The Redeeming (4 page)

Disgusted with his inaction, Christian stepped to the left, and the toe of his boot connected with something solid and unmoving. He reached with his free hand and discovered a wall of stacked barrels. Though his ire stirred, he continued to listen as he felt his hand across them in search of a path that would lead him toward Sir Everard. When the wall ended and a sweep of his hand confirmed emptiness, he stepped forward.

Silently berating the iron links that rang softly as he moved, he strained to hear Sir Everard and caught a faint sound. Was it in response to his own movement?

He smiled at the realization he was something of a walking trap. Despite the disadvantage of alerting his opponent to his movements, the mail forced a response from Sir Everard. Whether he was retreating or merely readying for their skirmish, it could not be known.

Again, Christian faced a wall of barrels, but he quickly found a way around it. When the soft scuffling came from the far right, he paused, determined it must be a rodent, and resumed his search to the left. An instant later, the air stirred before his face.

He swept his sword up and was forced back when his blade met Sir Everard’s.

“Listen for my breath, Baron!” The knight pushed off and swung again.

Christian knocked aside the blow intended for his shoulder, causing Sir Everard to grunt.

“Smell the sweat of my body!”

Christian did smell it. Or was it his own?

“Look for the lighter shadows amid the darker!”

More sparks as their blades clashed overhead.

“Turn your senses toward me, toward danger, toward death.” Sir Everard dragged his blade off Christian’s and once more slipped away.

The game went on for what seemed hours, during which Sir Everard drew blood from a half dozen places unprotected by Christian’s mail and Christian had the satisfaction of also finding his mark, though only a few times and after much expenditure of effort and frustration.

When Sir Everard finally pounded up the stairs and threw open the door, flooding the darkness with light, Christian wanted nothing more than to seek the cool stream in the wood beyond the castle. Though, physically, the training had not been strenuous, the straining of his mind for things beyond his sight made him feel raw.

“We shall try again on the morrow,” Sir Everard said.

Christian squinted up at the knight. “That is it? No lessons you would have me recite?” As Abel would surely have required.

“I but offer advice.”

Christian wiped a hand across his moist brow. “That is?”

“When you take my sister to wife, Baron Lavonne, you would do well to proceed as cautiously with her as you did with your sword amid the dark of this cellar.”

Christian was surprised, for previous to this day, no word had passed between them regarding Gaenor Wulfrith. Of course, most of his time had been spent with the youngest brother, but Abel had also avoided talk of his sister.

Wondering if either brother knew to whom she had given her heart, Christian asked, “And what other advice would you offer regarding Lady Gaenor?”

The knight arched an eyebrow. “None that comes upon me at the moment.”

Disappointed to have gained no further insight into the unwilling woman he was to wed, Christian said, “I thank you.”

The knight disappeared down the corridor.

As Christian followed, Sir Everard’s advice rolled through him. “Proceed cautiously,” he murmured while mounting the stairs.

Though he had told himself that peace and children were all he required of his wife, he knew more was needed if he and Gaenor Wulfrith were to make a life out of the darkness of the past. He must be patient, must not allow her love for another to stand as a wall between them, must find a way to draw her to his side. But how to proceed when all he knew of her was her hatred for his family and her love for another man?

Christian paused in the doorway. Might she return to the chapel on the morrow?

S
he was not alone.

The sensation felt on the day past, which she had convinced herself was mere foolishness, thrummed deeper as she stared at the altar before which she knelt. Who watched? It could not be the priest, for he would not skulk about even though she had made known her aversion to his well-intentioned counsel.

She lowered her gaze past her clasped hands to the scabbard on her girdle. It held her meat dagger, and though only one side of the blade was honed, it was sharp.

Though part of Gaenor urged her to behave as if naught were amiss and directly seek her exit, another part rebelled. If she was right, twice now in as many days, someone had violated her solitude. And would likely do so again when next she returned to keep her word to the Lord.

It was not to be tolerated. For too many months she had sheltered at Wulfen and allowed her brothers to do for her what she could do for herself, but no more. Regardless of what Everard or Abel might say, it was
she
who would out the intruder. And woe to the man who mistook her for a mere woman wielding an eating utensil. She was, after all, a Wulfrith.

She flicked her gaze to the cross. “Amen.” She pulled the dagger, rose, and turned to face the dark recesses of the chapel’s rear wall. “Reveal yourself.”

To her surprise, the man stepped forward, and she saw he was taller than even her brother, Garr, and broad-shouldered like—

Her dagger-wielding hand wavered as the flickering light fell across his fair hair and solemn face. It was
him
.

Though she had only seen him from a distance, it was the one with whom Abel had spent this past month beyond the castle’s training field. For lack of other activity, every day she watched the two engage at swords from her chamber in the uppermost floor of the donjon—excepting the day past when they had not appeared. Such a curiosity it was for a nobleman to seek and receive training at Wulfen. So curious that, a sennight after first coming to her notice, she had asked after him when Everard had found her at the window.

A knight who sought betterment of his sword skill, was all he had revealed before warning her to take care that she was not seen at the window. His concern had made her laugh bitterly, for she knew the same as her brothers that King Henry was aware of her presence at Wulfen. The only ones who were yet oblivious were the young men who trained here, and they were of no danger to her.

Halfway across the chapel, the intruder halted. “My lady,” he said, as if theirs was an arranged meeting rather than a violation of her privacy.

