Enduringly Yours (9 page)

“I want you to go inside,” he said.

“Just give me a little time.” She tilted her face upward.

“You really should not look at me like that,” he said.

“Like what?”

He kissed her.

Zipporah looped her arms around his neck and held on. His hands were gripping her waist, burning through to her skin. Tilting his face, he kissed her harder. This was how it had started three and a half years ago. They had both thrown aside the consequences of their actions for the need of the moment.

He broke their kiss and rested his forehead against hers, his hands squeezing her waist a little too tightly now. His breath was ragged.

“You really better leave,” he said.

He lifted his head, gaze smoldering, rain water running in rivulets off his hair. Zipporah grasped the front of his tunic, willing him not to go.

“It’s enough for today, to know you still want me,” he said.

She wondered if he was trying to convince himself.

He kissed her once more, quickly, and then let her go. “Go inside before you get sick.”

“But . . .”

“Go.” Said with more force.

Zipporah stumbled around him, then onto the path. Rain was pouring in sheets and she shielded her eyes as she squished her way back to the castle keep.

Her mother was just inside. “There you are. I was about to send Sir Mark out to find you. Look at you. You are soaked through.”

“I am a coward,” she said.

Lady Havendell took her arm. “I take it you found Peter.”

“Aye. I found him all right.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nay!” She cleared her throat. “I mean, I would rather not.” She was leaving behind wet shoe prints. Her braid was dripping.

“It will be harder now that you are kissing him again.”

“I am not . . .” She frowned. “Oh, never mind.” There was no point in arguing with her mother.

“Let’s get you dried off.”

They went to Zipporah’s chamber, where her mother helped her out of her wet clothes. She slipped into a fresh shift, thinking about Peter sneaking around like a common thief, and how unfair it was.

“I will remain here in my chamber for the rest of the day,” Zipporah said, pulling a woolen shawl over her shoulders. Sitting by the fire, she stretched out her fingers. “I have no desire to leave.”

“Very well. I will tell Gilburn that you are waiting for the rumors to die down before you show yourself at supper.”

“I wish we could be more honest.”

“And what would you have me tell him? The truth?”

The fire popped and Zipporah cringed. “Nay, tell him what you need to.”

“I thought as much. I will have wine brought to you.”

Her mother left. Zipporah took note of her leather pouch drying near the fire. Bolting the door, she took it up, wanting to make certain Peter’s letter had not gotten soaked. She untied the leather drawstring and reached her hand in, glad to find that it was not wet. She ran her fingers over the broken wax seal, smiling.

Tucked at the bottom of her pouch, beneath a satchel of sage and rosehips, was the handkerchief with herbs from her father’s cup. She pulled it out, staring at it.

No one here would harm her father. They were probably just medicinal herbs. Her mother might have given them to him, for all she knew. Gilburn wasn’t her favorite person, and he obviously hated Peter, but surely he’d had many opportunities over the years to betray her father, and never had. She hesitated, then tossed the handkerchief into the fire, watching it flare up, and then burn. 

There was no reason to look for trouble.

She had enough as it was.

Chapter Ten

“Not a successful day for you, brother?” John asked.

Peter thumped into a chair by the fire at Ravenmore.

“I would take that as a nay.”

“A siege would be easier than this.” It wasn’t the ride out to Havendell every day that was getting to Peter, or having to humor Zipporah by hiding from Gilburn—as annoying as that was—it was his needs. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t push Zipporah into anything she was ready for. Like marriage. He’d also promised himself he wouldn’t bed her until he’d wed her. Dallying with her was not an option. It was going to be all or nothing this time.

“Just say the word.” John grinned, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “And siege it is.”

“You just wait. One day you will come to realize that there is more to life than your sword.”

John sank into the chair next to him. “There is?”

“For starters, your sword will not win you your lady.”

John stroked the brown and gold leather wrapped hilt of said weapon. The ruby set in the crosspiece winked in the firelight. “I have no lady, but if I did, she would be very impressed with my sword.”

“I meant the one that you are caressing.”

“So did I.” John shrugged. “If such a woman does not exist, then I shall depend on you and Zipporah having many sons, so that I may grant the land unto one of them.”

“I would not hold your breath waiting for that to happen.” Peter arched his brows. “How tired are you? I need a distraction.”

“Need you ask?”

John stood and drew his sword with a zip of steel. Peter was slower; tired and sore. His shoulder was stiff, but not as bad as the day before. Peter’s sword was similar to John’s, only he had an emerald in his. John’s sword had been a gift from their father, given to him when he had earned his Knight’s Spurs. Their father had died later that year. When Peter became a knight, their mother had John’s sword duplicated and an emerald that had belonged to their father set into the crosspiece.

