LordoftheKeep (26 page)

Emma opened her eyes. He didn’t disappear. He was hot flesh
within her. Her tremors started, and she needed to close her eyes again,
gasping with the power of it, the power of her passion and his igniting and
burning at the same moment, joined as ever they were—not as two people, but as
one.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“How? Why?” she asked, her voice shaking.

“I—” Gilles leapt up and blocked the swing of a stick
through the air, taking the force of it on his arm, crying out in pain. “Sweet
Jesu
,”
he muttered. He snatched the stick with no trouble from the young mute beggar
who’d come to his aid. Gilles realized their lovemaking must have sounded like
a battle to his companions.

He took the boy by the arm and urged him to where the other
two beggars cowered near the stable entrance. “I found a coin and bought a
woman. ‘Tis all. I thank you for defending me, but I’ve not yet had my fill of
her,” he whispered to them. With a sharp gesture that they should remain where
they were, he took the stick and returned to the shadows and Emma.

She’d moved into the farthest corner. As he drew her into
his embrace, he felt the hard shudder of fear running through her.

“You were not meant to know,” he said.

“Your voice,” she whispered, her hands going to his throat.

“It is as it is.” He grabbed her hand. “Roland was to keep
an eye on you.”

“Roland! He knows? Who else? Catherine? Nicholas? Everyone
save me?”

He silenced her with a fervent kiss. He attempted to turn
her passionate anger, still her protests.

She broke away and held his obsidian eyes with her gaze.
That is what had made him seem dead in the chapel, she thought. She could not
see this flame of life in his eyes. “They all knew?” A sense of deep betrayal
seeped into her being. “You agreed to this?”

Gilles clasped her stiff body to his. “We did it to protect
you.”

“Why?” she gripped his arms, squeezing frantically. “I
suffered as if they’d hanged me! I felt as if my very marrow was being torn
from my bones! How could you scheme and hide it from me?”

“We thought you’d not permit it—”

“Permit it? I would have forbidden it!”

“Exactly. We feared you would muddle it all, confess
yourself, or not appear distraught…” His words drifted to a halt.

“You planned that I should be distraught?” How cold she felt
and yet inflamed, burning inside.

“We planned that I would live, that you would be free.” The
harsh scrape of Gilles’ voice rasped in her ears. He folded her into his arms.
“Trust that what we did, we did to spare your life.”

“What can I say?” she whispered against his chest. “To
object will make me seem…heartless—ungrateful.” The sound of the slow thud of
his heart was so joyful, so completely perfect, she burrowed her nose against
his rags and sighed. Feeling began to return and the tightness of her body
eased.

“I hunt William’s murderer,” he said.

She clutched his arms. “Hunt? Are you mad? You are supposed
to be dead.”

“In that is my opportunity. Disguised as I am, I may
investigate the circumstances—”

“I forbid it. You cannot conceal who you are. Someone will
see you, they’ll drag you away, hang you again!” Her voice rose shrill and
frightened.

“No one has recognized me but you.” He attempted to embrace her
again. This time, she thrust herself away from his beguiling body, from the
lure of peace she found in his arms.

“Nay, ‘tis madness!”

“I denied William in life, I cannot deny him in death.”

Emma felt the tears rise in her eyes. “You will be the death
of
me
. I have flooded my pallet with tears. To find you alive…and mayhap
lose you again to possible death…” She choked. “‘Tis a cruel jest.” She clasped
her hands in supplication. “You cannot disguise who you are. Did I not find
you? There is a—a quality to you no one else has. You will fail. I will lose
you.”

“Stop!” He combed his fingers through her hair, clearing her
face, that he might look into her superb, compelling eyes. “I cannot deny
William in his death. Am I not responsible for what he became? I was his
father, but I took little part in curbing what was reprehensible in his nature.
I set myself apart from it. And so must do this.”

She knotted his rags in her fists. “You are not responsible
for what he was. He was of his own making, nay, he was what we all made him,
through indulgence, fawning adoration of his fair face. Do not hold yourself to
blame. Come away with me. In avenging William, you will be denying me. And
Angelique.”

He folded her tightly against him. “Nay, my love. I am
denying you nothing. I wish to see your name cleared of suspicion. This I will
do.”

“How dare you!” She tore herself away. “How dare you risk
your life?”

