The Christmas Knight (29 page)

Ranulf felt Bronwyn’s grip increase, warning him to stay still. She was probably right. However, it did not change his desire to get her out of there before things escalated. “As my wife’s sisters were married on the same day, I have no doubt their husbands will also demand to know why.”

Enraged to discover the leverage he held was nonexistent, Luc’s eyes stabbed Bronwyn. “I should have been the one,” he sputtered, advancing toward her, unheeding of the danger he was in. “You were for me. I refused all others, endured my father’s anger all to have
you
…and you betrayed me to marry a cripple. How could you? He doesn’t love you, not like me.”

Bronwyn reached inside her bliaut and slid her palm around the leather girth hidden within. “It doesn’t matter if he loves me, Luc, I love him.”

“After what he did to you? How can you when—”

“You’ve said enough, baron,” Ranulf interjected, his skin pale with wrath. Stepping forward in front of Bronwyn, he signaled his soldiers, who had been quietly entering the Hall, to encircle Luc. “I think it best that you leave now.”

Luc gritted his teeth and remained silent, recognizing the look in Ranulf’s eye. They were merciless, and another word would undoubtedly mean his death. But it did not matter. Hunswick was not his battleground. Here was the one place Ranulf was strong. Everywhere else it was the reverse. And Luc had seen what he needed to defeat Ranulf and take back what should have been his. His final probing question had not angered Bronwyn, but perplexed her. Luc took a chance and glanced at her one more time, relishing her still crinkled brow.

She did not know.

Luc artfully nodded once more, pivoted, and left the Hall, vowing to himself that he would have his revenge.

The moment Baron Craven was out of sight, Ranulf waved for his men to escort him completely off his property. Without even asking, Tyr tossed him one of the swords and grunted, “I’ll see that it is done.”

With that, Tyr was gone, leaving only a few servants, who had been praying that they would be able to escape before the fighting commenced. So when Ranulf let go a clipped, “Leave now,” all dropped what they were doing and hastened out of the room, suddenly eager to find their friends and loved ones to tell the tale. Finally alone, Ranulf spun Bronwyn around, closed his hand around the back of her head, and brought his mouth down to hers. He parted her lips with his tongue, desperately claiming her once again, needing to know that she was still his and only his.

Bronwyn moaned softly and tightened her grip on his shoulder, trembling at the intensity. To his every demand, she surrendered. When he finally ended the kiss, it was a long while before she opened her eyes. Staring back was anguish and love.

Without a word, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her to the hearth chairs, settling her on his lap. Ranulf cupped her cheek and she held her breath, his touch so tender. Then he kissed her once more, lightly, persuasively, pulling her closer to him.

Bronwyn leaned in to deepen the kiss when he broke free and sat her back up. “Hold on,” he groaned and reached inside her bliaut to find the painful object stabbing his leg. He pulled out a small, but sharp dagger, which she had been clutching earlier. “Was tonight special or do you carry that thing with you all the time?”

“Not
all
the time,” she answered defensively, her tone indicating that more often than not it was with her.

He eyed her and then put down the sharp blade on the table next to them. “Do you know how to use it? Or do you just feel safer with a weapon?” he asked carefully.

Bronwyn leaned in close again and let her lips tease the place directly behind his right ear. “Someday I will give you a demonstration of my skills. But not now.”

Ranulf swallowed, knowing what would happen if he allowed her to continue, and nudged her head down so that it rested on his chest. He was far from the mood to start a fight, but daggers were dangerous, and if not handled properly, they could give the attacker more of an edge than the owner.

Sighing, Bronwyn nestled closer. “Today has been a long day.”

“I’m sorry about this morning.”

“What did Luc mean, Ranulf? What does he think you did to me that would make me hate you or at the very least not want to be married to you?”

Instantly, the tension draining him returned. Bronwyn had not missed the baron’s parting question or its meaning. He stared at the fire and slowly stroked her spine, wondering how to begin. Unable to find the words, he said, “There is something that you should know about my past. I had planned—and still plan—to tell you after Epiphany. It is not pleasant, but I also promise you that it will not change anything between us. I need you to trust me. Can you do that? Trust me enough to wait and believe that nothing you will ever learn of me or I of you will diminish what we feel for each other?”

