A Kiss in the Night (43 page)

The bishop's face changed horribly; his thoughts were written there. He was thinking this was somehow a trick of magic, that she had tricked him. Father Thomas looked away, saddened by this revelation. He would not be surprised if the bishop wanted the quarry and the rock pile examined, an explanation produced, the lady damned by it.

The poor foolish man...

Abruptly the bishop turned away, his crimson robes flapping in the wind.

Father Thomas knew something must be done to save her. Someone, somehow, had to save her before the bishop won his hateful, misguided campaign against her.

And he began to pray...

* * * *

The window was always left unlatched, and except for the coldest days, open. The servants had learned never to latch the window against the incessant drafts; like a bad omen, it could bring tears or an inexplicable panic to their lady's eyes. She often sat there, too, in the alcove by the open window staring out. As if she were waiting for something.

Beaumont had sent the birds last week. Pigeons that were said to fly from one spot to the next, capable of bearing messages. With a fervent prayer Linness had released the three birds from this window ten days ago.

The window from which Paxton appeared in secret . . .

A fire blazed in the hearth. Linness sat at her window, a blanket on her lap, as she carved Jean Luc's bow for Christmas gift giving. His letters tried to assure her that he was thriving, yet she knew this was a half-truth. For she saw her boy crying alone at night for missing his mother. She knew an overwhelming desire when her sight brought her images of Jean Luc, crying with this longing. Yet she was unable to go to him. Yesterday she saw Paxton find Jean Luc on the highest turret. The wind pulled tears from Jean Luc's eyes as he watched the sunset and thought of her.

In desperation she had sent Clair off on the long journey to Beaumont. Clair would be a comfort to her boy, not the same as herself but the next best thing. Needless to say, she had not wanted to lose Clair and Clair had not wanted to go, but they agreed it would only be for a year, no more, until Jean Luc was stronger and more grown, accustomed to his new life. She had not known what else to do.

She saw Paxton's dark blue eyes, too, mirrors of her own, made of longing, the terrible longing that stole her voice and silenced her laughter, that made a smile an act of will. When would it abate? When would the ache in her heart ease, the longing cease, the memories fade?

The answer was death.

Death alone would alter this life. She wondered if her own longing would lessen if she could ease their pain. If she could wipe their love from their hearts, would she? Was it better to have known their love and suffered its loss or to have never had such a gift?

She was glad she did not have that choice.

Yet hadn't she made that choice? She had, but in ignorance. Long ago she had begged Mary to let her know a man's love and a mother's love, and Mary had granted the wish. So it had come to pass…

And now only death was left.

The lady in black had died. She saw her two nights ago, lying on the small cot in a strange convent, not the one she had always known. Two sisters murmured prayers, drawing the cloth over her head. John had been at her side.

"I am not long for the world," the lady in black had foretold in one of the many dreams in which she had mysteriously appeared. It was odd how sometimes she felt as if the lady talked of herself, as if she, Linness of Sauvage, were not long for the world. As if the lady and herself had been blended into one person. It scared her now, the knowledge that only death could save her.

The vision was no comfort now. It did not seem to matter anymore. Paxton would still be separated from her. Francis might even find him another wife...

A bird circled in the winter blue sky. Lower and lower it flew as if searching for something. She watched its flight, not hoping, not yet. Paxton had sent the homing pigeons more than a week past, but it could not have flown its journey so fast.

The bird circled just above. Her heart leaped to greet the tiny creature as it landed on the ledge outside. She leaned out the window, slowly, afraid she would scare it away. It was interested in the tiny grains she placed there every night, faithfully, before she went to sleep.

The creature approached, exercising its own caution. She focused on the tiny paper wrapped tightly around its thin leg. Paxton's letters were read by Morgan, and there was nothing intimate in the carefully scripted words. And so that tiny paper represented a small piece of Paxton for her eyes only; that tiny paper was a potion powerful enough to ease the ache in her heart.

Or so she thought.

She called sweetly to the creature, leaning back inside. The bird hopped onto the windowsill and let out a soft coo. She slowly reached for it; gentle and loving hands encircled the bird. She slipped the tiny loop from his leg and set the bird back to the ledge.

She unfolded the paper. Paxton's voice sounded in her mind as she read his mercilessly brief words:

Thy memory burns bright in thy absence, resounding in scorching lashes upon my soul. I am but an empty vessel without you and I dream of filling my empty flesh with the warmth of yours. I cannot go on much longer, and yet somehow I do: ghostlike, a hollow echo of my former self. I dream each night and I wonder if it is death I am seeing.

Linness, I love you.. .

A knock sounded softly.

Linness wiped her eyes and sat up, crumpling the treasure in her hand. Morgan opened the door and stepped inside. She stared in wonder at his presence. His gaze roamed the surroundings with agitation, as if unable to settle on anything until finally they came to rest on her.

She looked so beautiful against the gray stones and the winter light shining through the window. She wore a maroon gown that made her skin seem paler.

He saw that she had been crying. A bird cooed behind her, happily pecking at grains left on the sill. One of Paxton's pigeons. He then looked for the message. His gaze came to her hand.

"Morgan, what is it?"

"You have been crying."

She turned away to the window, putting her back to him.

"Did he send you a message?"

There was no answer. Then softly she said, "Morgan, do not torment us more..."

She did not say do not torment me but rather us, and the fact registered in his mind. As if she knew of his torment, too.

She asked quietly, "What do you want?"

"Only your happiness."

The answer went through her like a small shock, but after a moment, she shook her head. ‘Twas impossible. "'Tis not yours to give me." It never was; it never could be. It had been bought with her heart long ago.

