LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (36 page)

“I am sorry,” she said again.

“You are also blind!” He leapt from his chair and began pacing the dais.

“What say you?”

He swung around. “I told the missive speaks of the one to whom you were betrothed, revealed my sister’s ravishment, and yet you see no connection.”

In that moment she did, and it nearly stole her breath. “It cannot be. I vow it cannot!”

Suddenly, Maxen was before her, the savage in him lifting its head. “Harwolfson was in the area, he is as Elan described, and she tells that when she guessed it was he, he did not deny it.”

Rhiannyn stepped back. “Either someone posing as Edwin did the deed and she is mistaken, or she lies.”

“You said Hastings changed Harwolfson.”

“Not in that way!”

Fury visible in every line of his body, heard in his every breath, Maxen stared at her. But as the moment stretched, something else rose through him and forced the savage down.

Though still a menacing figure, there was control in his voice when he asked, “How can you be certain?”

“I know the good of Edwin, and enough of the bad to assure you that, at his worst, he would do no such thing.”

He leaned nearer. “If she lies, for what gain?”

“I do not know, but whatever happened to her, I vow Edwin did not ravish her.”

“And I vow, if he did, come spring he will pay with his life.”

Finding some comfort in his concession Edwin might not be responsible, she asked, “What of Elan? Was she not to wed soon?”

He swung away, dropped into his chair, and retrieved the missive. He read the remainder of it. And cursed beneath his breath. “Here is the reason only now I am told what befell her. The man to whom she was recently promised has broken the betrothal.”

“I do not understand.”

“Because you do not understand my father. He does not tell it, but I see it. My sister’s ruin was not to have been known lest it threaten what was to have been an advantageous marriage. I would guess her betrothed learned of her loss of virtue either by way of loose tongues or suspicion over my father’s attempt to move up the wedding the easier to pass off an ill-gotten child as legitimate.”

“I see.” And she did not like it for what it said of his sire.

Maxen was silent a long while, then said, “I think it wrong to wed her to a man who could be her father thrice over. Thus, though never would I wish upon her the ill that befell her, mayhap it will make a better future for her once all is known.” He looked up. “And so my father waits.”

On whether or not a child had been made on Elan. A child who would be named a
bastard,
just as one born of Rhiannyn might have been had she missed her menses. She had not, and hopefully, would not until it was known she was the rightful lady of Etcheverry.

“If she is with child,” Rhiannyn ventured, “what will your father do?”

“Send her away until it is born.”

To a convent, where the illegitimate children of nobles were often left behind so the mothers could return to their lives, however changed they might be after so evident an indiscretion.

“Then,” Maxen continued, “he will find her another marriage that benefits our family.”

“Will he seek revenge against Edwin?”

Maxen’s smile was caustic. “There is no greater sport he enjoys than vengeance, no better thrill than blood on his blade.” The muscles in his jaw worked. “As told, he taught me well.”

Though she was certain he and his father were not of the same ilk, the man Maxen had become at Hastings and nearly again upon his brother’s death, was better explained.

“What will he do?” she asked.

“Bide his time.”

“He will not try to gain William’s ear?”

“You misunderstand. Likely, the king received news of Elan’s spoiling before I. With the betrothal broken, my father will think naught of casting further dishonor upon her by making known what happened. He will have his revenge, and it will be sweeter with others cheering him on.”

She shuddered. “I do not think I would like to meet your father.”

“If I can keep him from our walls, you will not.”

It seemed always there was something new to worry over. “Will you make me a promise, Maxen?”

His lids narrowed. “Ask it.”
 

“I would have you work no revenge on Edwin until you know the truth of what was done to your sister.”

“Rhiannyn, I know it pains you to hear this, but whether or not Harwolfson did what is told, his death will be sought. The only question is the manner in which his life is forfeit.”

True, for hardly a day passed without word of his raids and pillaging. Three days past, a messenger from the north had stopped at Etcheverry to rest his horse and replenish his food and drink. While at Maxen’s table, he had spoken of his lord’s wooden castle set afire by Edwin and his growing army of Saxons. It was this news he was to deliver to King William, and a pleading for aid to fight the ruthless Saxon
wolf.
And yesterday, news had come that the king had raised the reward for the one who brought him Edwin’s head. It was a staggering amount.