“It is my life to do with what I will.”

“I ask you, beg you, as the woman who loves you. Change your
mind. Come away with me. Forget William.”

Silence reigned for long moments, then he answered, his
words barely above a whisper. “How I yearn to grant your wish. But my honor
demands I avenge William.” He fisted his hand. “Someone stole his life from
him, and in doing the deed carelessly considered yours forfeit, too! If you
cannot understand my need to avenge William’s death, then understand my anger
over your endangerment.”

He grasped her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. “He
spread himself like a whore, Emma—here in the village as much as above.” Then
he took a deep breath and gentled his grip. His gravelly voice rasped harshly
in the quiet of the stable. “It does seem, however, that he paid well for that
privilege. Those who might object to his behavior are more mournful of the loss
of his coin than of the loss of their daughters’ virtue, or outraged by their
wives’ deceit.” He sought and found her hand in the dark. They linked fingers.

“Stop before you are found. Please, I beg of you.”

He could not grant her wish. Each new fact he learned of
William made him more angry, not just with his bastard son, but with himself
that he’d not cared more, taken his son more to task. Had he taken on the true
responsibility for his son, acknowledged him, he would not need to hunt his
killer now. To distract her from her pain and his rejection of her wish, he
drew her into his arms and spoke another truth instead. “Warm me, I am so
cold.”

She immediately looped her arms about him and pressed her
body to his. “Oh, Gilles. Shall I bring you blankets?”

“Nay,” he said against her ear. “A beggar has only what he
stands up in.”

“I fear for you. And what if you sicken?”

He let his mouth drift to her throat. “Do not fear for me—I
am dead already.”

Emma gave him a sad smile. “What a bitter punishment for my
sins! To have the man I love be within my grasp, then cruelly snatched by
death.”

Gilles tried to speak, but she violently shook her head and
he held silent.

“And now—resurrected, but still lost to me. And for what? A
disagreement of philosophy? You are a man, you must have your vengeance, spill
blood to feel complete. I care only for peace. Choose Gilles. Choose now.
Bloodshed or peace. William or me.”

“Emma—” Gilles began, one hand lifted; then he let it drop
to his side. The low whisper of his voice made his words somehow more potent,
more final. “It is not one choice over the other. I am compelled to do this. My
honor demands it. He was my son and I denied him. Do not ask me again to
choose.”

She pulled from his arms and knelt before him. “I am asking.
I am begging.”

He shook his head.

In the long silence that followed her words, she looked him
over, barely able to see him, save for the pale gleam of his throat and
shoulder where she’d bared his skin. Her heart could not believe he would not give
up his search. Her disappointment was a hollow pain in her breast. With shaking
fingers she touched the chain of her mother’s cross. “Go then. Go with God.”

He heard but the rustle of her skirts to mark her departure.
The stable was doubly cold without her.

With an oath he rushed after her, shoving aside the other
beggars to stand at the stable door. He almost called out. But he was too late.
There was naught to be seen of her. Clouds blanketed the moon, mist shrouded
the lanes.

* * * * *

Emma’s anger only sustained her for a day or two. How much
longer could she hide from Roland and the others that she knew Gilles lived?
Mayhap he was right. She could not prevent her eyes from roaming the faces of
the keep. She concocted errands to take her into the village. She did not see
him.

Then fear took anger’s place. If she recognized him, others
might, too. One moment she wished Gilles to the devil for his stubbornness and
the next she found herself on her knees offering prayers for his safety.

“There is only one way to bring him home to me. I must learn
who killed William myself. Then nothing will stand between us!” Once she had
determined on her course, she no longer felt lost.

She watched everyone. William’s women most especially.

May talked little of William, but was heard to sing a song
or two of his when rocking Angelique or another babe to sleep. Beatrice burst
into tears as forceful as the water gushing from Gilles’ spigot whenever
William’s name was mentioned. But Emma felt no secret guilt in either.

On her way from her spinning school, she detoured to the
smith. There was one who knew the villagers from a different viewpoint—the
thieving child. He was running to and fro for the armorer, handing him tools.
They both nodded to her as she entered their domain. She sat beside the child
on a bale of hay and watched Big Robbie hammer out a lance point.

