LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance (19 page)

Opening her eyes, she found Liam’s face near hers, and when his thumb traced her lips and settled at a corner of her mouth, she was flushed with the temptation to sin—to allow him to give her what they both desired.

Or did he desire her? It had seemed with little difficulty he had pulled back from her upon the wall, leaving her aching with humiliation.

She let out a breath and dropped back on her heels. “I will not allow you to do this to me again.” She started to stand, but he caught her wrist, rose to his knees, and with the green of his eyes eclipsing the black, drew her back.

“This time, I will not deny us,” he said and covered her mouth with his.

Once…twice…three times Joslyn told herself not to respond, then leaned into him.

As he deepened the kiss, his hands moved over her. Across her shoulders. Down her sides. To the small of her back. Up her neck into her hair.

Pleasure flared through her. And more brightly when he trailed his mouth over her throat.

This is wrong,
the right of her said in a small voice.

Ignoring it, she slid her hands up his chest.

“This time we finish it, Joslyn,” he rumbled.

Meaning there must be an end to it? Why?

Because you are not a harlot.
That voice again, still small.

Liam pushed aside the neck of her gown, kissed her shoulder. “Once,” he said thickly.

Once
? This time the voice was not small, nor when it called to her,
Awaken ere ’tis too late!

She opened her eyes. “Once, Liam?”

He lifted his head, and she looked into a face so familiar it was as if she had always known it, from the strong line of his jaw to the curve of his lips to the red hair brushing his brow.

“’Tis all it will take.” He brushed his mouth across hers. “I promise you.”

Then after they made love, he would be sated such that he had no further need of her?

There could be no other meaning. He wanted her, and though he believed once would be enough, it would be too much for her, leaving her with such raw hurt she might never heal. And the sin of it…

Good.
The voice was almost consoling.
Now you are awake.

“Do not!” she choked and splayed her hands on his chest and pushed.

Though he allowed her the space, he kept hold of her. “What is it, Joslyn?”

“I will not let you make a harlot of me. ’Tis wrong!”

His brow furrowed, and a muscle in his jaw convulsed. “You know it can never be more than this. Absurd though ’tis, the Church says you are now my sister.”

“So it does. But by your own words—your assurance you need only satisfy yourself once with me—you want no more than that I lie down for you.”

Was it regret that eased the tension from his face? If so, was it for having revealed his motive? Or for speaking so foul?

He groaned, then loosed one of her arms and cupped her cheek. “Forgive me. I do and yet do not know what I do.”

Something tugged at her heart, and she imagined it was a hook whose string was strung taut from him to her. And once more she longed for his kisses.

Stay awake!
the voice warned, and as she felt herself begin to move toward him, it reminded her of what he had said on the wall that had so pained her. “’Tis good we end this,” she said, “for you will surely hate yourself do you lie with one who was first Maynard’s.”

He released her, muttered, “You are nearly as cruel as I, Joslyn Fawke.” Then he stood and looked down at her.

She steeled herself for his loathing, but it did not appear on his face. Only more regret.

“You are right”—he nodded—“I would hate myself, though not for the reason you believe.” She frowned, but rather than explain himself, he said, “’Tis past time you returned to the castle.”

She stared at the large, calloused hand he offered, long fingers tapering to the blunt tips that had touched her.

“Joslyn?”

She placed her hand in his, and he drew her up beside him and released her. Then he snatched his hood from the ground and started out of the wood. He had gone only a short distance when he broke stride and looked back. “Be quick. Best we not give the villagers anything more to make rumors of.”

They
had
been in the wood a long time. But worse than the talk of villagers was the talk of her escort who might ponder aloud in Father Ivo’s presence what Liam and she had done out of sight.

Resenting the priest for knowing her desire, and wishing for some way to rid herself of the man, she lifted her skirts and hurried to her palfrey.

Once again behind the plow, Liam watched Joslyn ride away. He had come near to making her his, and might have had he not voiced what he longed to believe—that once with her would exorcise his desire. He had hurt her with that, though he had not realized it until she had tossed it back at him. And when she had reminded him she had first been Maynard’s, it had not repulsed him. It should, should it not?

