday.”

  “My lord, perhaps these men are living in hard times, and rob those in better circumstance than themselves to survive. Please, you mustn’t seek to find them on my behalf!”

  His eyes glittered; his lips twisted. He smiled in a curious way that brought back memories, that nearly made her cry out loud.

  “Oh, I will find them and hang them. When I have had done with them. I will find them, retrieve what they have stolen from me, and they will pay.”

  That smile! That look in his eyes…

  She could almost see flames, smell the smoke, the scent of burning flesh…

  To her distress, she discovered that the world seemed to be wavering. She never fainted, never passed out. She was strong and willful and cunning when she needed be.

  But still…

  The world swam.

  He caught her. Phillippe Rousseau caught her. She instantly became very much awake and aware.

  Her skin crawled!

  Oh, God, she had thought that she could do this! That she could actually wed him if need be, become his wife to await the proper moment…

  But that was before. Before she had discovered passion and longing and tenderness, wanting, craving, aching.

  Before she had known the Shadow.

  “I’m quite fine,” she cried out, steadying herself, loathing the fact that he held her still. She couldn’t wrench from his hold, repugnant though it was. She could not!

  He sat her atop his destrier, mounting behind her. Again, it seemed that her skin crawled with vermin.

  She had ridden so with the Shadow.

  But now…now she felt the loathing. Felt she might be sick if the ride went on too long.

  But it did not. Soon they had come past the fields beyond the castle walls. Ridden the sweeping green slope. The drawbridge was lowered, and they trotted into the courtyard. A groom rushed forward to take the horse’s reins. Phillippe Rousseau brought her down from the horse, carrying her.

  She pressed against him, desperate to gain her own feet. “I am fine, my lord!” she assured him.

  “You have been through great distress. I’ll see that you’re brought directly to your room, that warmed wine is brought to you.”

  She forced herself to smile. She entered the castle keep with him, trembling as she came into the great hall, saw the huge table there, the massive chairs before the fire, the wolfhounds gathered there. An older man in a green-and-gold livery came forward, his head bowed to Phillippe. “Your lady has come. All is made ready for her. My lady, welcome to Manning Castle. I am Evan and will seek to serve you in any way.”

  The world was spinning again; she would not let it do so. Evan had clouded blue, weary eyes and a tired, worn, sad face. She wanted to reach out, touch his cheeks.

  “Thank you, Evan. I am exhausted, and would like to rest in my room.”

  “With your permission, my lord?” Evan said.

  “Aye, show my lady her rooms. Kate, you must rest. You seem so very weary. Tomorrow, you will meet our priest and see your new home.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” she murmured. She lowered her head, anxious to follow Evan away from him.

  “Wait!” he commanded suddenly.

  She paused. She felt his hand upon her shoulder. He turned her. Again she met his eyes. She shuddered inwardly, and prayed her revulsion would not be obvious for she realized he intended to kiss her.

  “A kiss for your betrothed,” he said, lifting her chin.

  His touch, his lips…seemed all but blasphemous. Dear God, but there was something so salacious about him! Something in the way he looked at her that seemed far more indecent than any intimacy she had shared in the forest.

  He is a murderer, she reminded herself. A foul, cruel murderer who did not care about the agonizing fate he cast upon a score of people.

  A murderer. And he kissed her. As if he would devour her. His hands were biting upon her. His power seemed brutal. She feared for a moment that she would be raped then and there in the hallway.

  But he suddenly drew away, breathing heavily. “You are a beauty!” he whispered. “A temptress, a morsel of sheer perfection! So I would have our marriage beyond hint of any taint. The sons you bear me will be legitimate issue.”

  Again she forced her lips into a smile. His face was so cold! A mask, twisted, created. She had to get away from him. “Aye, my lord!” she said, her voice very low. “Our marriage must be legitimate, legally consummated when the vows are stated. A week is not a long time, my lord.”

  He smiled. Yet even so, the look upon his face was rapacious. Evil. What would he have planned for his bride? She had to get away!

  “My lord, I am exhausted,” she murmured.

  “Evan, take her upstairs. She will need to rest well this week. I will not have her weary for her wedding night.”

  At last she was able to flee from him, following Evan at a rapid pace up the stairs.

  So rapid, she almost passed him by.

  “Lady Kate!” Phillippe called from below.

  She paused, biting her lip, looking downward.

  “It’s good to see you so at home. One would think you know the place already!”

  She laughed. Was the sound of her laughter as uneasy as the quivering feeling within her? She turned again, knowing then that he would watch her until she completely disappeared along the final twist of the stairway leading to the rooms above.

  “One would think you knew the way, my lady!” Evan said, panting and wheezing slightly at their pace.

  “Ah, Evan, it is just that I am so very weary,” she answered.

  “Your room lies just ahead.”

  “Does it?” she asked, coming to a sudden, dead halt and staring ahead.

