Claire Delacroix (27 page)

But she was not. To her surprise, it was not the ghost of Michel’s indiscretion here that haunted her, but the vision of Yves and Franz tossing the stone bench over Perricault’s high walls. Gabrielle leaned on the wall and looked down into the rushing water of the river far below, imagining that she could pick out one or two shards of the bench.

A hollow ache resonated where her heart should have been. What had she cast aside in her anger?

A footstep sounded on the walkway and Gabrielle spun.

It was only Franz, looking apologetic to be troubling her. “My lady, a knight begs your audience in the hall. Will you come?”

“Who is he?”

Franz glanced away. “I know only that he is pledged to Perricault.”

Responsibilities called. Gabrielle swallowed her dissatisfaction. Yves was not here, so the responsibility of administering justice for those pledged to Perricault was hers. She spared one last glance toward the broken bench, wishing she could remain in her own company alone, then forced herself to smile.

“I will come, Franz.”

That man bowed and disappeared through the portal, leaving Gabrielle to follow behind. She took her time, not in the least bit interested in adjudicating some transgression or another. En route, Gabrielle noted that none of the servants seemed to be about.

That was odd for this time of the day.

She stepped from the corridor into the hall, only to find the reason why. Everyone who lived within the walls of Perricault was there, and a goodly number of those from the village now being restored.

They stood around the perimeter of the great hall, their expressions somber, the torchlight gleaming on their tanned faces. Thomas stood with Xavier, his gaze fixed upon a cloaked man standing in the middle of the room.

The familiarity of that man’s silhouette made the breath catch in Gabrielle’s throat.

But she did not turn aside from what she had said she would do. As she stepped into the room, Yves cast back his hood. He was paler than she recalled and uncertainty lingered in his features, though his glorious amber gaze bored into her own.

“My lady Gabrielle,” he said, and his voice was uncharacteristically husky. “I ask only that you listen to what I have to say before casting me out of Perricault for all time.”

Gabrielle could not find it within herself to deny Yves this one small request. She stared at him, not knowing what to say.

With a flick of his wrist, Yves produced a document that Gabrielle feared was familiar. “When last we were together, my lady, the Lord de Tulley granted me this document from his vast cellar of secrets.”

“I remember.”

Yves stepped forward and offered her the parchment. “Would you ascertain that it is the very same?” Gabrielle could do nothing but comply.

As they had so many weeks ago, in a tent at the count’s tournaments, their fingers brushed in the exchange.

But this time, Yves’ hands were cold. Gabrielle’s gaze flicked to his and she saw shadows lurking in the depths of his eyes. What had happened? What had wounded him so? She barely spared the parchment a glance, so disturbed was she by his obvious dismay.

Yves must be sorely troubled for his thoughts to be so readily visible, but Gabrielle could not imagine what the reason could be. Had he discovered that Tulley’s document was a lie?

“It is the same,” she acknowledged.

Yves nodded and plucked the parchment from her fingers once more. He snapped his fingers and Gaston snatched up a torch from a sconce on the wall and carried it to his knight.

“It is the same document, the one that pledges my legitimacy, and the one that sent you fleeing from my side.” Yves’ glance was compellingly steady, and Gabrielle could not look away. His voice dropped. “I told you that I declined Tulley, that I did not take this quest for the sake of him or this document. On this day, I will prove it to you.”

And Yves took the torch from Gaston as Gabrielle watched, touching the flame to the parchment so that it burned with vigor. He held the document until most of it was consumed, then cast it on the stone floor and ground the remainder to ashes beneath his heel.

Gabrielle gasped, then looked to her spouse to find his gaze burning with intent. “Was it genuine?”

“Of course.”

“There must be another!”

“There is none,” Yves said flatly. “This is the one and only, and it is no more.”

As Gabrielle fought to make sense of his deed, Yves dropped to one knee before her. “Gabrielle, I love you as I never imagined I could love another in all my days. I would not have this nonsense of Tulley’s drive us apart.”

Gabrielle could not believe her ears. “But your illegitimacy!”

“Means nothing in the face of what we two could have together. I thanked you once for inviting me into your home. Now I would make a family within this home, a family with the love between husband and wife at its very core.”

Yves cleared his throat and offered her his hand. “Gabrielle, I love you. Come and be my bride in truth.”

