LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance (15 page)

The priest’s anger expanded in the space between them. “You do not care to know the truth.”

Recalling the untruths he and Maynard had told—what they had caused her to believe—she said, “I do wish the truth, but I do not think you are the one to supply it.”

“You say I lie?” Astonishment thinned his anger. “I do not wear these vestments for comfort, my lady.” He seized the crucifix hanging low on his chest, thrust it near her face. “I am a holy man. Of God. Of prayer. Of comfort.”

She looked past the crucifix whose jewels could feed hundreds and into the eyes of a man who seemed to know more about the letting of blood than the salvation offered by the blood shed by their savior.

“So your vestments tell,” she said. “And yet you did not reveal that the old baron intended Ashlingford to go to his eldest son, nor that after Maynard was awarded it, he willingly gave control of the barony to his brother. You had me believe all was stolen from Maynard.”

“It was! ’Tis true Maynard was persuaded to allow William to administer Ashlingford, but that is all. Never did he wish the whoreson to take control of it, and he certainly did not agree that in exchange for William’s services he would leave the barony to him upon his death. I tell you, Lady, William is a devil. Had his plans not gone awry, I would be burying your son and you.”

“Nay, I will not believe Liam—” She drew a sharp breath. “I will not believe Lord Fawke is responsible for the attack.”

“Ha! Liam, is it now?”

Berating herself, she returned to the safer subject. “I am convinced that one of those who lost Thornemede to Lord Fawke hired the brigands.”

The priest closed the distance between them, gripped her arm, and pulled her around to face him. “Methinks forbidden desire twists your judgment, Lady.”

Heart convulsing over the threat in his words, she scoffed, “Forbidden desire?”

“In the eyes of the Church, Maynard’s brother has become yours—whoreson though he is.”

Joslyn was sick unto death of hearing that name applied to Liam, but she swallowed her rebuke and said, “You are wrong about what I feel for your nephew.”

“I pray I am.”

She tried to pull free, but he dug his fingers into her. And the rebuke that had been too dangerous to cast made her thrust her face near his and hiss, “Unhand me,
priest
!”

He released her so suddenly she nearly lost her balance. “Forgive me, Lady Joslyn. ’Tis devotion to your husband and the need to protect his son that makes me behave rashly.”

“Most rashly, Father. Now I bid you good eve.” She turned back into the embrasure.

The silence stretched so long she could hardly breathe, but finally he said in a voice no longer repentant, “’Tis your son who is at stake, my lady. Do not fail him.”

She listened to his footsteps, and when they faded, put her elbows on the embrasure and her head in her hands. Never had she believed she would arrive at such a place in her life. If only—

A sound to her left straightened her. Had the priest returned? Peering down the wall walk, she saw movement in the dark. “Father Ivo?”

The shadow took the shape of a man, one of greater proportion than the priest. A guard?

“I am Lady Joslyn, a guest of your lord.”

But it was Liam who stepped forth. Unlike when he had accommodated the little boy who begged a tale, he looked dangerous—eyes glittering, the dim of night making his swollen jaw and the stitches crossing it more unsightly.

“What do you here, Lord Fawke?”

He halted so near she could feel the warmth of his body. “I see to your safety, my lady. And keep an eye on my beloved uncle.”

She put her shoulders back. “You listened in our conversation?”

“I did.”

“All of it?”

“Enough.”

She could not recall every word spoken between the priest and her, but too much had been of Liam, and most discomfiting was Father Ivo’s accusation that she desired his nephew—as Liam himself had alluded to.

“Methinks I should I seek my bed, Lord Fawke.”

He did not move. “My uncle had his say, Lady Joslyn. I will have mine.”

Disturbed to be so near him again, but knowing that if he did not have his say this night, then he would have it another, she decided to be done with it. “I am listening.”

“’Twas not greed that made me aspire to Ashlingford. It was a promise made by a father to the son he loved nearly as much as the common Irishwoman who birthed him, a son made legitimate hours before his birth and the death of his mother.”

Just as King Edward had told, but Joslyn would not have him suffer the humiliation of knowing the circumstances of his birth had been discussed in his absence.