  “Aye. Once, those rooms were the nursery.” He cocked his head and smiled a wistful smile. “When the old master was here! He and his lady loved their wee ones, so they did! Alas, what God giveth, God taketh…still, my fair Lady Kate, you are a ray of hope. Perhaps the sound of young laughter will fill these cold hallways once again.”

  He pushed open the door. The room was a nursery no longer. A large bed sat atop a dais, and a massive trunk sat at the foot of the bed. A lady’s dressing table with a beautiful mirror was across from the bed, while a washstand and screen stood near the window.

  “Will you be comfortable here, my lady? Is there anything that I can get you?” Evan asked.

  She shook her head. “I will be quite comfortable here. Perhaps you would be so good as to tell me where the duke’s chamber lies?”

  “Yonder, across the hallway, is the master’s set of chambers. Now, as it has always been. Aye, lady, I was born here, I’ll die here. The bed remains the same there as the day I was born! Now, your wine mulls over the fire, there. The pitcher is filled with fresh water. If there is anything else, my lady?”

  “You have thought of everything, Evan.”

  He bowed his head. “I hope you will be happy.”

  She nodded.

  He left the room, closing the door behind him. She leaned against it.

  Happy.

  Silent tears s
treamed down her cheeks as she stared into the firelit room.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Her third night at the castle, the Duke of Manning hosted a feast to introduce his intended bride to the lesser nobility and gentry residing at nearby estates.

  The great hall was filled to capacity. Kate had sat with Evan part of the day, helping him with seating arrangements. There were numerous counts, viscounts and barons among the guests, and several knights and their ladies, not to mention the clergy and younger sons of wealthy noblemen.

  Kate had little interest in the occasion herself; she didn’t think she’d be anxious to meet any man who was a friend of her intended husband.

  Throughout the time she had been at the castle, she had been torn. Amazed by the complexity of the memories that haunted her, dismayed by the power Phillippe seemed to hold. She quickly realized that many people within his household despised him. But he was the master. And he was obeyed, and protected.

  One of his men tasted his food at all times before he ate—he could have no fear that he might die by poisoning. His guards and knights were lawfully in his service and duty-bound to obey and protect him, and he was never alone. Indeed, as he dressed for the evening’s festivities, she was at war with herself. What had she imagined? That she would come here, and that he would obligingly walk near a parapet and perhaps even fall from it for her, so that she would not even have to lift a finger to do the deed? Keep her hands free from blood?

  And keep her from the hangman’s noose?

  She had set out with courage and resolution. Now it seemed clear that her only hope would be to slay him while he slept. And she would only have that opportunity…

  If she went through with the wedding. The blood drained from her at the thought. But time was marching on. And every day when she walked the halls within the castle, she could remember. Her father’s gentle voice as he read aloud. Her mother’s laughter…

  She could do whatever it took.

  She dressed in silver, a veil of it falling from her head, her tunic and shift the same shimmering color, embroidered with delicate golden threads. When she heard the first arrivals in the hall below, she hurried down. She was anxious that Phillippe not come for her. It was best to keep her distance from him. Though he didn’t seem to care that others saw him touch her, he was worse with his roaming hands and lascivious kisses on those few occasions he had been alone with her.

  Alone…

  Except for his nearby guards.

  Tonight, men and women gathered everywhere within the hall. Phillippe found her quickly, taking her arm possessively. “Our estates have not been so far apart that you might not already be acquainted with many of our guests, my dear.”

  “Perhaps. I’m afraid we seldom entertained, especially in later years. Lord Gregory was sadly ill for a long time, as you are aware.”

  “Of course. Come here. Ah! My dear, Count and Lady Langley.”

  She nodded, dipping slightly at the introduction. The count was young, with eyes that quickly appraised her. Lady Langley was shaped like a bean pole and had sadly bucked teeth, but she offered Kate a friendly smile, and Kate returned it quickly. “Once you’ve wed and made the castle your home, I hope we’ll see one another frequently. We’ve a manor not far to the east,” Lady Langley told her. “It offers little in comfort compared to the castle, but we do have a wonderfully warm if small solar. It’s a fine place to work upon tapestry.”

  “I thank you for the invitation,” Kate began, but Phillippe was already moving on. She met old men and young men. Rich men and men with sagging fortunes. She moved about the hall continually.

  There was one couple she did not meet. They were both tall and dark. The woman was beautiful, slender, with almost exotic features and an incredibly graceful way of moving. The man wore a plumed hat that angled well over his face. She could see only that he was powerfully built, yet agile.

  Somehow, the pair always seemed to be elsewhere when she was moved about by Phillippe.

  At last it was time to dine. People were seated at the tables, arranged in a horseshoe formation carefully, by rank and favor. Toward the end of the meal, Kate noted that the extremely handsome darkhaired couple was seated low down one of the prongs of the horseshoe.

