The Loyal Heart (28 page)

“They’re not a nuisance.” It didn’t count as lying if she wanted to believe it.

Crispin walked back to her and extended a goblet. If she hadn’t been so thirsty she would have thrown it in his face. Damn him for looking at her like that and for being so … so intoxicating. She snatched the goblet and drank a gulp.

“Aubrey…,” he began in the tone that made her blood race through her veins. It was too vulnerable, pried at her heart.

“Whatever justifications for your actions you’re about to sell me, I’m not buying.” She downed the rest of her wine in one gulp and stomped past him to return her goblet to the sideboard.

“You’re ashamed of me.”

It took her a beat to register what he said. “Why would I be ashamed of you?” If she didn’t know better she would have thought that Crispin had hurt feelings.

“I don’t know, Aubrey. Because I come from a dubious background? Because I serve Buxton? Because I’m opposed to King Richard? Because I’m a murderer?” He turned to face her. “Because I ‘defeated’ you?” He hesitated before saying, “Because I’m not Ethan Windale?” He met her eyes with his last words, but couldn’t sustain the contact. He shoved his goblet on the sideboard. It fell over with a clatter.

Aubrey was miserable and stunned. He did have hurt feelings. “I’m not ashamed of you, Crispin.” She understood the truth of her words as they were spoken and swallowed the implications. “I disagree with you at every turn, but I’m not ashamed of you.” He scoffed and stared at the ceiling, still not able to look at her. The gesture irritated her. “I’m not!” She threw out her arms. “Well what do you want me to say? Do you want me to say that I
am
ashamed of you?”

“No.” He stepped away, still not meeting her eyes.

“Do you want me to say that I’m ashamed to be ‘lord’ of Windale?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to say that I’m ashamed to be Lady Huntingdon?” He kept silent. Her heart flipped into her stomach. “Well I’m not! I did not chose this, Crispin, a fact you know full well. All I wanted to do was help my friends. I was tricked into marriage. But….” She paused and grimaced as her warped sense of compassion had brought her to the point of saying what she didn’t want to say at a time when she dreaded saying it. “I feel needed here.” She let out her breath. “There. Are you satisfied?”

His eyes had softened but his face was still stony. “Then why won’t you talk to me, confide in me?”

“Crispin, it’s not that easy!” She threw up her hands. “You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t understand!” His shout made her jump and her anger flare hotter. “I don’t understand you because you never talk to me. I’m your husband-”

“Thanks for reminding me-”

“-and you never talk to me!”

“I don’t want you to be my husband!” The words slipped out before she could stop herself and she slapped a hand to her mouth.

“I know!” he whispered, voice cracking. “Don’t you think I don’t know that? You remind me of it every single waking instant. And some of the sleeping ones too! But guess what, Aubrey,” he took two long steps to her and she leaned back as she tried to hold her own, “I
am
your husband! And no one forced the air out of your lungs when you said those vows. Deception or no deception, you could have easily not come that day, you could have stopped the ceremony halfway through. You and I both know that you’re capable of such dramatics. But no, you made your choice. Now stop trying to punish me for a choice that you regret!”

He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, slamming the door as he fled into the cool dusk and away from the house.

Aubrey stood where she was, too stunned to move. Part of her wanted to lock the door behind him and part of her wanted to run after him. Temper or no temper, his accusation stung. She wasn’t punishing him. She wasn’t. Was she?

She paced along the length of the table telling herself she wasn’t over and over until she withered into the realization that she was. She was punishing the one man who had never let her down, except for when he married her. But she couldn’t very well be sweet to him and lead him into thinking that he had a chance of making her love him. She wouldn’t love him. So then why did she have to like him?

She paced the hall, waiting for him to come back so that she could apologize for losing her temper. He didn’t come. Supper was brought out and laid on the table for them and she sat and ate. He still didn’t come. As darkness fell and the autumn chill swirled into the air she began to worry about him. His supper sat on the table and grew cold. She stood and paced the room, checked over her notes of the day. She even went so far as to walk outside and look around in the dark to see if he was just lurking in the shadows. It was too dark to see anything and a cold, damp wind was blowing up a storm. She bit her lip and decided to give up and go to bed.

In their bedroom she undressed, worried that he would walk in on her at any moment, maybe even demand his rights as her husband. She took a look at the fresh, ugly scar on her side before throwing a nightgown over her head.

Still he didn’t come. The house was silent. She paced the room for several minutes, willing him to come to her. Not that she knew what she would do if he did. She went to the window and looked out, straining her neck to catch any sign of him. Biting her lip and frowning she went over to the bed and crawled under the covers She blew the candle out and lay on her back, staring at the ceiling.

Her worry was interrupted by Crispin’s heavy footfalls on the stairs. She snapped her eyes shut and rolled to her side as if she had been sleeping for hours. The door open and then shut. For several moments there was no sound at all. She did her best to fake sleep. Then she heard him walk over to the chair by the window.

She opened her eyes enough to see what he was doing. He had shrugged off his tunic and thrown it over the back of the chair and now he was pulling the boots off his feet. She watched, eyes concealed in the darkness, as he unlaced his chausses and threw them on the other side of the trunk. She could see in his movement that he was still upset. He pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. The moonlight hit his pale, muscled torso and Aubrey felt her heart beat faster. He threw the shirt on the floor then paused as something out the window caught his attention. He willed himself to be calm. For several moments he stood there in nothing but his smallclothes. Her mouth watered as she looked. She cursed herself for liking it.

He turned away from the window with a shake of his head and unfastened his smallclothes. She decided to be daring and get a look at all of him. But as soon as she saw the barest hint of the thicket of black hair below his waist she squeezed her eyes shut.

