A Kiss in the Night (17 page)

She ran out of the room. Sheer panic gave her speed as she flew down the stairs and through the corridor to the hall. But it was too late. She heard the sickening crash of a bench toppling, the men and women rising, a rush of cries.

"He's choking! He's choking!"

Linness burst upon this scene. Everyone had gasped in horror as Father Gayly stood, his hands on his neck, his face reddening. "Save him!" she cried. "For the love of Mary, save him!"

As everyone else stared helplessly, Paxton rushed into action. He leaped over the table and behind the man. He slapped his back, once, then again. Nothing happened and not knowing what else to do, Paxton grabbed hold of his head, tilted it back, and reached his hand inside his throat. He pulled the fatal chicken bone out and tossed it to the floor. Too late. Father Gayly was unable to catch his breath, and as a blinding pain seemed to explode inside him, he clutched his chest and sunk into Paxton's strong arms.

Paxton laid him gently to the floor.

"Nay." Linness fell on top of him. "Nay! Don't leave me! Please to Mary, don't let him leave me."

She set her head against his huge chest and willed herself quiet, listening for the beat of his heart. For too long a time no sound came to her ears; his body was as still and quiet as a winter night. And warm, so warm still…

A strange rhythm came to her ears. For one merciful moment she thought U was life returning to his body. Only to abruptly realize it was the sound of her own soft sobs.

She remembered little after that. Someone finally came with a blanket to cover his body. Someone else was whispering a prayer for the dear man they all had grown to love. Hands came to her shoulders to pull her away. The hands shook ever so slightly as their warmth penetrated her grief. She saw they were Paxton's.

Morgan leaned over and took hold of her arms, leading her away. He was saying something; she couldn't hear. Her grief echoed in a roar in her ears, wave after wave cresting through her. She couldn't stand, unable to perform the simplest function. Morgan caught her up in his arms. Clair was there suddenly, taking her hand as they entered her solar. Morgan laid her on the soft cushion of her mattress. She was hardly aware of his awkward sympathy expressed in a jumble of platitudes "He was a fine man and a goodly priest, the best I have ever known. He will be sorely missed.” and so on. Or even Clair's that came afterward.

Finally the door shut and she was alone.

She lay perfectly still on the bed in the darkened room, and at first her tormented thoughts centered on her guilt. If only she had realized sooner what the dream had meant. If only she had the sight two minutes sooner, she would have been able to save her friend. If only she had gone down to supper, she might have put the pieces together in time to have saved him.

Then reality began settling over these thoughts.

Father Gayly was gone. No more long afternoon walks. No more celebration of their faith. No more laughter. No more deep and shared understandings of the divine.

Their afternoon walks had started when she was large with Jean Luc, and had continued to his last days. They were marked in her mind by the stages of her son's growth. First she had carried him on these walks strapped in a large scarf tied at her shoulders, close to her heart. Then in a saddlebag on her back. When he became too heavy for her to manage, Father Gayly carried him. Then Jean Luc would walk part of the way. By the time Jean Luc was three he walked the entire distance at their side, though at the end of these long sojourns, Father Gayly always made him forget his tired legs or his hungry stomach by telling Bible stories, or the tales of the Round Table, which he especially loved.

Father Gayly's keen intelligence probed and pricked at her understanding of her faith. Like a sculptor, his questions shaped her comprehension until it came to gild her life, the celebration of the force of love on earth. She in turn renewed his faith, so sorely tried by the folly and stupidity of his fellow man and the cynicism his intelligence bred. They had needed each other, finding solace comfort, and camaraderie.

I shall miss you, my friend.

Grief descended, sad and deep and quiet, over her heart. Grief made of longing. Longing for a last word, an embrace, a good-bye. A last touch…

She felt suddenly chilled. So cold. She tried to burrow farther down into the covers. Shivers raced up and down her spine. She dreamt of snow.

The window was latched shut. She tried to struggle up from the shallow depth of her sleep. To no avail. As if her soul demanded the brief respite from grief, it refused to let consciousness intrude on her sleep. A chilly draft raced into the chambers from the cold night, and she turned toward the pillow, trying to find a measure of warmth.

A man stood over the bed watching her as she slept. Her robe had parted and he stared down at her naked figure. As fear seized her, a soft cry escaped her. She tried to cover herself, but the more she tossed, the more tangled the bedclothes be came. She struggled to open her eyes to see mm, but they refused her will and she was falling, falling into blackness.

* * * *

He had to see that she was all right. Even asleep, her grief showed on her face. He stared at the long hair spread across the pillows, the slim lines of her neck, the lush offering of her round full breasts, and he gripped the dagger in his hand tighter as his body flushed with a heat that was almost painful. His gaze roamed over the flat stomach and dramatic curve of her hips, the lush tuft of hair between her thighs, and her long legs. Where the blazes was Morgan? On this night when she surely needed the comfort of an embrace more than any other, he found her alone in her bed. Again. Why?

He had to know why. If he had found Linness surrounded in marital bliss, he might find the strength to leave her be. But this puzzle teased him unmercifully. Twice today it sent him flying to his feet, pacing the floor like a caged creature, mad with his longing. And this morning, when he had woken from a lustful dream of this slim form pressed against his heat, he had rushed out Gail-lard's gates and into the frigid cold waters of the river. It did not bode well; here he courted a disaster far more deadly than any battle.

Drawing on his great will, he drew the covers over her form and turned away. He imagined he was strong enough to resist the need to come again But this thought brought no comfort as he disappeared into the night.

* * * *

"Where are you going?"