  She loathed beginning a conversation with Phillippe, but she leaned closer to him and forced one of her frozen smiles. “Who are the young man and woman far down the line there?”

  “Where—ah, there! The man is Count Aryn Lakewood. You will not associate with him.”

  “But you’ve invited him here!” she said.

  Muscles tightened in his jaw. “He is lesser nobility, long descended from a Saxon family that somehow managed to keep its title, while losing all else. He is nothing.”

  “But then—”

  “He is one of the most talented swordsmen alive. I have asked him into my service and he has thus far refused my offers. Mark my words. I will have him.”

  “Why have you asked him to ride for you if you so despise him?”

  Phillippe stared at her. A vein pulsed in his throat. His hand fell upon hers and she nearly cried out, for it seemed that he would soon crush bone. “You must be aware, my beauty, that I take a wife for her riches and her person. Your destiny in life is to serve and please me, fair lady, not to question me!”

  She snatched her hand away, furious, dazed, humiliated.

  At the first possible opportunity, she escaped the head table, desperate for a moment’s freedom. She left the great hall and the keep itself behind, running to the stables. There, in the darkness and shadows, she stroked the noses of giant destriers, speaking softly. “He does not let a bride remain fooled, even before he has slipped a different noose around her finger.”

  “So why would a bride take such a man?”

  The question, coming from the darkness, startled her. She swung around.

  It was Count Aryn himself. He leaned against a far stall. She recognized him by the plumed hat, despite the shadows and darkness surrounding her.

  She did not respond to the question. “How dare you spy on me, my lord!” she said indignantly.

  “I did not come to spy.”

  “Then why—”

  “From that hall, my lady, I needed air.”

  She watched him curiously. “Phillippe is the duke, your overlord,” she said. “Why do you refuse to serve him?”

  He walked past her. She could still see nothing of his face, except that it seemed finely enough sculpted. He scratched the nose of a bay mare. “He is not my overlord.”

  “But—”

  “My property is small, ancient to my family, yet granted to me by the dowager queen, Eleanor of Aquitane. I serve her and the king. Now, I have answered your question. You have not answered mine. Why do you marry Phillippe?”

  “It is my will to do so.”

  She still couldn’t see his features. Yet she sensed something. Sensed his…disappointment.

  “Perhaps you should return to your wife.”

  “I am not married.”

  “That beautiful woman—”

  “Is my sister, Rowaina. Good night, my lady. May your—dreams—be pleasant.”

  He bowed to her, then strode from the stables with a long gait. She looked after him uneasily, wondering still if he might be in Phillippe’s employ, if someone might have guessed more about her than was apparent.

  She hurried to the keep, swiftly finding her way into the great hall. There she mingled with the crowd, greeting those she had so recently met. She was startled when she met Phillippe’s eyes across the hall.

  They were the eyes of the man she had seen so many years ago. Eyes that had been gleeful at the sight of fire, of death.

  He came to her, taking her arm. “Where have you been?”

  “Among your friends.”

  “I did not see you.”

  “Perhaps you did not look hard enough.”

  “I have decided that the wedding must be tomorrow. I can wait no longer.” />
  “It cannot be tomorrow!”

  “Why?”

  “I have not—said my proper prayers!”

  “Then the day after. No later. We will wed, and you will be mine.”

  “But—”

  “It will be as I have said, my love, for your beauty has possessed me. Unless you would be my mistress before becoming my wife and do so this very eve, I give you only until your day of prayer is done.”

  “Then you will excuse me now, so that I may begin to pray!”

  With those words, she escaped him, running up the stairs, until she reached her room.

  Oh, God! She had but lost time. And now, now what to do?

  * * *

  “Did you see her, my lord?” Beth demanded anxiously, coming behind Aryn as he entered the hut, throwing down his scabbard, sword and plumed hat.

  “Aye!” he said irritably, slumping into a chair before the fireplace.

  “And?”

  “She is still determined to marry the bastard!” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Did she know you?” Beth asked softly.

  “I stayed in the shadows.”

  “Perhaps if she realized that…”

  “That I am poor Saxon nobility, the remnants of a once-great clan? Then she would forsake the duke, his castle and all his riches?” he asked bitterly.

  “Now, my lord, you judge her harshly, I think.”

  “I wish I did. Beth, you tell me, why wed such a man if it isn’t for gain, for wealth, for prestige?”

  “I don’t know, my lord, I admit,” Beth said unhappily. “Except that… Well, my lord, there’s something that’s bothered me since the girl first came here.”

  “What?”

  “Why, ’tis the girl herself, I think. I delivered Lord Gregory’s daughter, I did. I saw the poor wee thing many times. She was a sickly lass. They had thought they’d lost her once when she was young. She was a pretty thing, sweet, but not of this world…she was almost saintly, as if she expected the angel of death to be sweeping her up any minute from the rigors of the earth. When I saw Lady Kate…”