Lady Of Fire (27 page)

Vincent opened his mouth, closed it on whatever he had been tempted to say, and strode from the hall and out into the last of day.

Lucien crossed to his mother. “I have need of a bath.”

“Of course. I shall have water delivered to the solar.”

That place where his mother and father had slept and made their children. Where Dorothea had birthed her babes. Where, when young, he and his brothers had gathered around their father to hear tales of the cowardly Brevilles and the fearless De Gautiers.

“’Tis yours now,” Dorothea said.

Hastened from his memories, Lucien acknowledged it was, indeed, his. And one day he would share it with a wife as his father and generations before him had done.

Visions of Alessandra arose. Alessandra in the great bed, red hair spread upon their pillows. Alessandra in the chair before the fire, a babe in her arms.

He dragged a hand across his stubbled jaw. “I must needs shave.”

“I shall do it,” Dorothea said, and hurried across the hall.

“What
is
up there?” a petulant voice asked.

Having not seen Giselle’s return to the hall, Lucien was surprised to find her staring up at him.

Despite fatigue and the ominous emotions beneath his skin, he summoned a smile for her. “Magic.” He lifted a hand, stirred the air above his head. “Up here, one can fly.”

She tapped her pursed mouth. “But only birds can fly, Lucien.”

With her naming of him, the ache in his heart eased. “And little girls who have big brothers with broad shoulders.”

She raised a sharp little eyebrow that he did not doubt would one day set many men aback. “I have not said you are my brother.”

“True, but mayhap you are ready to pretend I am.”

She looked as if she might once more denounce him, but she raised her arms. “I think that would be all right.”

Trying not to smile too wide lest she pridefully changed her mind, he plucked her up, told her to hold back her skirts, and settled her on his shoulders.

“Ooh,” she crooned, “’tis magic, as you said.”

“Would you like to try to fly?”

Her whole body shrugged. “I do not know how.”

“Hold your arms out to the sides.”

“But I might fall.”

“I will hold you steady.” He clasped her legs more tightly.

“Very well, but if I fall, ’twill prove you are not my brother.”

“I am prepared to accept the consequences.”

She laughed and raised her arms out to her sides. “I am ready, Lucien.”

His troubles and fatigue much lightened, he carried her about the hall amid giggles and gleeful cries and the silent refrain,
I am home.

As Jabbar had wept upon Sabine’s deathbed, so did James when Alessandra finished translating her mother’s letter—or nearly so. He was too English to allow any to witness his tears, though the back he turned to her quaked with silent sobs.

The letter had been addressed to Catherine’s aunt and uncle, but its message was clearly meant for James. It recorded her abduction from Corburry, her first months in the harem, the birth of Alessandra, the intervening years, the sickness thieving her body, and Lucien’s role in delivering Alessandra to England.

Only one detail was missing, Alessandra had realized when she came to the last, beseeching line of the letter. Her mother had not mentioned her great love for Jabbar. She had been wise not to, for there was no doubt James had loved her deeply. No good would come of him learning of Catherine’s feelings for another man.

For hours, Alessandra and James sat alone in the great hall, even now forgoing the evening meal as they attempted to bridge the lost years.

Though there were some facets to James’s personality that might take years to understand, Alessandra was soon assured of one thing. As her mother had said, he was kind, his one failing the same as Lucien’s—the legacy of hate between their families.

Still, he spoke often of the new peace, reveled in the word each time he uttered it, and expressed concern over whether it would last now that Lucien was home.

Tentatively, Alessandra posed the question uppermost in her mind—what would Lucien find upon his arrival at Falstaff?

Though James attempted to turn the conversation, he eventually yielded the truth.

“You won the land from his brother?” she repeated.

“Fairly, I vow, and with good intentions.”

“What was that?”

He smiled. “Surely you can guess.”

“Peace?”

“Aye. Had it been Lucien, I might never have attempted such a thing, but it was simple with Vincent. The idea was to gain what the De Gautiers treasured most and offer it back to them at a price.”

“The price being peace.”

He inclined his head. “And a grandchild that would forever join our families.”

“Vincent was agreeable?”