Dark heavy lashes shadowed her cheeks. So Luc had been right. There was something she should know about Ranulf. But Luc had also been wrong. Ranulf was not hiding it from her and never had intended to keep it a secret. He wanted time and she could understand why. She felt as if she had known Ranulf a lifetime, but in reality, their time together had been very brief and mostly tumultuous. After weathering these past few days of doubt and distrust, she knew nothing he could reveal would change how she felt about him. But Ranulf had not had the years of familial love and acceptance she had received. He was still new to what they shared, and if he needed more time to believe it could not be broken, she would give it to him.

“Until after Epiphany,” she whispered. “And whatever it is, I shall not leave, Ranulf. This is where I belong, with you, in your arms.”

Her gaze locked with his, and Ranulf felt an overwhelming warmth invade his heart as it began to beat again. The fear inside him began to recede. He was going to survive, after all. “I’ll never let you go, angel,” he said, his eyes turning to molten gold.

“You better not,” she whispered just before his lips once again consumed hers.

T
UESDAY
, D
ECEMBER
28, 1154
C
HILDERMAS
,
THE
F
EAST OF THE
H
OLY
I
NNOCENTS

Bronwyn pushed the heavy brush aside and looked into the rocky clearing where she expected to find an injured boy. But it was no child standing in the center. Luc Craven had tricked her into leaving Hunswick, and going beyond Ranulf’s immediate reach.

Last night, Tyr had come back declaring the baron had returned to his lands, and he might have, but Luc knew Torrens almost as well as she. He could have easily snuck back and evaded the few guards Ranulf had placed in the woods. Seeing the golden stubble sparkling on his sculpted cheeks and dark circles enhancing the dangerous glitter of his ice blue eyes, Bronwyn knew that was exactly what he had done.

She should have expected Luc would try such a move, especially after his humiliating departure last night. But never did she suspect a ruse when one of the village children told her that a boy had fallen off the jumping rocks and needed help. Ranulf had already left to fetch the youngest child for the feast that night. She had expected him back soon, but unwilling to wait while a boy was in pain, she had left, asking one of Ranulf’s soldiers to be her escort.

“Gowan,” Bronwyn said sharply, gaining the young soldier’s attention as he waited for her to proceed. “I need you to return to Hunswick and find Ranulf. Tell him why I left and that I will be right here waiting for him.”

Gowan flexed his grip on his sword. She thought he was going to argue with her, but he finally gave her a curt nod and returned toward the castle. Fortunately, he could not see through the brush; otherwise he would have recognized Luc and she would have never persuaded him to leave. As soon as the young soldier vanished, she gripped the small dagger hidden in the pocket of her bliaut and stepped through the brush, knowing that if she returned as well, Luc would follow.

Once inside the clearing, Luc advanced until he was standing just out of arms’ reach in front of her. She flashed him a look of disdain and held her ground. “You should leave now, Luc, while you can. Ranulf won’t be so understanding.”

A shadow of triumph swept across Luc’s face. “Worried for me?” he asked, his voice full of contempt. “How touching and very unnecessary. I know these woods nearly as well as you do, angel. Your new lord could only find me if I wished him to.”

Bronwyn looked at him with mute defiance, hating to hear the truth. The landscapes of Cumbria were varied. On many the grass grew wild, unencumbered with trees. But around Bassellmere, the woods were thick, creating many places to hide, and Luc knew them all. In a year, maybe two, Ranulf would as well, but at this moment, if Luc decided to disappear, he could confidently do so.

“Angel—” Luc began, inching forward.

Bronwyn stepped back to maintain the space between them. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why? Is that what he calls you?” His cold eyes sniped at her. “It’s a wonder you can even stand his touch, but I can fix that.”

Luc’s sudden change in attitude toward her put Bronwyn even more on guard. Last night, he had been incensed upon learning she was married and that she loved her husband. So what game was he playing now? He wasn’t here to spirit her away, but something else. What was he trying to achieve? “You spent a lot of effort getting me here. Why?”

He shrugged, not offended by her question or her desire to keep her distance. “It was actually very little effort. No more than, say, the amount as you spent in sending the boy soldier to play fetch, leaving us alone…so you could learn the truth about your beloved
husband
.”

“I’m not afraid of you anymore, Luc. Hurting me will be regarded as an act of war—a war you would lose and I think you know it. You value your life far too much to risk it on me.”