Seeking an outlet for the anger directed at himself, he thrust his body forward with the plow. And vowed he would remove himself from Ashlingford as soon as was feasible.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

He was gone.

Joslyn had felt it even before she lifted her head from the pillow this morn. Though few words had passed between Liam and her for a sennight, his departure had been in the air on the day past.

Following supper, amid tension inherent with Father Ivo present, she had watched Liam converse with the knights, servants, and steward. Though unable to interpret much of their conversation, she had sensed what was afoot. Now he was gone with nary a word. And it hurt.

“Unca Liam will come back. Aye, Father Ivo?”

Remembering Emma’s promise to bring Oliver to her following morning mass, Joslyn searched beyond those departing the sanctuary ahead of her and glimpsed her son’s upturned face alongside the priest.

Father Ivo stood outside the doors to acknowledge the dozen or so filing out of the chapel—from their demeanor, most grateful his monotonous delivery was finished.

As he bent to the boy’s level, Joslyn worried over how he would answer Oliver. Would he speak ill of Liam? Tell Oliver he wished Liam would never return?

“Father Warren was a dull man,” a knight ahead of Joslyn muttered to another, “but at least he lived what he preached.”

The other knight leaned toward him. “I am told Ivo gave no warning—appeared at mass this morn and told him to leave.”

Joslyn had wondered at the other priest’s absence, but guessing the man did not feel well, had thought no more on it.

The wily Father Ivo—

Nay,
Ivo,
she corrected, he whose priestly title did not honor the Church. No sooner did Liam depart than the man stole Father Warren’s position just as Maynard had stolen Liam’s. Thus, Ivo would remain at Ashlingford.

At her approach, he straightened from Oliver. “Lady Joslyn.”

She inclined her head.

His smile was strained. “Your son wishes to know when William will return. ’Twould seem he has grown fond of the man.”

“Not Wil’m,” Oliver said. “Unca Liam.”

Lest the priest harshly corrected him, Joslyn laid a hand atop Oliver’s head and said, “Father Ivo prefers to call Lord Fawke by his English name, William. ’Tis just another way of saying Liam.”

Oliver frowned. “I like Liam better. You, Mama?”

“I do.”

His mouth curved in a more pleasing direction. “Wanna see what he left me?”

Only then did she notice he held an arm behind his back. “Show me.”

With a flourish, he whipped the air with a stick, and with much pride said, “For my top.”

“’Tis handsome.” Joslyn admired the branch Liam had pared of its smaller limbs. “It was kind of Lord Fawke.”

Oliver bobbed his head. “Know where he left it?”

“With Emma?”

“Un’er my pillow.”

Meaning while she slept, Liam had come into their chamber to place it there. Had he seen her in her chemise, the covers kicked down around her feet as she had found herself upon awakening?

Cheeks warming, she drew a deep breath. “What a lovely surprise. You must remember to thank Lord Fawke when next he comes to Ashlingford.”

“I will.”

Joslyn looked back at Ivo. “How did you answer my son when he asked if Lord Fawke will return?”

“I told him William will, indeed, return. He always does.”

She reached for Oliver’s hand.

“Lady Joslyn, we need to speak.”

Certain it was Liam’s visit to her chamber he wished to address, she longed to refuse him, but it would be best to have done with it.

“Oliver, there is something I must discuss with…” She nearly omitted the priest’s title, but not in Oliver’s presence. “…Father Ivo. Go practice with your top, and when I am finished we will explore the cellars.”

He turned to where Emma stood outside the chapel. “Wanna see my top spin?”

“I do, little lord.” She held out a hand and he took it.

Joslyn returned to the chapel and heard the doors close as she lowered to the bench she had occupied during mass. “Aye, Father?” she prompted when he strode past her to the altar.

He turned. “You have not heeded my warning.”

“Your warning?”

“Surely ’tis not necessary for me to remind you of your talk in the wood with William a sennight past.”

He knew more than thought. Although she had hoped his silence these past days indicative of ignorance, he had merely awaited an opportunity to confront her.