"I know," he confessed. "Sometimes I think I always knew. But when he was here it did not seem to matter. I guess I thought it would just all work out, but...but it hasn't, has it?"

His voice held the unexpressed weight of his feelings, and it touched her heart. She shook her head again and in a whisper she said, "Morgan, 1 am sorry, I am so sorry. I do not think you deserve this."

"I am not as sure."

She turned round to face him, looking at him questioningly. He waved his hand as if to dismiss his next words. "Paxton spent a good part of his life envying me, what was granted me by right of being the firstborn. And now as we reach this point in our lives, I find it is my turn to envy him." His voice lowered with regret. "For how deeply this cuts. Milady, I envy him your love.”

Emotions shimmered in her eyes. She did not know what to say, what she could ever say. There was no changing what had been done.

"Aye," he said. "I have this nightmare every night now. And in it I see you and you are fading, like a ghost or worse, you start to fade, to disappear before my very eyes. Then Paxton appears. The day he left he made me promise to keep you safe forever, and in this dream he says it again, over and over: Keep her safe, keep her safe." In frustration he added, "But I am helpless to stop this fading!

"Until last night. Last night Paxton said something different. Last night he did not say to keep you safe. No, he said to me: Let her go, Morgan, let her go."

A trembling hand went to her mouth. This was too painful. "Morgan, please—"

He stepped to her, shaking his head as his hands came over her arms. She stared up into his face: the dark brown hair, curling at the ends, the widely spaced brown eyes and the arch of his brows, the strong tilt of his nose. For the first time since she understood the mistake of marrying him, she saw his similarity to Paxton. 'Twas a trick of the light or the heart, the way he suddenly seemed so like Paxton: the strength in his gaze, and aye, the love there.

And he said slowly, "I want to do this. I want to let you go."

She shook her head, her eyes wild with confusion. "But you can't, Morgan, you can't. We are married. Only death can set me free!"

"Aye." He nodded. "Only death can set you free."

* * * *

The bishop's deep, rich voice rose with the Latin prayer in heartfelt admonishment of man's grievous sins, lowering with the undeserved absolution God offered. The sun was fading fast. The huge stained-glass windows in the chapel depicting Mary holding the Child darkened, so the Madonna's red cloak turned crimson and then brown as her sad eyes turned from a pale blue to dark ones, The light in her eyes appeared to dim with the bishop's inflection. This was what Lady Beaumaris thought as she knelt at Morgan's side for vespers, waiting, nervous, terrified something would go wrong, terrified something had gone wrong.

Four guards had been sent out to search, including Michaels. They would be returning any moment. The announcement would be made to everyone. Morgan comprehended the lady's anxiety as it was his own, too. He reached a hand to hers and squeezed, reassuring her.

The carved wooden doors of Gaillard's chapel burst open. Peters stood there, looking mortified as he announced, "Milord! Something terrible has happened!"

The bishop's gaze widened; he drew back with a start. Morgan rose, as did Lady Beaumaris. The roomful of people held their breaths. "Aye? You have found the lady?"

"Nay. We found only her dress! At the edge of the river. She must have gone in! The light was fading and she was nowhere to be seen. Michaels leaped into the water to try and find her and, and
Mon Dieu
, he hath not come out, and we fear, we fear—"

Screams and startled cries broke out. No more words were heard in the sudden pandemonium as the news was absorbed. Morgan was rushing out to join in the obviously futile search, his face pale with the shock. Lady Beaumaris clasped her hands together with a brief cry as she sunk to the pew in a crumpled pile of gold muslin.

Father Thomas felt his hands go clammy, his pulse and blood a great roar in his ears. He turned to stare at the bishop. The man stood staring at the chaos before him, staring without seeing. He didn't know how he knew, but he did; Bishop Luce was thanking God for her death.

It didn't matter, he supposed. It was over for him. He would have to accept Duprat's banishment to Florence and no doubt live out the remainder of his days in silence and anonymity. He would never know the truth. For neither the lady's nor Michaels's body would ever be found. Drowning occurred, if not with frequency, at least with sad regularity in Gaillard. The river was a fierce and swollen monster at this time of year. They rarely found the bodies of its victims.

The truth was that death had indeed saved her.

He genuflected quickly. For show. For luck.

Bishop Luce turned to stare at the stained-glass window of Mary as he attempted to absorb this shock. It was over. So sudden. So easily. The woman was dead now; drowned by suicide or accident, she was dead.

His head spun with the unexpectedness of this as he grasped the startling fact: His work here was done at last; with God's help, it was done. The judgment of Linness of Sauvage rested in His hands now. Holy visions or clever ruse, pious or wicked, God alone would know in His infinite wisdom. Now he could accept Duprat's final edict that sent him to the holy order of the Franciscans in faraway Florence.

As he stared up at Mary, his mind still spinning, he felt a sudden prick up his spine. He imagined Mary called to him to find his compassion. He turned away, confused. He suspected even then he would wonder all his days: What was God's final judgment of the woman?

* * * *

Paxton kept a light burning as he lay upon the huge bed, easing his frame against the soft cushions. The light helped him delay sleep as long as possible. Sleep offered the only respite from the darkness, the emptiness, the longing, but it also brought him to the very edge of madness with his dreams: erotic dreams of Linness.

She appeared to him every night.

Shrouded in a tousled mass of thick, curly hair, her beautiful silver eyes darkening with passion as he laid her to the ground. His desire heightening, thickening his blood as she reached out to him and he eased his weight against her. The heat in his loins magnified as he stared down at her rounded breasts, the small curve of her narrow waist, the feminine flair of her hips, and the long line of her legs. He listened avidly to her cries as he orchestrated her passion, raising it to crescendo until, finally, mercifully, he parted her slender thighs and—