Mary Reed McCall (13 page)

Her muscles felt like butter and her belly a fluttering swirl of sweet, hot liquid, when he finally released her a few minutes later and stepped away. Though she’d exerted herself but little in the exercise, her breath came as fast and hard as if she’d raced up a hill.

When the reason struck her, ’twas with stunning force. What had happened last night was but a taste of this unbelievable feeling. This was raw, full-blown desire, and it took her so much by surprise that she crumpled to her knees where she stood.

“Are you unwell, Elise?” In one swift motion, Gray knelt next to her, taking her hand to chafe at her wrist. “Here.” He reached for a water skin, untied it, and held it to her mouth. “Take a drink.”

She tried to protest that she was fine, but he pushed on until she took a quick swallow. It was probably for the best, anyway. Certainly better than telling him the true reason behind her moment of weakness.

“I feel much better now,” she said, rising to stand.

“Don’t move so quickly.”

“I’m fine,” Catherine protested, dusting off her knees with her hands. “’Tis just the heat. The sun shines bright today.”

Gray shielded his eyes and glanced up. “Aye. ’Tis near midday. We began our training too late. You’ll
need some refreshment before we continue.” He gestured to the shade of a nearby tree. “Come and sit you down where ’tis cooler, while I fetch the basket.”

Catherine frowned. Basket? She’d thought they’d be going back to the castle to eat with the others. But she had to admit that she was hungry. Her stomach rumbled as she sat beneath the tree, reminding her that she’d yet to take any food or drink today. And Gray was right about one thing. It was much cooler here, and it
did
feel good to sit.

She watched him return from his stallion with a woven basket. The lid was attached to the ragged sides with a frayed strip of willow, and she raised her brow as he sat beside her with it.

“That basket looks as if it could use some mending.”

His mouth quirked up on one side. “Aye, I suppose it could. I’ve had it for years. ’Twas with me on Crusade.”

“I amend my remark, then. ’Tis in better shape than I guessed if it survived the war in Egypt.”

“Yet it has seen better days.” He caught her gaze as he unwound the tattered silk that held the lid on tight. “At our wedding feast you talked of searching for willow swamps. Do you possess skill enough in weaving to repair the basket for me?”

Now it was Catherine’s turn to smile, though she hid it in the act of smoothing the ground for their meal cloth. Of course he couldn’t know that she’d been weaving willow of much finer texture than his basket since she was a seven years child.

“I think I might be able to manage it, my lord, provided we find an ample supply of withies to harvest in the next weeks.”

He handed her the cloth, and she spread it in front of them, adding some smaller folded linens for wiping their fingers and mouths later. As he busied himself with pouring wine into her cup and cider into his own, she stole another glance at him. “You must have had many adventures while Crusading for the Holy Cause. Sir Alban talked of the battles you fought together while in Egypt, and he swore that you’d saved his life.”

Gray laughed. “Alban tends to exaggerate. I didn’t actually save his life. And ’twas hardly heroic.”

“Nay? Alban made it sound so, though he suggested that you tell the story better than he does.”

“He did, did he?”

“I would like to hear it.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “’Tis of no matter, really. Nothing you’d find of interest, I think.”

Catherine looked down at her lap. “If you don’t wish to tell me, I understand. ’Tis just that I so rarely heard news of the Holy Crusade, and I had hoped to learn more about it.”

Gray remained silent for a moment, and she felt his gaze on her. Finally he looked away. “I only hesitated to tell you, Elise, because this particular story is less than savory. I don’t object to your hearing of it if it is what you wish.”

She nodded. “Aye, please.”

“Very well. Alban and I were on our way home,
passing through Turkey. We stayed for a while in a village not far from the border, thinking to give ourselves some rest before undertaking the rest of the journey home. Instead, we found trouble. A local man charged Alban with raping one of their women and getting her with child. Alban was arrested and brought to trial under Turkish law, which meant that he faced almost certain execution.”

“How terrible! What did you do?”