“Thus, ever was I hated by the woman my father later wed, and more so when she finally birthed a son.” He drew a deep breath, but it did not keep the ache from his next words. “I had my father’s love, and it was enough. When he died, Maynard’s mother and his brother disputed my parents’ marriage. As no proof of my legitimacy could be found, the king awarded Ashlingford to Maynard.”

Tempted to reach to him, she clasped her hands at her waist.

“I tell you so you might understand what compelled me to right the injustice and why ’tis no easy thing to accept my loss—and that I might never. But as told and I will tell again, Oliver has naught to fear from me. Upon my word, I did not order the attack.”

Then he had been privy to most, if not all, of her conversation with his uncle. “As you surely heard me tell Father Ivo, when I looked for you and could not find you, I feared the attack was of your doing, but only for a moment.”

She felt resentment in his silence, but when he spoke again it was not in his voice. “Even more than Ivo would have you believe you ought to fear me, Joslyn, I would have you know ’tis him you would do well to keep from your son. A priest’s garments he may wear, but never has a man been farther from God.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Now ’tis you who seeks to make me fear
him.
”

“With good reason.”

“Tell me.”

“It is enough to say that he who accuses me of hiring the brigands is the one who put coin in their pockets. But not to murder your son. To be rid of me.”

Joslyn caught her breath. Though more and more she found cause to dislike and distrust the priest, it was hard to believe he would murder. Was she naive?

She shook her head. “I do not understand why your uncle and you reject the most obvious place to lay the blame for the attack—a noble who wishes Thornemede for himself.”

“I did consider that, but as I was extracting a confession from the one brigand found alive, Ivo slit his throat.”

Nearly stumbling where she stood, Joslyn reached a hand behind and pressed it to the embrasure’s wall. So that was what had caused Liam to shout and draw his sword against his uncle—and Sir John to intercede. “I did not know.”

“I guessed you did not, but it happened, and that is all the proof I require.”

“But he is your uncle—of your blood.”

“In his eyes, my blood is too tainted to bear relation to him.”

Had
Father Ivo ordered the attack? Surely his hatred for his nephew was not so great he would cast aside the teachings of the Church. And God. “I am sorry, Liam, but just as I do not believe the attack was of your doing, I do not think it was of your uncle’s.”

The breath he expelled was more growl than sigh. “At least consider the possibility. As Thornemede shall command much of my attention, I will be gone from Ashlingford more than I am present. Thus, I will be unable to protect you from Ivo’s scheming.”

There was a depth of sincerity about him that made her long to draw near, but she held her feet firm to the wall walk. “I will keep watch, Liam.”

He was silent so long that she checked the words she had spoken and realized she had addressed him with too much familiarity.

“My uncle is right, Lady Joslyn. You err in calling me by my given name.”

And exposed things within her she did not understand—perhaps only did not want to understand. She stood straighter, raised her chin. “I thank you for your advice, Lord Fawke. And I appreciate that you so care for my son and me.”

More silence that revealed she erred again. “As told, Lady Joslyn, should harm befall either of you, the blame falls on me.
That
is what I care about.”

And she made more of it. Flushed with shame like what he had dealt her on the palace balcony, she snapped, “How silly to believe you have a heart. Why, you may be more empty than Maynard.” She stepped around him and walked quickly to the steps. As she began her descent, Liam caught her arm, pulled her around, and pressed her back against the wall.

“More empty than Maynard?” His wine-touched breath swept her brow, nudging the sleeping thing inside her he had first awakened in the alley. “Should we discover the truth of that, my lady?”

She stared up at him, frightened by the longing to answer in such a way she would once more feel his arms around her.

He lowered his head. “Should we, Joslyn?”

It was wrong to so like her name on his lips… “I think we should not.”

“Should not, but will we?”

“Will we?” she whispered, and horrified she had spoken aloud, turned her head aside.

Thus, it was the place beneath her ear Liam set his lips to—so light upon her skin she was shocked she should feel so much when she had felt little beneath Maynard’s ardent kisses and caresses. And when Liam moved down her neck, the pleasure he roused made her whimper—and her mind urge her to flight. Ignoring the latter, she stepped nearer and slid her hands up his chest.