She listened to him fish around in his trunk for his nightclothes. It was a struggle to remember to breathe and unclench her tensed body before he could walk over to the bed and discover her. As he slid between the sheets at the other end of the bed she hoped she would be safe, that he wouldn’t reach for her. At least that was what she thought she hoped. The frantic coil low in her body argued otherwise.

Crispin sighed as he settled. She listened to the sound of his breathing, waiting for it to even out. It took a long time, but eventually it did. She, on the other hand, remained awake and pulsing for a long time to come.

Ethan tugged the hood of the cloak further over his eyes as he leaned against the bustling tavern near the gate of Derby Castle. He was sick at the thought that he had trusted the wrong people. Even as he gathered the flotsam and jetsam of the forest under his banner to fight for his cause he knew he would never trust a single one of them. Except maybe for Roderick. Roderick was the one who had uncovered the truth of just how wrong he was to trust.

Jack’s betrayal was a plain as day. He stood talking to Huntingdon just outside of the cloister of Derby Castle. Ethan watched as Huntingdon asked him questions and Jack answered each one with a smile. He smiled at the man who had killed his father, taken his land, and stolen Aubrey. The hatred that burned inside of him was so hot that when Huntingdon handed Jack a small handful of coins he could feel it burning in his throat. Jack grinned at Huntingdon and clasped his hand before turning and strolling out across the courtyard, counting the coins as he thrust them in his pocket.

Ethan pushed away from the wall and followed when Jack passed him. He clenched his fists in rage under the cloak, wanting nothing more than to reach out and slam Jack across the face.

Jack dropped one of the coins. It hit the ground and he stopped as it rolled behind him. He searched the ground for it.

“Drop your blood money?” Ethan quivered with rage, stepping on the coin.

The self-satisfied grin dropped off of Jack’s face. “Look, I can explain, mate.”

Ethan punched him in the face before he could get another word out. Jack stumbled backwards. He lunged at him and punched him again, knocking him over. Jack fell hard, coins flying. A few passing townsmen gasped and made a grab for the coins.

“Traitor!” Ethan growled.

Jack half pushed himself up on his arms, the shock in his eyes melting into loathing. “I hate to tell you, mate,” he rubbed his jaw, “but Huntingdon pays better ‘n you do.”

Ethan slammed him across the face again. This time the back of Jack’s head hit the ground and bounced off with the force of the blow. He stayed down. Ethan stood where he was, furious eyes daring Jack to say something, to move, to give him a reason to crush him like a bug. The coward didn’t even look at him.

Fueled by the bitterness of his betrayal Ethan spat, then stepped over him and on to his horse. Once he mounted he turned and walked back to where Jack was crawling to his feet.

“If you ever try to come to the camp, if you ever set foot in the forest again, I’ll have you killed.”

“Let me at least talk to Tom first, mate.”

Ethan turned his horse and nudged it forward. “No.”

Aubrey glance up from her early afternoon herb lore lesson in the garden at the rumble of a rider galloping up the lane. She craned her neck to search out the rider then handed her basket of herbs to Joanna and rushed to the front yard.

Her eyes widened at the sight of Crispin. He had been driving himself from dawn to dusk for weeks to throw together the Harvest Faire Buxton had ordered for the week leading up to Prince John’s visit. In all that time he had made it home before supper twice. The sight of him now made her bite her lip to keep from smiling and press and hand to her stomach to keep the butterflies at bay.

When he came to a stop and dismounted she opened her mouth to ask why he was home. She gasped when she saw his face. His left eye was swollen and several cuts were either bleeding or caked with dried blood from his cheekbone to his hairline.

“What happened?” She was too concerned to cringe at the emotion in her voice.

“Buxton happened.” He stormed past her towards the house, as if he expected her to be frightened or disgusted by him.

A coil of confusion and pulsating anger made her chase after him and steer him to the low wall running in front of the house. When he stopped and turned to tell her off she reached up and brushed away the lock of hair that drooped down over the wounds. He flinched and winced at her touch but steadied himself. “I’ve seen worse.”

“Where?”

“On me.” She glowered at his temper. “Remember?” He held his tongue. “Joanna, fetch me some clean water and a towel.” Joanna nodded and rushed into the house, sparing a worried look for her master. “And you,” she ordered Crispin, “sit.”

Crispin sighed and sat dutifully on the wall’s rounded top. He was tall enough that even sitting Aubrey’s head was only just above his. She brushed the hair back from his wounded face to have a closer look as he scowled in resentment, unable to meet her eyes.

“
Buxton
did this?” She couldn’t believe that the small, petty man had the strength to cause this much damage.

“He ordered one of the guards to do it.”

Aubrey’s eyebrows shot up. “Buxton
ordered
someone to smash your face?”

“Yes.”

She gaped. Ever since witnessing the confrontation between Crispin and Buxton in the chapel when Madeline and Sister Bernadette had been taken prisoner she had questioned Crispin’s relationship with his master. She’d questioned Buxton’s sanity too. Reluctant as she was to admit it, this destroyed any lingering idea that Crispin was Buxton’s lap-dog. “Why?”

Joanna returned with a small bowl of water and a cloth, handing them to Aubrey before leaving them alone. Aubrey dampened the cloth and began dabbing at Crispin’s face. He kept his mouth pressed shut.

“Well?” She cupped his rough chin with her hand and tilted his head up to get a better look at the cuts as the dried blood came away in the cloth.

“Does Buxton really need a reason to be violent?” His voice was thick and a flush came to his cheeks. Their eyes met. She caught her breath. Her hand cradled his jaw, his skin was warm and rough in her palm. She dropped her hand as if it had ignited.

“No, I guess he doesn’t.” She cleared her throat and studied his face. “Was the guard wearing mail?” Her tone rose as she realized what the rows of half-moon welts were.