“’Twas a difficult case. Alban had never even seen the woman, and yet no matter what either of us said, the man who’d charged him refused to be dissuaded.” Gray took a swallow from his cup and shrugged. “So I made some inquiries, discovered the truth, and took care of it.”

Catherine waited for him to explain, but he remained silent. “Well?” she finally burst out. “What happened? How did you save Alban from execution?”

“Once I knew the truth I just tracked the—” Gray paused. Then he shook his head. “Nay, perhaps I’d better not say more. I fear the rest of the details are not fit for delicate ears.”

Catherine raised her brow. “We’re here because you’re training me to wield a
sword
—hardly a delicate pastime. I think ’tis safe to say that I can endure the full telling of your story.”

A beat of silence passed. Still without comment, Gray reached into the basket and took out a leg of roasted fowl and a hunk of bread. He handed them to her, his generous mouth flirting with a smile. “I concede your point. But before I’ll go further, you
must eat something. I’ll say no more until you do.” He gestured to the food, adding a plump yellow apple to the mound.

Seeing that it was hopeless unless she cooperated, Catherine picked up the chicken and took a bite. She chewed deliberately, tempted to glare at him for making her wait to hear the rest of his story. But after swallowing the first mouthful, she forgot her ire. The roasted bird was delicious. Perfectly seasoned and moist. Her stomach growled again, almost as if in thanks.

She took several bites of the bread and a few more of the chicken, interspersed with swallows of her wine, noticing that Gray polished off his portion as well.

When she’d finished the last bite of apple, she sighed and leaned back against the tree, patting the unusual fullness of her stomach. Contentment flowed through her like an elixir, enticing her to close her eyes for just a moment. Ah, if only she were a cat right now, free to nap in the warm caress of the sun…

With a groan, she forced herself to sit up and open her eyes. If she napped, she’d never hear the rest of the tale. She tidied the cloth that had served as their table, wiped her cup clean, placed it back into the frayed basket, and then faced Gray with an expectant look.

He’d tipped his head back to drink his cider, and he paused in mid-swallow, catching her stare from the corner of his eye. When his playful gaze met her far more stern one, he jerked the cup down and
wiped a drop that trickled onto his chin. Then he coughed as if he were choking, but the effort was so feeble that she knew it was a performance for her benefit, and a weak one at that.

“Is something wrong?” He asked in a raspy, exaggerated voice.

Oh, but he was maddening. “Aye. You promised to finish the story about Alban once I ate something. I’ve done as you asked, and now I’m waiting to hear the rest.”

“Ah, yes. The tale.” He took his time using his small square of linen to wipe his fingers and his mouth, before swabbing his cup dry and tossing it and the soiled cloth back into the basket. Then he looked at her again. “I can’t remember where I left off.”

She almost rolled her eyes. “You were going to tell me how you freed Alban.”

“Well, I didn’t free him, exactly. That took care of itself, once I exposed the liar whose sin had brought evil down on Alban’s head.”

Liar. Sin. Evil.
The words sent a jolt through Catherine. She stiffened, but he continued to talk, seemingly unaware of her agitation. “I told you that Alban was imprisoned, awaiting trial, and that he was certain to be convicted.” He paused. “This is where the story turns indelicate. Are you sure that you want to hear the rest?”

She managed to nod, not trusting that her voice wouldn’t give away her own guilt.

“As you wish.” He picked up a twig, twisting it in his fingers as he talked. “In many cases of decep
tion, I’ve found that he who protests most loudly often bears the most fault. ’Tis a quirk of human nature. And this man who’d charged Alban was most vocal about the damage done to the young woman. Naturally, my search for the truth began with him.”

Catherine fiddled with the edge of the cloth. “How did you get him to admit his guilt?”

“I didn’t. I learned where he kept his liaisons with her, arranged for the village justices to come with me one night to the spot, and then quite literally, exposed the man with his braies down.” Gray frowned with the memory. “’Twas not pleasant, especially when the council sought justice against him. He was punished not only for defiling the woman, but for swearing to a falsehood on top of it.”

“He was executed?” Again, her voice seemed to come out in little more than a squeak.

