Sharon Schulze - L'eau Clair Chronicles 03 (12 page)

Would he ever be permitted to walk away and live his own life, his services no longer necessary?

Ian brought Mouse to a halt and sat, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Twas unlike him to question his duty, and selfish to wish for what he knew he could not have. He knew better than this. Straightening in the saddle, he shoved the traitorous thoughts deep, so that they could not rise to the surface of his mind to taunt him. This time with Lily was nothing more than a brief interlude in his life, a shifting of his obligations to his family, rather than his country.

And perhaps if he told himself that often enough, he might begin to believe the words.

Enough! He nudged Mouse into motion. He’d wait until morning to tell Lily her news, when his mind had cleared and they both had had the benefit of a decent night’s rest.

Craven behavior on his part, but he simply didn’t know what else to do.

The moon had risen by the time he reached the cave and tethered his mount. The narrow doorway hid the fire within the chamber until he was nearly upon it.

Inside was snug, warm, welcoming. Lily sat beside the fire, picking at a small roasted bird. But she jumped to her feet and hurried to his side when he stooped to enter the low door. Dropping the saddlebags, he scooped her into his arms.

She stiffened, then relaxed in his embrace. It felt so good to hold her. The past few days had been a hell of their own making, of silence and careful avoidance. He’d regretted the distance they’d put between them every moment of the journey.

She clung to him for a moment, smelling of fresh air and woman.

“You were gone so long,” she murmured against his throat.

“Is everything all right?”

“I’m sorry. I sent a message to Gwal Draig. I had to wait for an answer.” He couldn’t tell her more than that, not now.

“I returned as quickly as I could.”

She took his hand and led him farther into the cave.

“Here, sit and be at ease,” she said, pushing him down onto the cloak.

“Are you hungry?”

“Aye.” He settled himself more comfortably on the floor and accepted a mug of water from her.

“There’s food and other supplies in my packs.”

She carried a saddlebag to the cloak and sat down beside him.

“Shall I?” she asked, although she’d already lifted the flap. When he nodded, if she began to unpack the bag.

She exclaimed over each item she removed, excitement bringing a sparkle to her eyes and color to her cheeks.

Had there been so little joy in her life, that these simple gifts made her happy?

He knew when she reached the bottom from the way she pulled out the last item. She lifted the simple wooden comb from the leather pack as if it were a priceless treasure.

“For me?” she asked, raising her other hand to smooth it over her tangled locks.

“Aye. Will you let me?” He held out his hand for the comb. Lily gave it to him and settled beside him with her back to him.

Surely this had to be a new temptation devised by the serpent in the Garden of Eden, Ian thought as he carefully worked the comb through her hair. She arched like a cat, the smile on her face bringing all kinds of lascivious thoughts to mind.

It seemed to take very little time to bring order to the shimmering mass, but he continued to draw the comb through it, letting the luxurious strands slide through his fingers. His battle-roughened hands seemed to have developed a new sensitivity. Each brush of her hair against his skin sent a jolt of desire straight to his loins.

Finally he had to stop, lest he lay her down and take her then and there. He gathered her hair together and draped it over one shoulder, then pressed his lips to her soft nape.

He drew in a deep breath when he felt her shiver at his touch.

“Ian,” she said, turning into his arms.

She seemed as hungry as he, her mouth greedy as she explored his face. Her hands swept over his chest before coming to rest upon his heart. She smiled.

“Did I do this?” she whispered. Her fingers opened, as if to hold his pounding heart in her hand. Her other hand slid down his tunic until it hovered above his aching flesh.

“And this?”

Groaning deep in his throat, Ian lay back on the cloak, carrying her with him. She was every temptation personified, the touch of her lips, her hands, the sweep of her hair over his neck and chest, combined into one h-resistible caress.

But it was wrong, he knew it. And so would she, once she was thinking clearly.

“Lily,” he said against the tender skin of her throat, “sweeting—we have to stop.”

She didn’t seem to hear him.

“Lily.” He spoke more sternly, as he lifted her up off his chest and set her beside him.

A tide of pink swept up her throat and over her face.