Aye, Edwin’s death would be sought even were he innocent of ravishment, but Rhiannyn was not certain his death would be gained—providing she could prevent Maxen from being the one to confront him.

“Promise me,” she pressed.

“Do I meet him again, I will give him a chance to prove he did not do what is said of him.”

She leaned down and put her lips to his cheek. “I know you do it for me.” Just as he had set free Aethel and the others, just as he had several times visited the bedside of Hob and assured him he could leave Etcheverry whenever he wished. That last made Rhiannyn smile. Having believed himself dead by way of a Pendery, Hob acknowledged the scar he would ever bear was not of Maxen’s doing and had begun to hint he might remain here.

Maxen sighed. “Do I do it for you, Rhiannyn?”

She pulled back. “Do you not?”

His smile showed few teeth, but it was real. “Anything for you.”

Soul reaching toward his, she also smiled.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Another month passed, and fall fell into winter with the arrival of one who came without warning.

Upon a chill wind, a dozen riders descended upon Etcheverry and were allowed within its walls. Though the demeanor of the pretty young woman at the center of her escort suggested shame, often she lifted downcast eyes and peered around with childlike excitement.

“You are welcome at Etcheverry,” Maxen said, lifting his sister from her mount.

As she settled on her feet, she peeked up at him. “I fear it is not good tidings I bring.”

“I guessed as much. We shall speak of it later.”

“Elan!” Christophe pushed his way toward his sister and embraced her. “Years,” he said.

“Too many,” she agreed.

He looked at her head to toe. “You have grown!”

A smile leapt to her lips, but she put it away as if remembering it was not fitting. “As have you,” she said in a soft voice that did not agree with the glimpses thus far afforded of her.

Mayhap I look too hard,
Rhiannyn thought.
Mayhap I want too much to find something that is not here, something to prove she speaks false about Edwin.

Unfortunately, it was hard to be fair to one she had come to resent these past weeks. As Maxen had predicted, his father had dishonored his daughter by making public what had befallen her. Now word was among knights, men-at-arms, and servants that Edwin Harwolfson had defiled Elan Pendery.

Maxen motioned his father’s knights to dismount. “Wine and mead await you in the hall. Come warm yourselves.”

It was a quiet procession that ascended to the donjon, Rhiannyn walking behind Elan who was flanked by her brothers, the others following farther back. But once inside the hall, voices rose and became a clamor as drink commenced flowing.

While warmed wine was served at the high table, those seated around Maxen watched the young woman in their midst.

“Elan,” Maxen said, “I present Rhiannyn of Etcheverry.”

Rolling the goblet between her hands, his sister moved her gaze to the woman beside her brother. “Of Etcheverry?”

“
Oui,
she was of this place before it was Pendery.”

“She is Saxon.”

“I am,” Rhiannyn answered for herself.

Interest lit the young woman’s eyes, but she veiled it by fluttering her lashes down. When she lifted her lids, her eyes were still. “What does she here at your side, Brother?”

“Rhiannyn serves as lady of the castle.”

Elan glanced at Rhiannyn’s left hand. “Yet she possesses not your name. To share a bed with a man does not make one a lady. It makes one a…” She gave what sounded a nervous laugh, though discomfort did not reach her eyes.

Rhiannyn let the spark in her rise to flame. “Ah,” she said, “but I also share his bath.”

From Maxen’s stiffening, she knew he was as angered by her bold claim as his sister’s malice.

But there was one who found humor in Rhiannyn’s frankness, she who had little to gladden her since Christophe had wearied of her lack of dependability and replaced her with Meghan. Reduced to cleaning and serving at table, Theta was more spiteful than ever, looks more slaying, words more cutting. Now she snickered, sloshing ale over a knight’s hand as she poured, but whatever angry words he unleashed upon her were lost beneath Maxen’s.

“Rhiannyn is the lady, Elan,” he said, “and while you reside at Etcheverry, you will show her the respect accorded to one in her position.”

His sister opened her mouth, but Christophe said, “Elan, allow me to introduce Sir Guy Torquay.” He gestured at the knight beside him.