“Nay,” he shook his head. “He was the child’s father, and so they let him live to provide for it. But they ensured that he’d never father another child again.”

She swallowed hard. “Oh.”

“Alban was released with reparations, and we continued on our journey home.” Gray tossed the twig aside and looked straight at her. “And so you see, lady, ’twas the truth and not I that freed Alban. ’Tis a much more powerful force than mere man.”

Catherine’s stomach rolled, and her meal suddenly felt very close to reappearing in a most unpleasant way. She lurched to her feet, reaching out a hand to steady herself against the trunk. “I see.
Thank you for telling me the whole tale. But now I—I feel the need to move around a bit. Perhaps we could continue our training.”

Gray rose to stand next to her, and again she was overwhelmed by his sheer size, by the rippling muscle across every inch of him. “’Tis a good sign, your willingness to press on,” he said, shaking out the blanket, then folding it and placing it back in the basket with the remains of their food.

When he faced her again, encouragement and pride lit his eyes, making her want to wither to the ground with shame. “And I have a few more strokes I’d like to teach you, only this time with a child’s wooden sword. ’Twill allow you to practice on your own between our meetings.”

Catherine nodded, weak-kneed, as she followed him back into the clearing. She picked up the wooden sword he handed her and tried to concentrate on the strokes he began to demonstrate. But her mind kept straying, even as her arms performed the motions of the practice.

There’s naught to fear. He knows nothing
. She repeated the phrases in her mind like a prayer as she moved through the strokes. For now everyone was safe. As long as Eduard believed that she would carry out his evil plans against Gray, her children would remain unharmed. And as long as Gray knew nothing of the truth—of who she really was, and of what game she played with him—her life could continue secure and unscathed.

And yet somehow she sensed that ’twas not her
life that was in danger here at Ravenslock Castle. ’Twas a far more serious risk she took, with each breath, every minute, each day she stayed in the company of the castle’s great lord. Aye, evil plots or no, she needed to tread very carefully…

Because she sensed that Baron Grayson de Camville might well possess the power to steal her heart and soul away from her forever.

T
he sun was just coming full above the edge of the horizon when Gray strode up the stairs to his bedchamber the next morn. He felt invigorated by his ride, full of energy and anticipation.

And hope.

For the first time in years, he’d risen from bed looking forward to something other than battle. The new day was fresh with possibilities, not the least of which was another opportunity for private weapons training with his wife.

Memory of yesterday’s lesson with Elise still burned in his mind. Whenever he thought on it, a strange thrill shot through his body and up to his face, making his mouth want to edge up into a smile. Just last evening he’d had to subdue the impulse with force; he’d been overseeing his squires’
efforts at polishing armor, and one of the lads had caught him grinning at nothing while he rubbed down a rusty helmet.

Such strange behavior wouldn’t do, especially around the men. But it had been difficult to maintain a serious expression. Pleasant thoughts seemed to overwhelm him without warning: thoughts of Elise’s eager efforts to maintain her sword stance, or the feel of her graceful body pressed against his when he’d guided her through that series of strokes. Or the sight of her in those breeches…

He grinned again, taking the last three steps to the landing in one bound. When he’d left her this morning, she’d been sleeping peacefully. Now he hoped to awaken her with a kiss and ask her to prepare for another round of training before the sun rose too hot in the sky. A quick lesson in lunges, perhaps, after breaking their fast. Aye, that sounded like a plan.

But as he approached their chamber, a strange noise made him pause. His grin faded under a tingle of warning. He heard crying. Soft, heart-wrenching sobs that made him scowl as he got closer to the room’s portal.

Lifting the latch quietly, Gray nudged the door open with his toe and peered inside. The chamber sparkled with morning light, illuminating a scene that took his breath away. ’Twas the embodiment of a stained glass window he’d once seen in a great cathedral in France, depicting the Virgin Mother, praying as the angel Gabriel descended to tell her of her Immaculate Conception.

Like Mary in the picture, Elise knelt by their bed, a shaft of sun streaming in on her and imbuing her flowing, turquoise robes and rich brown hair with celestial radiance. But unlike the Blessed Virgin, his wife wasn’t praying. She was weeping over something she held clasped in her hands. Something small and oval, compassed in a golden frame.