It seemed that all within the hall held their breath as they waited for Gabrielle’s response. She looked toward the ashes of the document and into the depths of Yves’ gaze, then to the strong hand he offered her. She could trust Yves, rely upon him, confide in him.

And she could love him, as well. This man had already fulfilled her every desire, except for one.

That one desire, the one Gabrielle coveted beyond all others, Yves offered to her now. But one glance into his eyes told her that this knight’s heart could be her own.

It was more, far more, than Gabrielle had ever hoped to claim.

She reached out and took Yves’ hand, gripping his fingers tightly. “I love you, Yves,” she declared, feeling tears of happiness rise to blur her vision. “I love you with all my heart and soul. I can imagine nothing I could desire more than to be your true bride.”

The cook’s wife sighed with romantic satisfaction, Gaston whooped with delight, but Gabrielle had eyes only for Yves. His smile was a flash of white against the bronze of his tan, his eyes gleamed with promise and he swept Gabrielle into his arms with rare abandon.

His kiss heated everything within her, though it was but a hint of what they would share later in the solar. Gabrielle returned his embrace wholeheartedly. The happy couple parted with a laugh as the assembly hooted and cheered, though Yves kept Gabrielle tight against his side.

Gabrielle felt a small fist clutch at her skirts. She looked down to find a pair of solemn dark eyes surveying them from below, Thomas’ other hand gripping Yves’ tabard.

“Does this mean that you have come back to stay?” her son asked uncertainly.

Yves ruffled the boy’s hair. “Of course,” he said firmly. “How else can I play with my friend and his new puppies?”

Thomas grinned with delight and clung to Yves’ hand. “You have to see! Xavier found a stall for them and they like it, I just know they do. Come and see!”

Thomas darted off toward the stables, assured that all was right within his world once more. “Hurry!” he demanded.

Yves captured Gabrielle’s hand in his own and gave her fingers a squeeze. “We simply have to go and see,” he insisted, and Gabrielle laughed.

“Hurry!” she teased, and readily matched step with him. As they walked, Gabrielle turned the ring Yves had put upon her finger, then looked up at him with a smile.

“However did you guess my sole desire?” she whispered, knowing her love for this knight shone in her eyes. Yves smiled the slow smile she loved and halted in the corridor to possessively bracket her waist with his hands.

“I told you once that my lady’s desire was as my own,” he murmured, bending to brush his lips across her own. “So it has been and so it shall remain.”

As he claimed her lips yet again, Gabrielle’s heart sang with the certainty that her knight spoke the truth. He would be her sole desire, as she would be his, from this day forward until the end of time.

And that was no small thing to have between them.

* * * * *

R
ings, like Eglantine’s, have long been considered to have magical power. The never ending circle of the ring has represented eternity to many peoples, as well as the circle of the year, and the wheel of fortune. Rings carried a man’s signet—or signature—and in fabulous tales, protected their wearer from harm.

It’s not surprising then that rings have been associated with marriage since at least Roman times. The Romans chose the third finger of the left hand as the ring finger because they believed a small artery (the
vena amoris
) led directly from this finger to the heart. There was no worse omen for a match than a broken wedding band!

Historically, marriages among nobles were not meant to be love matches, but strategic alliances. The troubadours patronized by Eleanor of Aquitaine in the twelfth century promoted the radical ideal of romantic love between a man and a woman—and because marriages had nothing to do with that happy state, they maintained that love was to be sought
outside
of marriage.

This was dangerous business, as a conviction of adultery—for a woman, at least—could mean death. Elaborate rules governed the interplay of these courtly lovers, many of
whom concentrated on showing esteem for each other in public and did not sully their “pure love” with consummation.

Rings were given as surreptitious tokens of the man’s admiration of the lady, in mimicry of wedding rings, but were worn on the small finger of the left hand. Over time, it became popular to give a ring engraved with a generic pronouncement of love, known as a poesy ring. Popular expressions included
A mon seul désir
(to my one desire) and
Amor Vincit
(love will conquer).

As it became acceptable in Western Europe to marry for love, the poesy ring evolved into the engagement ring, a token still given by a man to his lady fair as a symbol of his honorable intentions.

eISBN: 978-14592-6114-3

MY LADY’S DESIRE

Copyright © 1998 by Deborah A. Cooke

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