“Did you and your lady disagree?” John asked.

Their swords clashed and echoed in the large rectangular shaped room. “Nay.”

“Some other frustration, perchance?” John nodded, his expression thoughtful as he peered at Peter from over his sword. “She clearly wants to be with you. When I found her in the garden after the Mêlée, she was very upset, not because of your public display, but because she thought she had gotten you into an even worse situation with Gilburn.”

Peter pulled back, his sword at his side. “Was she crying when you found her?”

“Aye. And it was passing uncomfortable. I tried patting her back but she only pushed me away.” John rested the tip of his sword on the floor. “I was sitting next to her during your duel against Gilburn. She definitely took note of your . . . sword.”

Peter shook his head and John laughed.

“I’m worried about her,” Peter said. “She pities Gilburn. She said she wished she had a sister for him to marry. He has always had feelings for her. I do not deny that. But he does not know her at all. If he knew the real lady, as opposed to one he’s fantasized about in his head, there would be trouble. I do not believe him capable of accepting any woman as a living, breathing person.”

“Unlike you?”

“No one knows her better than I.”

It was a bold statement, but Peter knew it to be true. They had shared too much of themselves by now.

“Get some sleep, if you can.” John sheathed his sword. “There will be another competition soon. Sir Thornton’s page heard from Gilburn’s page that a scribe was called upon to produce formal invitations.”

“The joys of sharing a boundary line,” Peter muttered.

“They are accustomed to free interchange.”

“Aye, and have you considered how that might affect a siege?”

“I have. But our men are loyal to us first and foremost.”

“Many of our men have close ties to Gilburn’s. Ever try to take the life of a man you so recently called your friend?”

John opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“Too straight a line, Johnny. Too straight a line.”

“Most of those men are loyal to her father, not Gilburn. We may be able to use it to our advantage. We can spread dissention among them.”

“We would need a good reason.”

John smiled. “I could come up with something.”

“I just bet you could.”

* * *

Peter woke up at dawn, after only a few hours of rest. He was used living on very little sleep. It had been his usual routine on Crusade, where slumber came fitfully anyway. Peter dressed, donned his sword, and made his way to the kitchens.

“I packed this for you, Sir Peter.” Marianne, the graying servant who had been with Peter and John since they were lads, handed him a bundle wrapped in cloth and a full wineskin.

She tucked her double chin at him. “Cannot have ye starving to death now can we. Yer poor mother would turn over in her grave.”

“Thank you. My stomach is truly grateful.” Peter put the food into his saddlebag. He took her hand, kissing it. Marianne laughed and shooed him away.

John was in the stable when Peter went for his horse. “I was hoping to catch you before you left,” he said. “I wanted to give you this.” John pulled out a scroll he had tucked into his belt. “It seems the messengers at Havendell are even earlier to rise this morn than you are. It is from Gilburn, an invitation to the latest competition.”

Peter hooked his bag over his shoulder and unrolled the parchment, looking it over. “Archery this time. I wonder how many men have been invited?”

“We will find out soon enough.”

“He is going to great lengths to impress her,” Peter said.

“Or to trounce you.”

“Both, I am sure.”

“Either way,” John said. “I will warm up my bow arm posthaste.” He cracked his knuckles.

“Looks like Gilburn is donating one of his Mêlée trophies for the winner. It is to be civilly presented by the lady to the lucky participant.”

“The word
civilly
is written in bold,” John said, pointing. He rolled his head to one side, popping his neck. “No more kisses for you. At least no more
public
kisses.”

Peter eyed him, but John ignored it, shaking out his arms.

“Let me guess,” Peter said. “You have a squire awaiting you in the lists for a lesson?”

“Four of them.” John sighed contentedly. “Oh happy day.”

“Try not to break them. You might need them later.” Peter held up the parchment. “Mind if I take this with me?”

“Go ahead.”

“I want to warn Zipporah. She hates to be the last to know about these things.”

* * *

Peter threw on an old brown cloak so he could keep tabs on Zipporah throughout the day without being noticed. After Mass, she went to the stables for her favorite gelding, then rode to the village to visit a sick child. She checked on a woman and her newborn baby. She gave away ragdolls made from scraps of old clothing. That was when Gilburn caught her in the act and made her go home. She trudged back to the castle, going to her mother’s garden, kneeling in the herbs, and pretending to weed while staring vacantly into the orchard.