“I’m sorry,” she cried, as she scooted backward away from him until her back pressed against the stone wall.

She looked stricken with guilt, though the fault was his.

“No, wait,” he said.

“I’m to blame. I never should have touched you.”

Her eyes downcast, she nodded.

“Nor I you.”

The change in her was startling. He couldn’t bear to see her look so sad. Pushing aside his own cowardice, he held out a hand to her.

“Come here.”

Ian appeared distressed. Lily pushed aside her own discomfort—and guilt—and crept back to join him on the cloak. He need not know the comfort and pleasure she received simply from sitting near him. She felt his warmth beside her and sighed. With only this, she could be content.

“Dai has returned from Saint Winifred’s,” he said.

Startled, Lily met his gaze.

“He found out a great many things you wanted to know.”

He took her hand in his, intertwining their fingers when she didn’t resist, “I hadn’t intended to tell you tonight, but that was selfishness on my part. I hadn’t gotten over my own anger at what I heard. But how I feel isn’t important. You deserve to hear this. It’s your news more than mine.”

Lily had never expected to hear so soon. Heart beating wildly, she reached up and smoothed his hair back from his forehead.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t have many close relations, just my sister, Cat-tin, and a few cousins. But I have many more distant relatives, however, Llywelyn among them.”

“The prince is your cousin?” She hadn’t realized that.

“Aye, more’s the pity. He’s my least favorite, at the moment,” he added dryly.

“My favorite cousin, however, is a half-Welsh marcher baroness, Lady Gillian Fitz-Clifford de l’Eau Clair. She’s wed to a Norman knight who, fortunately for him, treats her as he should. Gillian’s mother was a Welsh noblewoman, her father a Norman baron. When Gillian was naught but a babe, her mother ran away. Later, we were told she’d died,” he added, his voice rough. Giving her hand a squeeze, he continued.

“I

remember Lowri well. She was very beautiful, and kind to a pesky little boy.” He smiled in remembrance.

“However, as it happens, Lowri didn’t die, not for many more years—years she would have shared with her family, but for the lies of yet another kinsman.”

“Llywelyn?” she asked. Why was he telling her so much about his family? What could it matter to her?

“Aye,” he growled.

“I don’t know for certain why he did it. But I intend to find out. I swear to you I will.” He took both her hands in his and held them tightly, his gaze never leaving hers.

“Lowri had another daughter, Lily.

You. For a moment, Lily could not breathe, her shock was so great. She’d never expected this. But she found her voice—barely—to ask the question burning in her mind.

“I have a sister?”

He nodded.

“And a niece, a brother-by-marriage, and many distant cousins. Including me.”

“Does my father still live?”

“He died two–no, three—years ago. Lung fever took him. He was much older than your mother. A good man, worthy of respect.” And Ian had respected him, she could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. How she wished she could have known her father!

But she mustn’t be greedy. Already she’d gained so much more than she’d ever anticipated.

A possibility surged to the front of her mind, demanding to be explored.

“Was my father’s name Simon?”

Ian looked surprised.

“How did you know?”

A shiver passed through her.

“My mother would ramble on sometimes, calling for people I’d never heard of, wailing as though her heart had been torn away. She called for Simon most often. And Gilly, too. I used to think she was trying to say Lily,” she added.

“Damn Llywelyn,” Ian muttered, cupping her cheek in his hand.

How she used to hope it was “Lily”—a sign that her mother remembered her existence. Lily set aside the old hurt; her mother’s pain had to have been so much deeper.

“I thought ‘twas all in her mind, for the sisters claimed she was quite mad. Most of the time, she simply stared at the wall. No one could reach her. Not even me.”

Tears streamed down her face. Ian gathered her into his arms and held her as she sobbed against his shoulder.

“I

wanted a family so much,” she whispered.

“How dare he take that from me, from Gillian? How dare he send my mother into a living hell? She grieved all those years, and for what?” She took several deep breaths, then sat up.

Ian wiped away Lily’s tears and smoothed her hair back from her face, but she derived little comfort from the soothing gestures.

“It’s no wonder he didn’t want to see me. I wish I’d taken your dagger to him when I saw him,” she snarled.