How did he know she was noble? It was not as if the mantle that concealed the fine raiments beneath were edged in ermine. The simple, woollen outer garment could belong to any common woman. Might she be mistaken in believing those who trained at Wulfen remained ignorant of her presence? If so, why was she still confined abovestairs excepting the rare occasion when Everard or Abel took her riding?

No sooner did the question settle than the answer followed. For the distraction women breed, Everard would say. Regardless if one was a lady or a serving woman, their sex was not allowed at Wulfen. And with good reason, considering the upheaval caused by Lady Annyn Bretanne who had come here four years past in the guise of a squire. Though intent on working revenge against Gaenor’s brother, Garr, her attempt on his life was thwarted. Thus, before all, she was revealed to be a woman. Now she was Garr’s wife.

“Who are you?” Gaenor continued to brandish her dagger, though he made no move to draw nearer.

“You do not know?”

“I do not, though from afar I have seen you at training with my brother, Sir Abel.”

Something turned in his eyes, but she did not think it was surprise that she was Abel’s sister. And she had not intended it should be, for if he knew her to be a lady, he surely knew the only woman who would be allowed at Wulfen was the Wulfrith sister who had gone to ground.

As the man before her had yet to answer, Gaenor said, “I still do not know your name, Sir Knight, nor the reason you did not reveal yourself when I entered.”

Christian glanced at the dagger, then returned his gaze to the woman who would be his wife. Though he knew he would regret the course he was about to set, he could not tell her the truth, especially as it seemed a truth for which she was unprepared. Not only was it apparent her brothers had told her nothing of her betrothed’s training, but despite Christian’s prompt, she showed no sign of consideration that the one who had watched from the shadows was the same man whom she believed to be without integrity and honor—a man whom she beseeched God that she not be made to wed.

Silently acknowledging the sin of his deception, making no attempt to justify the means by which he might learn about the woman with whom he would spend his life, he said, “I am called Sir Matthew.” He searched out the color of her eyes amid the low light. “And I did not reveal myself lest I disturb your prayers.”

Her lids narrowed in a face that was, perhaps, a bit long. “Yesterday as well?”

Gaenor Wulfrith was not to be underestimated, Christian realized as her brother’s advice returned to him. Not only had the lady’s keen senses picked his presence from the shadows this day, but she knew it was he who had tipped her senses on the day past.

“Yesterday as well,” he said. “‘Twould seem you and I are similarly inclined to seek the Lord past the dawning of day.”

A brittle smile revealing straight teeth, she said, “Nay, Sir Matthew, I am inclined to seek the Lord
without
an audience, and twice now you have denied me that.”

“So I have.” Though chafed by her refusal to soften, Christian dipped his chin. “Apologies, my lady. I assure you, ‘twas not done with ill intent.”

“What intent, then?” She appeared unmoved by his show of contrition. But, then, it was not genuine, for he would do again what he had done to better prepare for their marriage.

“‘Tis true my presence on the day past was mere happenstance, just as it is true today it was not. I came that I might see you again, Lady Gaenor.”

“Me?” Her tone implied it was unthinkable that a man would wish to lay eyes upon her. “For what purpose?”

Christian commanded his features to remain impassive. Was she really such a shrew? Or was his lack of experience with women responsible? Once, before leaving the monastery, he had tasted the fruit forbidden him, but even in the years since eschewing his vows, he had done so only on occasion despite the carnal ache of his body. And only then with women who required no courting or expression of emotion.

Of course, Gaenor Wulfrith was no harlot. Her heart might be given to another, but it was not likely she knew more than the clasp of her beloved’s hand.

He took a step toward her. “I am moved by your plight, to which I was privy on the day past.”

Her expression slackened as if his admission surprised her, then tightened again. “On the day past when you made free with prayers not intended for your ears.”

“Unintentionally.”

“Perhaps.”

Christian eyed the weapon she continued to point at him. Though it was only a meat dagger, a Wulfrith woman likely knew how to wield a blade. “You do not need that. I intend you no harm.”

“Perhaps,” she said again.

Beginning to regret having not revealed the truth of his identity, as it did not seem likely his deception would gain him further insight, he asked, “Would you grant me an audience, Lady Gaenor?”

“Why?”

“As told, I am moved by your plight.”

Her mouth pinched. “I see no gain in discussing the intimacies of my life with a stranger.”

“There may not be, but if you are like me, there is little else upon which to pass the next hour.”

Her gaze faltered and something like interest crept into her eyes.

Taking it for assent, Christian strode forward. And was nearly undone when she sprang at him. Torchlight running the silver blade she swept toward him, he felt a rush of air at his jaw that preceded its arrival. He did not know how he did it, she moved so deftly, but he caught her wrist and averted her course before she could draw blood.

As she strained to free herself, he pulled her toward him lest she find advantage in the space between them. She stumbled and her temple struck his jaw, but despite the discomfort she surely suffered, she did not relent.

Beneath the concealing mantle, she was not without form, Christian realized as he felt the press of her chest against his and the womanly curve of her hips. “Lady Gaenor, I vow I mean you no harm.”

She whipped her chin up. Anger flushing her cheeks and flying from her eyes, she demanded, “Then loose me!”

Her eyes were brown, large pools of darkness that might warm a man if ever they shone with something other than ire.

“Loose me!”

He looked to the dagger upon which her knuckles were white. Though he considered stipulating that first she relinquish the weapon, it occurred to him this might be the means by which he gained her trust. He released her wrist and took a step back.

From the widening of her eyes, she was surprised. With less than a reach separating them, she searched his face, then slowly lowered the dagger. “You took me unawares, Sir Matthew.”