Linness turned with a start. She looked up the stairs of the castle keep to see Paxton and Morgan and a number of men, merchants from Gaillard, filing out of the entrance hall. They had just finished the afternoon meal, after spending the morning in the vineyards. Everyone talked of Paxton and his new methods of vineyard production, a fertilizing method he had discovered in Italy. There was still time to implement it this year, and Morgan was already convinced these new methods would save the harvest. The predictions of a rich harvest put him in a fine mood, punctuated by loud laughter, back slapping, and a childlike giddiness.

The men came down the stairs. Linness stopped, searching faces for a clue as to why the question was asked. Paxton's question made her feel as if something was amiss. "I am going for a walk."

Paxton's gaze narrowed. He looked incredulous. "Not alone."

"Aye. Alone."

The loose trailing burgundy skirt swirled about her feet. The long hair was covered with a thin,, almost sheer, maroon cloth. A thin braided band of the dark burgundy color sat like a crown over that. She held a basket on her arm. She was about to turn and walk away when she was addressed again.

"You will not walk about unescorted."

She turned back around. "I am perfectly safe. "

"That she is, Paxton," Morgan said as he tested a new sword his armorer just produced, slashing it about in the air. "I would kill the man who dared.”

"Aye," Paxton replied. "And the killing would be after the fact. I will escort you, milady." Without taking his gaze off her, he added, "With your permission, Morgan."

"Suit yourself," Morgan laughed "As I recall you always do." Just like that he forgot them, turning to his armorer with his compliments.

Emotions trembled through her as Paxton came to her side. She thought of saying she changed her mind about the walk, but stopped herself. She lived in terror of giving herself away. An action, glance, or word could reveal the intensity of her feelings for Paxton, and she saw at once that to refuse might draw unwanted attention.

Yet to be alone with Paxton was to step into a forbidden world. A world where desire was an unmerciful tease. Even now as they walked out the gates and onto the road, she was focused on the tall man at her side. She was aware of him and everything about him: the darker color of his brows, the tiny creases at the corner of his eyes, the errant lick of a chestnut-colored curl on his forehead. And she noted his fine clothes too. He wore a black woolen houppelande with leather padded breastplates, perfectly fitted across the wide breadth of his shoulders and belted at his waist with metal-studded leather. Instead of the fashionable hose, he wore cotton breeches for riding and black boots that reached all the way to his knees.

She was acutely aware of where his gaze rested.

His ring burned against her skin, and she reached a hand across her bosom and toyed mindlessly with it. He stopped suddenly and she turned to stare up at him.

"You are afraid of me."

The gray eyes—made grayer by the cloudy sky—stole swift glances around as if someone might be watching. "You cannot wonder why!"

"Nay, there is no mystery in your fear. Yet you know I would not hurt you?"

"I never thought that. Not in the way that you mean. To be alone, though—"

"God's curse, girl, I will be at Gaillard for nearly a year, and every time I draw near you, you grow mute and breathless and more frightened than a deer caught in the aim of a crossbow." Anger suffused his tone; his stare was level, direct, "You must overcome your aversion to me or our secrets will be betrayed."

She did not trust herself to give voice to her thoughts. She turned away to prevent their sounding—there were too many people about and too many gazes upon them. 'Twas not possible to maintain a friendly air of indifference. 'Twas madness to even try. Best to stay separated as much as possible.

They were passing through the township now. People stopped their chores and called out to her, and she replied in kind, mostly about the clouds and the promise of rain and the prediction she would soon be wet.

"The townspeople appear to love you."

The comment brought a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, despite everything. He saw that it pleased her much. Yet this disappeared as she caught sight of the woman watching from an upstairs window above a common tavern.

Paxton looked up to see a young, beautiful woman boldly staring at them. Long golden braids fell over a silk undergarment that was all she wore. Her hands lay proudly across her swollen belly as if she were flaunting her fertility to Linness. The cloth she wore was practically transparent.

"Who is she?" Paxton asked.

"Her name is Amber."

"Amber?" Paxton questioned, and then laughed. "That was Amber? Why, I remember the girl as a little street urchin, the baker's daughter, am I right? She was always trailing behind the boys, chasing after them in play."

Linness said nothing, but he watched the color leave her face. He could not explain how, but he knew the woman solicited a barrage of emotion from Linness.

"Linness, what is she to you?"

"She is nothing to me."

He gently took her arm, drawing up her attention. "You are lying. Why, I wonder?" He studied her face; understanding filled him, startling him. He could see into her mind as if her thoughts were an emotion that passed between them. “’Tis your sight, am I right?"

She looked away, unnerved by his hand upon her. The slight touch caused a tremble of awakening. The need to touch him was like a thirst borne of standing beneath a hot summer sun. Every night she woke from erotic dreams drawn from their one night of ecstasy six years ago. Dreams wherein her heart pounded and her blood rushed hot and she imagined she felt the imprint of his lips upon her.

Forbidden dreams…

"What is it your sight tells you?"

"That she is a danger to me."

The idea of anyone harming her was of extreme interest to Paxton. "How is that?"

"I do not know how."

She was aware of his scrutiny as they walked along. "Who is her husband?"

"She is unmarried."

"Then who is the father of her bastard?"

The question made her nervous; too nervous. Hastily she said, "'Tis not my place nor is it in my nature to pass along common gossip."

He sensed something of import here, but he did not know what. He wanted her at ease. Desperately he wanted her to find ease with him.

"Your sight. Everyone talks of it. Morgan said at first he thought it was little more than fancy, but now he says he has learned to believe you."

She smiled. "Father Gayly always said Morgan mixes truths and falsehoods into an absurdly amusing reality."