“As agreeable as a De Gautier can be.”

Alessandra looked past him to a tapestry that depicted men engaged in battle. “Lucien will return,” she said, “but I do not think it will be in peace.”

James also considered the tapestry. “The battle at Cresting Ridge in the year 1342,” he said. “The De Gautiers lost six men, the Brevilles five. Breville victory by the death of a lad too young to heft the sword he carried.”

A shiver stole up Alessandra’s spine for what the tapestry represented—a repulsive gloating over death.

James sighed. “I fear you may be right. Still, I pray Lucien will put aside his pride and reconsider marriage to Melissant.”

Alessandra’s silence was her undoing.

Her father gave her a searching stare. “What happened between you and De Gautier?”

She felt herself blush. “I…” She clenched her hands in the blanket James had earlier sent for when she had begun shivering. “Lucien was kind to me.”

Her father chuckled. “Not likely. Tolerant, perhaps. Never kind.”

She shook her head. “You are wrong about him.”

“I pray I am. But you have not answered my question.”

Though he was her father, it was not easy what he asked. “I am chaste,” she said.

James covered her hands with one of his. “As hoped, but what of your feelings for him?”

Should she tell him of her love for his enemy?

The appearance of James’s wife saved Alessandra from responding. Stepping from the stairs, the woman crossed the hall with a young woman and boy on her heels.

Frowning, James stood. “I had thought you would await my summons.”

Agnes halted before him. “And I had thought you would summon me sooner.” Her gaze flickered over Alessandra, dismissed her. “With darkness upon us and no meal laid, it has fallen to me to interrupt your conversation.”

James’s jaw worked. “Which you have succeeded in doing.”

The young woman stepped forward, smiled sweetly. “Is it true, Father”—she nodded at Alessandra—“she is also your daughter?”

James put a hand beneath Alessandra’s elbow and urged her to stand.

Reluctantly, Alessandra gave up the warmth of the blanket, feeling anew the draft of cool air that crept in through every crack in the hall. Even on the deck of the ship, with the night wind blowing through her clothes, she had been warmer. But then, Lucien had been at her back, arms encircling her. Would they ever again?

She sighed, wished her father would call for a fire to be set in the hearth.

“Aye, Melissant,” James said. “She is my daughter and your half sister.”

“Is she also mine, Father?” the boy asked.

What seemed pride leapt off James’s face as he looked upon the lad who appeared ten or so years aged. “Aye, Ethan, she is.”

Alessandra wondered if she ought to embrace this brother and sister as she had done her father. But uncertain as to how such affection would be received, she linked her hands before her.

A frown aged Ethan’s young face as he considered Alessandra’s mouth. “Mother says she speaks strange. That she has the sound of the infidel.”

A look passed between Agnes and James, his fit with displeasure, hers with defiance.

Turning aside her mother’s warnings about her cousin, Alessandra silently sympathized with Agnes. It could not be easy to live in the shadow of one whom James had so loved, especially her childhood rival.

James set a hand upon Ethan’s shoulder. “’Tis true Alessandra speaks different—with a song in her voice. But she is Christian, the same as you and I.”

“Let me hear,” Ethan said.

Alessandra smiled. “It is most pleasant to meet you, young Ethan.” She shifted her regard to his sister. “And you, Melissant.”

They both stared.

“What of our daughter’s betrothal, James?” Agnes asked.

James stepped forward and took Melissant’s hands in his. “I am sorry, but Lucien de Gautier’s return has spoiled our plans.”

“I am not to wed Vincent?”

“It seems not.”

Alessandra did not think the girl looked disappointed. Indeed, her eyes brightened.

“But perhaps Lucien,” Agnes said.

James snapped his gaze to her. “Do you forget he declined?”

“He may reconsider once he learns there is more than peace to be gained in wedding Melissant.”

The land, Alessandra thought. “You are wrong,” she said. “Lucien will take back his lands by force before he will bend a knee to a Breville.”

Agnes turned to her. “You cannot know that.”

“But I do. I—”

“Because you have lain with a man does not mean you know his mind,” Agnes said.

And she had sympathized with this woman? Alessandra gathered words to respond to the accusation, but James said, “Stand down, Agnes.”