Elan snapped her teeth closed and turned to her younger brother.

Refusing to meet Maxen’s gaze, Rhiannyn looked past him to his favored knight who, for once, appeared interested in something other than duty to his liege.

“Sir Guy,” Elan said. “I…” Her voice trailed off, and she swung her gaze back to Rhiannyn. “I know your name! You are the one Thomas wished to wed.” She sucked a breath. “The one who led him to his death.”

Feeling Maxen’s tension rise, Rhiannyn said, “It is true Thomas wished to wed me.”

“That is all you have to say? No apology for being the cause of his death?”

“As she is not responsible,” Maxen said, “she can hardly accept the burden of it.”

His words rooted Rhiannyn to the bench. Elan, however, shot up from hers, causing heads to turn. Eyes losing their studied demureness, she spat, “You, Thomas’s brother, defend her?”

“Seat yourself,” Maxen ordered.

She drew a whistling breath, teetered, and dropped back onto the bench.

“When you have finished your drink,” Maxen said, “you and I will talk of the reason you have come to Etcheverry.”

She huffed. “Surely you already know.”

“Later,” he growled.

Touched by his open defense of her, Rhiannyn hardly noticed what followed.

But Maxen was beyond aware of the next hour. Ignoring the pull of the woman at his side, he watched his little sister and assessed all she had come to be since last he had seen her more than two years past. She had been reckless then, quick and sharp of tongue, but the woman she was fast becoming—or perhaps not so fast becoming—seemed to have magnified every one of her undesirable traits.

She was well acted, he conceded as he attended to her conversation with Sir Guy and Christophe. Of greater concern, she was overly adept at drawing men’s notice. Though Guy was mostly immune to the advances of women, deciding for himself when and where he would better know one who caught his eye, his usually set face reflected rapt interest in Elan’s smiles, fluttering lashes, and husky voice.

It caused Maxen to entertain the possibility Rhiannyn was correct in defending Harwolfson against the charge of ravishment. But why would his sister claim such?

“You are finished,” he said when Elan emptied the last of her drink.

“One more,” she implored and raised her goblet to be refilled.

“You have had enough.” He took the vessel from her, set it on the table, and stood.

She looked as if she might protest, but when he took her arm and raised her beside him, she lowered her eyes. “As you will, Brother.”

Within the privacy of his chamber, Maxen held out a hand. “The missive.”

Elan removed it from the pouch at her waist and, grimacing, placed it in his palm.

“The seal is broken,” he said.

She shrugged. “As it concerns me, I saw no reason why I should not read it.”

Maxen raised an eyebrow. “What does it say?”

She lowered her gaze. “Why do you not read it yourself?”

“I shall, but for now, save me the trouble.”

When next she met his gaze, it was with long-suffering eyes. “As you know, I was…” She squeezed her eyes closed, drew a breath, lifted her lids. “I was ravished.”

Though he suspected her pain was not as deeply felt as she would have him believe, his compassion stirred. “I have heard.”

Tears forming, she launched herself into his arms. “It was terrible. The most awful thing!”

Inwardly, Maxen groaned. Despite his doubts, this was his sister, and if she was truly hurting, he had no right to deny her comfort. He wrapped his arms around her. “No more can he harm you.”

She angled her head back to peer at him. “Is it a promise you make?”

“It is. Whoever did this will not go unpunished.”

“Whoever?” She shook her head. “It was Harwolfson. Did Father not write it to you?”

“He did.”

“Then why do you not acknowledge it was he? I do not lie in this, Maxen.”

He hoped not—or did he? Was it better his sister was truthful, or Rhiannyn was right about Harwolfson?

“I have not said you lie, Elan. It is just that Rhiannyn does not believe him capable of such an offense. She submits it must have been another who disguised himself as Harwolfson.”

“Rhiannyn!” She jumped away and strode across the chamber and back. “She who was betrothed to the Saxon rebel. Of course she defends him.”

“I also met Harwolfson,” Maxen said, “and neither did he seem to me one who would behave in that manner.”

Elan swung around. “You do not know him as I do,” she snapped, then her face fell and she pressed a hand to her belly. “Of course you do not.”