‘Twas said children did not lie. Emma crossed her fingers.
“Were you here the day Sir William was killed?”

The boy eyed her, then darted forward to work the bellows of
Big Robbie’s forge. When he returned, he wiped sweat from his brow. “I seen him
dead. Proper bashed he was.”

She swallowed hard. She, too, remembered how William had
looked the day of his death. “Do you know who did it?”

“Me? Why would I be knowing anything?” The boy shrugged. His
dark eyes were shrewd, old beyond his years.

“I’ve a sweet bun for anything you can tell me of that day,
of who might have killed him.”

The boy grinned.

“I seen him, Sir William, earlier that day. In the village.
Riding the alehouse keeper’s wife, he were.”

“How old are you?” she asked.

He shrugged and held up both hands with four fingers spread
on each. “So young,” she murmured. “When was this?”

“Missed me midday meal, I did, watchin’“

“What the boy says is truth.” The armorer rested his hammer
for a moment. “I fetched him here. He’d no business being at the alehouse,
scrounging for scraps to sell. I swatted him good for watching Sir William at
his pleasure, begging your pardon, my lady.”

Emma felt her face flush at Big Robbie’s solicitous tone.
“Fear not to offend me.”

“We were all surprised to learn Sir William were his
lordship’s bastard. And I won’t believe his lordship killed his son. ‘Tis
against nature.”

“Who do you think did it?” she asked the man.

“Not you, my lady.”

She went to where he stood, tall, massive as an oak. “Thank
you, Big Robbie. I want to find out who did it. I have to clear Lord Gilles’
name.”

He nodded and returned to his work. The muscles rippled on
his arms as the hammer rose and fell in an ancient rhythm. “Look for a man. A
powerful, angry man. Strong.” He lifted an old wooden cask whose iron strapping
had rusted. With a swift twist of his wrist, he smashed his hammer to the
chest, splintering it into a dozen pieces. “Worse were done to Sir William than
this hammer did to this chest, and with naught but a rock.”

Emma swayed.

“Now easy. Forgive me,” he cried and rushed to where she
stood, her eyes locked to the smashed pieces of wood. “I weren’t thinking.
Should I have the boy fetch someone for you?”

Emma shook her head. Big Robbie was right. It must have been
a man. No woman could have wielded such strength. She could no longer keep her
thoughts to herself.

She tapped lightly on the door to Gilles’ chamber. When
Catherine opened it, she slipped in. It pained her to see Nicholas sitting in
Gilles’ chair, his feet stretched to the fire in a posture so like his
father’s.

“He is cold,” she said to him.

Nicholas shot to his feet. “Who?” His incredulous tone made
her smile ruefully.

“Gilles. I know it all. How dare you keep this from me?”

“Fetch Roland and Sarah,” he ordered his wife. She dashed to
do his bidding.

With a shake of her head, Emma went to stand before him.
“You have your father’s imperious nature, but he tempers it with courtesy. He
ordered me but once, and that in anger, so I must forgive him.”

Color flooded Nicholas’ cheeks. “You think to instruct me on
how to treat my wife?”

Emma sat on a low stool by Gilles’ chair. She stroked her
hand along its arm. “Nay. Forgive me, my lord, I’ve not the right. I
overstepped myself. Did I not steal your father’s life and deprive you of his
presence?”

“As to that—” He broke off as Catherine entered with Roland
and Sarah.

“I have found him.” Emma stated it simply.

“I am somehow not surprised,” Roland said. He came to her
side and touched her shoulder. “How is he?”

“He is cold. He is dressed as a beggar, his beard is gone,
he has made a futile attempt to appear far older than he is—”

“Enough!” Nicholas cut her off. “It is now your duty to keep
his secret as we have. He has a task, and intends to perish if necessary to
accomplish it.”

“You are an angry man.” Emma stepped before him and fisted
her hands on her hips. “Why, I ask myself. Is it me? Do I offend you?”

“Aye. You offend me. If Father had not become enamored of
you, he would not have needed to defend you. Had you merely bargained some
price for your services, he would not have paid for you with his honor!”

Sarah and Roland gasped. Nicholas wheeled on them. “Well.
Did he not? What honor has he now? When the king is freed and finds me in my
father’s stead, he’ll ask the circumstances. What will be said of my father? He
is a murderer—of his son!”