Her ferocity—and her insight—reminded Ian of her sister.

He hadn’t thought Lily would realize so quickly who was to blame for this tragedy. Or that there had to be more to the story. They needed to consider it all, to find a way to best Llywelyn. Otherwise, Lily would always be in danger.

“I believe I know why he did it,” Ian said. He reached for the mug of water she’d given him and handed it to her, urging her to drink.

“What reason could he possibly have for this?” she asked, her voice bitter.

“Power.”

“Doesn’t he have enough power already?”

“He could always use more. And eighteen years ago, he hadn’t yet gained what he has today. He has a vision, one we share, of a united Wales. We’ll be better able to fight our enemies if we’re not constantly battling each other.

“Tis a curse upon the Welsh people, I think, that we cannot agree with anyone about anything for long.”

“I don’t understand, Ian. What does he stand to gain from this? From me?”

“You are the daughter of a marcher lord and a member of the Welsh nobility—kin to the prince himself. Your father’s keep, l’Eau Clair, commands a fine piece of the marches—a Norman piece, for the moment. Although it is your family’s only holding, ‘tis an important one.”

“But if my sister is Norman, she has no loyalty to Llywelyn. How—”.

He waved her to silence as the pieces began to fall into place.

“I believes I see it now,” he told her, His lips twisted into a smile.

“It all makes perfect sense, and explains any number of other events I didn’t really understand.”

Lily poked him in the chest.

“Then explain this to me.

I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

“Llywelyn is a crafty bastard, though I knew that already.

But I never realized how far to the future he looks when making plans. Your sister is Norman, tree, but she was an infant when Lowri left. And so far as I know, Lord Simon had no idea she carried another child. Life is uncertain, and Simon was already a man past his prime.

Perhaps Llywelyn thought to gain control of l’Eau Clair.”

“I still don’t understand,” Lily said impatiently.

“It could have happened several ways. If Llywelyn had possession of Lowri and Simon died, he could bring her back and control the keep–and the heir, Gillian—through her.” His blood thrummed through his veins with growing anger as he considered it.

“Once you were born, it added another possibility to the scheme. If Gillian died, as well, or survived her father but refused to comply with Llywelyn’s wishes, he still had you. You’ve been raised as a Welshwoman. Your loyalty should be to him.”

“It isn’t now,” she added darkly.

“Since you’re a woman—a woman with little knowledge of the world, thanks to him—he could control you.”

He frowned as he considered another alternative.

“Or wed you to someone he could manipulate.”

“But if Gillian is married and has a child, he cannot use me for this.”

“He could if they died.” He took her hands again and gazed into her eyes, those eyes he’d thought seemed familiar.

Now he knew why.

“The past few years, since your father died, several very strange things have happened to Gillian. She was kidnapped twice by another member of our charming family. Steffan intended to wed her and gain control of l’Eau Clair. Her child would never have survived.” He glanced away and sighed in frustration.

“Llywelyn did nothing to him, despite the fact that he’d harmed a noblewoman—his kinswoman. The second time, Steffan tried to kill my sister, Catrin, too.”

“Where is Steffan now? Could he be involved in this?”

“He’s dead,” Ian said, his voice rich with satisfaction.

“My only regret is that Nicholas Talbot got to him before I could.” He smiled ruefully.

“Of course, Gillian’s husband, Rannulf, would likely have stepped in before I got a chance. He had the right.”

Lily stared at Ian, fascinated by the play of emotions across his handsome face. She still hadn’t quite adjusted to the idea that she had a family after all—and what a family! Strong, powerful, and loyal to each other. She tried not to think about her other kin, the dangerous ones.

She pushed the sadness of her parents’ grief deep, and tried to focus on the present.

“There’s so much I don’t know. Will you tell me?”

She rubbed at her forehead, but the ache growing behind her eyes refused to disappear.

Ian smoothed his hand through her haft and stroked the back of her neck in a soothing caress.

“I’ll tell you all I can, but not tonight. You look ready to drop.” He turned her so that her back was to him and used both hands to rub at her tense muscles.