“Empty?” he said in a voice so husky it was hardly recognizable, then he pulled her forward the last breath separating them.

Thrilled by the fit of their bodies, she turned her face to his, inviting the kiss she had denied them.

Liam pressed his mouth to hers, lightly at first, then with an urgency that somehow appealed as it had not with Maynard.

She parted her lips. Never had she been touched like this. Never had she felt these stirrings. Never.

He slid a hand up her side, and when she shuddered, murmured, “Empty?”

“Ah, nay.”

He released her.

Pressed to the wall, rather than the man who filled her senses, she stared up at him where he stood silhouetted against the sky. And when bewilderment cleared, in its place slid humiliation.

Grateful for the dark, she pulled her tattered pride close. “You have made your point, Lord Fawke. But though you can do that to me, it does not prove you have a heart. It but proves you know women.”

She heard his breath, and with the next draw he said, “As did Maynard—indeed, more than I—yet I wager he never made you feel what you have this night.”

To deny it would only make her a shrew—and a liar. “I assure you, I shall not feel it again with you.”

He put his head to the side. “Is that a challenge you would have me accept?”

“No challenge,
Lord Fawke
. I simply would not be bothered by one such as you.”

“One such as me…”

Inwardly, she groaned, but before she could clarify that she spoke not of his Irish blood, he said, “Were it any man other than Maynard who had known you, I would be tempted to teach you more, my lady.”

She needed no such words to make her feel dirty for having lain with her husband, for she
had
sold herself to him, but it hurt that Liam came so near her shame.

“Too,” he continued, “since you are now made my sister as Ivo so enjoyed reminding you, ’twould be even more unseemly.”

She pushed off the wall. “Then I leave you to others who care not whether ’tis a heart you possess or a stone.” She turned, descended the steps, and crossed the bailey with the longest strides her legs could manage.

Liam watched her until she went from sight. “God’s eyes,” he muttered and dragged a hand down his face. He had not meant to go with her where they had gone, but when she assumed his efforts to protect her son and her went beyond duty, it had been imperative he set her right.

Then she had compared him to Maynard, accusing him of being empty when each moment spent with her since their encounter in the alley filled him with longing for the one forbidden him. Thus, more out of a growing need to know Joslyn than to prove he was not empty, he had kissed her. And barely held himself from teaching them both what neither ought to learn of the other.

As for the keen-edged words he had swung to distance himself from her…

Allow not wrath to command your actions, nor your words
, the lesson resounded through him. A lesson so completely violated he was hardly worthy of the Wulfrith dagger at his side.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“’Tis bigger ’n Rosemoor, Mama.”

Better understanding the magnitude of the loss suffered by the man who stood to her right, Joslyn put her head back to follow Oliver’s gaze to the immense beams supporting the great hall’s roof.

“Much bigger,” she agreed.

It was grand, and not only in size. She had lost her breath when Father Ivo had given the edifice they rode upon the name of Ashlingford. Situated on the side of a moss-green hill overlooking a clear, winding river, its many-capped towers and white-washed exterior had seemed not of this world. Indeed, she thought it more breathtaking than the king’s palace. But it was not home. Would it ever be?

She lowered her gaze down its walls and over the colorful tapestries hung about. Though Maynard had grown up here, walked the floor she stood upon, and lived among the wealth adorning the hall, he had spoken little of it. Previous to this day, all she had known of the castle was that Rosemoor was pitiful in comparison, and only because the handful of times Maynard had visited the manor he had complained about its modest size and lack of grandeur.

“Can I have my own chamber?” Oliver asked.

“I am certain the keep is large enough, but
you
are not, dear boy.”

He glowered. “I want my own.”

She leveled one of her practiced looks at him. “Oliver.”

He wrinkled his nose, pursed his mouth, and squeezed his hands into fists.

Inwardly, she groaned. It was not often he behaved this way, being mostly good-natured, but since leaving Settling Castle two days past, Liam’s push to reach Ashlingford had left her son little time to be a child. Tired of sitting a horse with naught to do but ask why and roll his top between his hands, he had become increasingly fractious, building toward the tantrum that looked ready to break.