“How little you know me, angel.” The flames smoldering in Luc’s eyes suddenly dimmed, leaving them ice cold and emotionless. “I
loved
you.”

The hot breath she was holding burned in her throat. “That’s not love, Luc. Your desire for power dominates anything you could feel for me. You never wanted me. You covet Syndlear and are angry it is forever out of your grasp.”

Luc scoffed and began to pace. “I don’t deny I wanted Syndlear. With it came everything I ever deserved, most of all
you
,” he asserted, pausing to look her in the eye. He took a step in her direction. “And do not deceive yourself into believing the new Lord Anscombe is any different. You think I’m cruel and unkind, but I have never harmed anyone you loved.
I’m
not the one who killed your father.”

Bronwyn felt the air leave her lungs as a bitter cold feeling of anguish gripped her soul. She examined Luc’s face, seeking evidence of lies or exaggerations, but found none. He was telling the truth.

“Your lover didn’t mention that, did he?” Luc continued. “Did he tell you that he
knew
your father? That they traveled on the same ship? And that just before they reached England, it was your
husband
who pushed over several crates, crushing the one man who forced him into his duty? Didn’t you ever wonder why the king ordered the new lord to marry Lillabet and not you? Penance, angel. Lily brings her husband beauty, but you…you come with land. But he defied our new king, didn’t he? And you accuse me of desiring power.”

“I don’t believe you,” Bronwyn choked, barely able to speak.

“Yes, you do,” Luc countered, his voice laced with dark warning. He moved forward and grasped her upper arms. “That cripple took you from me. He tricked you, lied to you, but it is not too late. Come with me and I will see you get an annulment. We can still be together.”

Bronwyn wrenched free and flung out her hands to keep him from coming close. Anger surged through her, temporarily driving out the sorrow. “If what you say is true…I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll never be with you. I don’t love you, Luc. I never will. And how my father died changes nothing.”

Luc’s eyes dimmed and she saw the fury boiling inside him. He finally understood that she would never be his; he had been clinging to a fantasy that would never come true. And with it, her belief that he wouldn’t hurt her disappeared.

Bronwyn reached in her bliaut for her dagger and wrapped her palm around its girth, preparing to take aim. But then he pivoted and grabbed the mane of his horse to mount. His white-knuckled grip on the reins revealed his raging fury. “Take great care, Lady Anscombe, for if I can’t have you, I will no longer concern myself over your welfare.”

Then he was gone.

The moment of imminent confrontation passed. Swallowing a sob that rose in her throat, she felt her legs give beneath her. Grief and despair tore at her as the enormity of Luc’s revelation washed over her. Finally, tears broke free, as she allowed herself to feel the agony of her father’s loss. When strong arms encircled her, lifting her off the ground, she did not stop them. She continued to weep until she had no more tears to shed.

Ranulf’s blood raced and the tight knot in his stomach doubled. His heart pounded with every sob that overtook her limp body. He clenched Bronwyn to him tightly, wishing his sheer presence could diminish her pain, but with her continued silence, he feared that it was just the opposite.

When Gowan had found him and repeated Bronwyn’s message, a cold fear like he had never known ripped through him as he realized what happened and that Luc was alone with his wife. As Ranulf tore off to find Bronwyn, Tyr had ordered the young soldier to remain behind, probably to save his life for leaving her ladyship. But Ranulf had been too busy blaming himself for not anticipating Luc’s plan.

Bronwyn let go a soft whimper and he tightened his grip. She didn’t resist, but she had not wrapped her arms around him. Instead, she huddled within herself, withdrawing from him. It was tearing him apart.

He should have told Bronwyn the truth last night. He should have told her right after they met. But he had been afraid of losing her. And now he would.

Arriving back at Hunswick, Ranulf drove Pertinax through the gatehouse. He threw the reins at one of the stable boys and then swung down. He was about to slide Bronwyn off the horse and into his arms, when she slipped to the ground to stand beside him. He put his arm around her, tucking her protectively against his side, and guided her across the courtyard to keep onlookers from realizing something was wrong.

Just before he reached the Tower Keep, Father Morrell appeared before him. “My lord, I need to ask you about the Feast of Innocents and when you intend to bless the children.”