“Or did you talk?” Ivo said with a knowing twist of the lips.

“Of course we talked.”

He stepped toward her, said softly, “And sinned, did you not, Joslyn Fawke?”

He guessed right. She had known Liam’s touch, though not as Ivo implied. She raised her chin. “Believe what you wish. Now good day.” She rose and started toward the door.

“Understand this,” he called. “If the wanton behavior between William and you continues, you will leave me no choice but to appeal to the bishop for relief.”

She turned back. “What is it you threaten?”

“No threat.” He clasped his hands before him. “I but tell you what I shall do if you do not cease with William.”

“What will you tell the bishop?”

As if the battle were his, he smiled. “What goes between the two of you.”

“You do not know what goes between us. You only believe you do.”

His nostrils flared. “I know you have lain with your husband’s brother—your brother now, Lady Joslyn. A sin for which punishment is due.”

What punishment would he call for? A flogging? The humiliation of being pilloried for all to scorn? Worse, a far-reaching pilgrimage of penance that would take her from Oliver?

Refusing to give in to fear, she shook her head. “You are wrong. I have not lain with Liam Fawke, and if you speak such to the bishop, I will seek an audience with him so he might be advised of how holy his holy man truly is.”

His eyes narrowed. “I know not what you speak of.”

“The brigands’ attack.”

Something like alarm flashed in his gaze, but he covered it with scorn. “You refer to my use of the sword,” he said, though with question in his voice.

Deciding to let him ponder whether it was the letting of blood she referred to or responsibility for the attack—or both—she did not answer.

“Dire circumstances dictate unusual measures,” he said in an obvious attempt to prod more from her.

“As they do now,” Joslyn said. “And since we understand each other better, I bid you good day.”

She returned to her chamber, and only when the door closed behind her did she ease her stiffly held shoulders. Though time would tell whether or not Ivo regarded her threat as real, one thing was certain—she had gathered to her a powerful enemy.

Thornemede.

Liam stood on the threshold looking into a hall that might once have been preceded by the word
great
but was now so decrepit it was little more than a hovel.

“This I am made lord of,” he murmured.

“It does not get any better, does it?” John referred to all else they had seen of Thornemede this past hour.

All else but the impressive number of sheep grazing the fields, Liam silently amended. The barony had wool that could be exported, and whose profits might begin to fill the barony’s coffers. As for the rest of Thornemede, the two villages they had paused at on their way to the castle were sparsely peopled, and those who had come out of their homes to receive them had seemed dejected. Most of the fields were long without the turning of a plow, the roads were in disrepair, and the rest of the castle was no better than this hall.

With its stinking moat, crumbling outer wall, inner buildings that looked near to collapsing, and the waste of humans and animals everywhere, Thornemede was worse than imagined. Too, though it was occupied by the servants and retainers of the departed baron, it appeared that as many as half had left in search of another lord to pledge their services to.

Had they gone from the barony before the young knight delivered the message that had revealed the identity of their new lord? Liam wondered. But then he chastised himself for so foolish a question. As no attempt had been made to put order to Thornemede in anticipation of his arrival, it could not have been more clear he was unwelcome. Not that it mattered. He would bring Thornemede’s people back.

Still, he was angered, and he silently cursed himself for allowing vengeance to sway him to accept the king’s proposal—to permit another to dictate his destiny as he had vowed would not happen again. The heir of Montgomery Fawke was Baron of Thornemede, lord of the thorn and little else.

Liam slapped his palm to the keep’s outwork. “Ah, but as King Edward attested, ’tis of stone and sturdy.”

John arched an eyebrow.

Looking to the dozen Ashlingford men he had chosen to accompany him, he saw concern in their eyes. Likely, they thought the Irish in him was on the rise and steeled themselves for an eruption. But he was in control. Or nearly so.

As the men must soon return to Ashlingford—and John to Duns Castle—it was time to put them to use. But first, the children.

He looked to where the three stood at the bottom of the steps and forced a smile, then motioned to his squire who stood nearby. “Take them into the garden—providing there is one.”