’Twas the portrait of the twins, the same likeness that had produced such a strange reaction from her when Eduard presented it at the wedding feast.

Gray pressed his lips together, the tingle in his belly intensifying. Why in hell did it disturb her so? This weeping, this grief over something so simple seemed unnatural.

He nudged the door open wider and stepped into the bedchamber. “Elise?” he called.

With a gasp, she twisted to look at him, scrambling to her feet and leaving the portrait lying half-covered by the folds of blankets. She swiped her hands over her wet cheeks. “My lord—I mean, Gray! I did not expect you soon. I—I thought that you would be sending for me at a later hour.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

She looked as though she wished to say something more, but then she only exhaled softly and remained silent, casting her gaze to the floor.

Gray tried to keep his suspicions from overwhelming him as he glanced to the oval likeness still hidden in the bedcovers. After a pause, he asked, “Your niece and nephew, I’ve forgotten what they are called.”

“Ian and Isabel,” she whispered, as if saying their names pained her in some way.

He nodded, keeping his expression even. “Aye. You were crying over them. I wish to know why.”

Elise paled, standing before him as still as a statue. But then she blinked, and her gaze seemed to search him for a moment before veering away to stare again at the floor.

“’Tis nothing but a woman’s weakness, my lord,” she finally murmured, “to weep over what she has left behind. ’Tis the way for every new wife, is it not?”

“Perhaps. But ’tis also a husband’s duty to ensure his wife’s comfort and happiness, in so far as he may,” Gray answered, even as he questioned her explanation in his own mind.

She seemed not to breathe as he walked over and picked up the portrait, running his finger over it. As before he was struck by the likeness these children shared with her. Of course, that was explained easily enough; they were of her blood—her brother’s offspring.

He suppressed the twisting in his gut and handed the portrait back. “Why is it that you feel the absence of these children more keenly than any other person from your life before we wed?”

Her gaze remained steady on him. “There is no one else for me to miss. I was never close to Eduard. And Geoffrey and…and his wife I but saw infrequently these past years. As I told you whilst I stitched you after the
mélée
, the twins often came to
visit, and I grew close to them. I cared for them,” she said, clenching her jaw and looking away, “as if they were my own babes.”

“And that is why you were weeping just now?”

She nodded, her lips trembling.

“Then ’tis simple enough. If it distresses you so to be parted from them, I will arrange a visit to Faegerliegh Keep, so that you may see them and put your heart at ease.”

“Nay!” Elise gasped, blanching as her gaze snapped back to him. “’Tis not possible, or at least ’tis not wise to do that.”

“Why not?” he asked quietly, studying her.

“Because the twins do not reside at Faegerliegh Keep any longer.” Her fingers squeezed tight round the gilded frame. “For the past year they’ve fostered at Denton, another three days ride beyond Faegerliegh. Too far to go for the sake of my foolishness.” Abruptly, she walked over to the chest and deposited the portrait beneath its lid. “’Tis of no matter, my lord. I’m sure that I will see them soon enough, without a special trip.”

Her back was to him as she spoke the last bit, but he saw the stiffness of her spine and the way her hands clenched down on the trunk until her knuckles turned white. Yet when she spun to face him again, she’d wiped all signs of sadness from her face. All except for the haunted look in her eyes.

Gray frowned. “’Twould be no hardship, lady, to arrange such a journey, even to Denton, should you wish it. Do not hold back for fear of cost or time.”

She only shook her head and struggled to fix a heartbreaking, wobbly smile on her face. “I’m only being silly. I must learn to govern myself better as your wife, not as a childish maiden. The past must be left behind to live in the present, is that not so?”

Another pang cut through him, inciting him to action. He crossed the room and, reaching up, brushed a golden-brown curl from her cheek. He fought the same helplessness that had overwhelmed him two nights ago, wanting more than anything to take away this sadness that seemed to fill her.