Peter peeled off his cloak and shoved it into a hollowed out tree trunk. Then he plucked a small, hard apple off a tree and rolled it down the path toward her. It disappeared in a bed of fennel unnoticed. He took a second apple, purposefully hitting Zipporah in the thigh to get her attention. She picked it up, frowning for a moment. Then a slow grin transformed her face.

She came to her feet, looked one way, and the other way. Skirts in hand, she came down the path toward where he was hiding. 

He waited until she was close, then took her by the sleeve and pulled her against his chest. Despite his growing frustration, he was glad to feel her soft curves against him.

She presented the apple. “Did you lose this?”

Peter tossed it aside. “Nay.” He scooped her off the ground. Zipporah’s arms came around his shoulders as he carried her toward the garden wall, where they would have privacy. “I lost this.” He gave her a squeeze.

“Did she roll away from you?”

“Something like that.” He set her on her feet and pulled out the scroll. “Have you seen this yet?”

She unrolled the parchment and looked it over. “I have not.”

Peter propped one shoulder against the wall, watching the way her dark lashes cast shadows over her cheekbones as she read. Zipporah’s braid dangled over one breast. He snagged the end of it, smoothing his fingers over the paint-brush end of her hair.

“Archery this time, I see,” she said.

“And you won’t have to kiss me in public.”

“Aye, I would prefer to kiss you without an audience.”

“So would I.”

Smiling, she turned back to the parchment. “I only saw Gilburn once today. He did not say anything about another competition.”

“He probably wanted to surprise you. And I know, because I was watching you.”

“Were you?” Her brows arched.

He tugged on the end of her braid. “Ever since you walked out of Mass.”

“And what did I do today?”

“You were a saint.”

“I doubt that.”

Peter tugged again. She shifted closer, the parchment crinkling between them.

“You missed the part where I visited my father,” she said. “That was the first thing I did today.” Her throat sounded tight. “Peter, he still has not
seen
me. He hasn’t in weeks. It is as if he does not even know me. I . . . I have been wanting to tell him, but I fear the opportunity will never present itself.”

“Tell him what?” It was a rhetorical question. He already knew what she was talking about. Peter loosened his hold on her.

“About us. Now he is dying, and I will never have the chance to apologize for having lied to him.” She smoothed the parchment back out.

“Zipporah, once your father . . .” He softened his voice. “John wants to siege and take the castle once your father is gone.”

It took her a moment. “Is that necessary?”

“I do not know what else to do.”

“But what of the knights who are friends with John’s men?”

Peter nodded. “I have thought about that. John and I will have Havendell’s most trustworthy knights, like Sir Mark, sit down with us. When the time comes, dissention will start from within. It will be a simple thing at that point, with minimal bloodshed.” He hoped.

She moved a few steps away from him. “Sometimes, I wish the two of you could just sit down and talk about this. But you would rather kill each other.”

“What?”

“You and Gilburn. All you two can think about is killing each other.”

“You feel sorry for him.”

She didn’t deny it, and that bothered Peter. “Maybe the two of you could put aside your swords and talk,” she said.

“It would never work.”

She muttered to herself for a moment, and then looked at him. “Tell my mother you want to court me.”

He straightened. Was she serious? Last he knew she wanted nothing about their relationship to be made public.

“Tell her,” she repeated. “I promise I will accept, and then you can move about freely here.”

“Why the change?”

She brushed her braid back, her face softening. “I hate that you have to sneak around like this.”

“Finally.”

“I will tell my mother. Then I can be seen with you.” She shoved the parchment at his chest.

He rolled up the scroll and tucked it away.

“Is this not better than a siege?”

He’d never promised that he and John would not take possession of the land after her father was gone. She seemed satisfied with her accomplishment though, so he didn’t point that out to her.

Zipporah crossed her arms over her ribcage. “Talking to you is exhausting.”                

“Kissing is easier.”

“Young men deal poorly with chastity. Not that I am one to talk.” She leaned back against the wall, looking up at the sky through tree branches. “Can you answer a question for me?”

“What?”

“Just how well do you deal?”

“With . . .?”

“Chastity,” she ground.

He almost laughed out loud, but he didn’t want to embarrass her. He waited before answering though, watching her squirm.

She narrowed her eyes. “Well?”

“I ever remain your knight, my lady.” He bowed his head.

It took her a moment. “Oh.”

“Oh,” he echoed.

“I see.” She frowned. “My mother said she thought as much. Something about my father and the way he used to look at her. But I did not want to assume such things.”