“Do it yourself,” Ranulf gritted out and stepped around him, keeping Bronwyn next to him. “Her ladyship is ill. Neither of us will be attending.”

The priest tried to argue, but Ranulf left him stammering as he directed Bronwyn into the Tower Keep and up the stairs to his solar. He kicked open the door, and after settling her in the hearth chair, he went to throw another log into the fire.

Bronwyn pulled her knees up close and watched him from beneath lowered lashes as he moved to bolt the door. Was he caging his rage? Or had she imagined the slight tremor when he left her side? As soon as Ranulf turned around, she had her answer. He was furious. But at who?

She rotated her gaze to rest on the fire and rested her cheek against her knee. Ranulf moved behind her and she felt his knuckles graze her back as he clutched the frame of the chair. “Did he…hurt you? Touch you?”

His tone reflected what she had seen, fear and potential uncontrollable rage. “No,” she whispered, her voice raspy. She licked her lips. “He just wanted to talk. To tell me about what happened to my father.”

Ranulf did not say a word, but she could feel his knuckles grow sharper as his grip grew tighter.

“Did you…” Bronwyn started, pausing in mid-thought. She had thought about directly asking if he had killed her father, but the question sounded too much like she believed he murdered him. “Was it you that caused the accident?” she finally asked.

“Aye.”

Bronwyn waited, but Ranulf said nothing more. No explanation, no justification, no reasons. She had expected more, wanted more, needed something to prove that what Luc had told her was made up of partial truths, and mostly lies. But if Luc had been right about her father…then what of his other claim? Bronwyn pulled her knees tighter toward her chest. “Then you married me for Syndlear,” she murmured, not realizing her random thoughts had been spoken aloud.

Ranulf abruptly released the back of her chair and in two steps was in front of her. Her statement had cut him deeper than any wound ever could. The first accusation he had expected, but the second? “What do you want me to say? No, I didn’t marry you for Syndlear. Yes, I was there when your father died. He was a…good man. And his death was a great loss to me. If you are going to believe anything, believe that,” he growled. “Or do you need to go run out and find your baron to confirm it?”

She shook her head and brushed away newly formed tears. “Please tell me what happened. How you met, where my father died, about Syndlear…I need to know. I need to know all of it.”

Regret for his harsh words assailed Ranulf. He sank into the hearth chair beside her and faced her, his elbows on his knees. Her forehead was resting on her thigh, and more than anything, he wanted to gather her in his arms and hold her close, letting her use him as support, but he remained seated, and answered her question.

He told her everything—how he had met Laon, what happened, and the promise her father had made him make. Bronwyn never interrupted or stopped him and he found himself telling her more than he’d ever intended. How her father was one of the few to challenge his beliefs, his way of thinking. How Laon forced him to see a world that could benefit not just from his sword and bow, but from his experiences. That her father loved his daughters immensely. That he was a great man, who had a singular ability to persuade people to his position on things, even the new king and queen—something few could do. Throughout it all, she remained silent. Not moving or saying anything to give him an indication of whether he should say more or less. Finally, he could add nothing further.

Slipping down to his knees, Ranulf gathered her hands in his and tucked back a lock of her hair almost as if he was afraid to touch her. “Would you like to be alone?”

Bronwyn digested the question. Emotionally, she didn’t want him to go, but if he stayed, she would crumple and cave in to the desire to be held in his arms. And she wasn’t ready mentally to accept comfort from the very man responsible for her grief. Unable to put voice to her warring desires, she nodded.

Rising, Ranulf walked over to the chest by the window and pulled something out. She couldn’t discern what it was and wasn’t going to risk looking at him to find out. “I’ll have some food delivered to you. Try and eat.” She felt his lips against her hair. “I’m so sorry, Bronwyn,” he whispered and then left.

Suddenly, she felt more bereft and desolate than ever before. Tears once again scalded her eyes, flooding them until she could not see. Unable to sit up any longer, she stumbled to the bed and let go all that she felt. For hours, she lay there weeping, overwhelmed with loneliness and the emptiness surrounding her. And when she could cry no more, she sat up, wishing Ranulf would return, for at last she understood much of her despair was because he was not there. Hearing about her father’s death, she had initially felt as if the years ahead were suddenly vacant, with no one to share her happiness or her pain, no one to care whether she lived or died. But she did have someone. Ranulf.