He threaded his fingers through her hair, cupping her face and leaning closer to brush his lips over her brow. “Ah, Elise. I only wish—I would only that I could make you happy, lady.”

She sucked in her breath, her eyelids fluttering down. “I am, my lord,” she whispered, finally. “In truth when you are near me, I am happy in a way that I have never known.”

He pulled her to him, then, pressing her cheek to his chest, and she wrapped her arms around his waist with a deep sigh. He held her there for a long while, uncertain what else to do or say.

In the end, action seemed better than words. After a few moments more, he released her gently and said, “Then be it as you will, lady, concerning your niece and nephew. For now, I ask that you meet me in the clearing after you break your fast. We should begin your training early today.”

“Aye, my lord.”

He nodded and walked from their chamber. But her sadness seemed to follow him, filling him with
shadows that he knew would be difficult to shake. Once again he’d failed to assuage her pain, and it bothered him. He’d wanted to soothe her. To make her happy, as she made him.

He descended the rest of the steps to his solar and pushed aside the tapestry on the wall. Using the key, he strode out of the castle, into the lists and the clear light of day, resolving to put thoughts of Elise and her pensiveness out of his mind for now. After all, ’twas but a small matter, really. Not something he should spend overmuch time trying to understand. He had offered to make the trip to see the twins with her, and if she chose not to go, there wasn’t much he could do about it.

And yet as he strode toward the stable, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about his wife’s sad eyes. Or wondering if he’d ever learn to understand the workings of her enigmatic heart.

Catherine pressed her hand to her breast, trying to still the thundering there. That had been close. How stupid of her, to allow herself those moments of grief for her children. But she’d had that horrible dream about them. About Eduard closing them away in a dark, cold place. Their little faces had been twisted in pain as they cried out to her, reaching out and calling her to save them…

Sucking in a ragged breath, she ran her hand over her eyes and shook her head. She wouldn’t think about it anymore. She couldn’t. ’Twas too dangerous. It left her feeling exposed, vulnerable. She’d almost blurted the truth to Gray when he’d asked her
why she was crying over them, and that might have been a terrible mistake. Anyone might have been listening.

“My lady? I’ve brought you some warmed cloths and water for the morn—and this jar of salve from out in the hall.”

Catherine jumped at the brusque voice, whirling to face its owner. Mariah came in the door without waiting for acknowledgement, one strong arm piled high with folded squares of creamy linens and the salve pot, the other gripping the handle of a steaming pitcher. She glanced sideways at Catherine with a penetrating, almost knowing look, as she set down the towels and pot to pour the scented water into the washbowl. Threads of doubt wound up Catherine’s back at the attention.

“Can I get you anything else, milady?” Mariah asked, straightening and placing her hands on her hips.

“Nay, thank you,” Catherine answered, reaching to pick up the jar of salve, glad to have it for some of the blisters that already reddened her palms from yesterday’s training. Perhaps Gray had anticipated her needs and sent it up. But then why hadn’t he just given it to her himself when he came to their chamber?

She frowned. “Where did you say you’d gotten this ointment?”

Mariah scowled. “I didn’t get it anywhere, milady—’twas forgotten in the hallway, on the little table outside your door.” Mariah shook her head
and mumbled something about it not seeming meet for the lady of a castle to leave her things carelessly here and there. Then she glared once more at Catherine before sweeping through the door and shutting it behind her.

Catherine stood, stunned, uncertain what to think. That this mysterious jar of salve wasn’t hers at all seemed the least of her worries; Mariah and her apparent dislike provided more concern. The woman was rather bold for a servant. This wasn’t the first time she’d made pointed view of her, and her expression was never the least bit submissive. It had been the same that first morning, when she’d come at Gray’s bidding to help Catherine with her hair.

Could Mariah be one of the spies Eduard spoke of? Might she have been listening outside the chamber when Gray questioned her about the portrait, to see if she would reveal information that Eduard had forbidden her to tell?

Sinking to sit at the edge of the bed, Catherine hugged the jar to her chest and stared at the unyielding silence of the door Mariah had closed so soundly behind her…

Left, as so often of late, to face her fears and worries alone.