“’Tis true,” she pressed. “Look at her. Do you not think a man like De Gautier would not take what she blatantly offers?”

Alessandra glanced down her attire, then up to compare it with what Agnes and Melissant wore. It seemed little different from their gowns. In fact, the cut of hers was more modest.

What then? Her hair hanging unbound past her shoulders? Agnes’s was mostly concealed by a jeweled cap, and Melissant’s braids were pinned on either side of her head over her ears.

While Alessandra had been occupied with discovering what made her so different from the other women, James had moved to stand before his wife.

“You are behaving the shrew, Agnes,” he said. “Alessandra is my daughter, and—”

“As is Melissant. And do not forget you also have a son from me.”

He bent his head near hers. “Henceforth, you will keep your nasty thoughts inside your head or suffer my displeasure.”

The standoff was abandoned only when Agnes spat, “Very well, but do not forget to whom your first duty is.”

“To the Breville name, as it has always been.”

Her eyebrows soared. “You know ’tis your children of whom I speak.”

“Of which Alessandra is the firstborn.”

“If what she says is true, which—”

“It is true, Agnes. And ‘twould benefit you to accept it.”

Though the woman closed her mouth, the way she crossed her arms over her chest said the discussion was far from over, and she had no intention of embracing the trespasser in their midst.

James turned back to his children, smiled tightly. “Methinks a tourney would best introduce Alessandra to the gentry. What think you of that?”

“Aye, Father!” Ethan exclaimed.

“Alessandra?” James asked.

“A tourney,” she mused. She had heard tales of such celebrations but knew little of them. “It sounds interesting.”

“Then it will be done. A month hence, Corburry will host its first tournament in a decade.”

“Where is the sun?” Alessandra bemoaned, keenly feeling its absence as she had every day this past fortnight. She was nearly a month at Corburry now and had yet to see a full blue sky or feel the sun’s heat upon skin that was often covered in prickly bumps.

At first, it had been an interesting change from the Maghrib, but now it was almost monotonous. Though the green of England was beyond compare, the price paid for such beauty seemed too high.

“I thought never to tire of rainbows,” she muttered. “Now I am nearly sick of them.”

“Come away from the window,” Melissant urged.

Lifting her chin from her hands, Alessandra looked over her shoulder.

Dressed in a gown of lustrous velvet, its buttons loosened as a defense against the overheated room, her sister sat upon the bed as far from the fire as possible. Propped in her lap was an illuminated tome, its warped and discolored pages attesting to its respectable age.

Alessandra smiled as she reflected on their friendship. In spite of Agnes’s attempts to keep James’s daughters apart, the girl was a bit of a rebel. At every opportunity, she sought out Alessandra, begging for tales of Algiers and life in the harem in exchange for demonstrations of the English way of things.

Having a sister filled a void of which Alessandra had been unaware, while the void left by Lucien’s absence grew more terrible with each passing day.

His silence was almost unbearable. Though James’s men kept an eye out for his vengeful coming, thus far, their efforts were for naught.

“Come,” Melissant beckoned again. “I wish to show you something.”

 
Alessandra straightened from the window, but was tempted instead to the hearth she rarely allowed to go cold. Taking up the poker, she stoked the fire, then reached to add another log.

Melissant groaned. “Must you? I am near to burning up.”

Alessandra paused, and for what seemed the hundredth time, said, “I have hardly been warm since leaving the Maghrib.”

Her sister lowered her book. “’Twill be a miserable winter if you do not soon adapt.”

“I cannot believe it could get any colder than this. Rarely have I seen my breath upon the air, and now each morn when I awaken, it is there when I come out from beneath the covers.”

 
Melissant giggled. “And yet you sleep almost fully clothed.”

“Did I not, I would be like the frost upon the window, and you would find me dead come morn.”

“Methinks you need a man to warm you.” At the widening of Alessandra’s eyes, Melissant quickly added, “’Tis what Hellie tells me when I complain of the cold.”

She referred to the robust cook who had groused about modifying the foods her lord’s daughter ate, but who had finally complied when Alessandra became sick in her presence.