The Redeeming (35 page)

For what reason had Gaenor dismounted and shown herself? Defiance, abject though it surely was now that she found herself surrounded? To beg mercy for a man who suffered no qualms at allowing her to place herself between him and her husband’s wrath? What if her menses were not soon in coming as she had told? What if even now she bore—?

What if all is not as it appears? What if you wrongly condemn her? What if she does love you as you have felt she might?

The thoughts slipped in, and his pride, railing at once more being made a fool, sought to trample them. But they would not be ground into dust, strengthened as they were by the hope he feared to feel.

Lord, I have struggled to regain Your favor, sat my knees and bowed my head alongside this woman. Tell me it was not in vain—that the prayers that passed my lips were constant with those that passed hers.

Despite the silent beseeching that flowed out of hope, outraged pride continued to grip him, and he knew it showed when he halted his destrier and looked into Gaenor’s upturned face. “Wife.”

Her gaze did not waver. “Aye, wife—now and evermore.”

He narrowed his lids.

She raised her chin higher. “You believe I have betrayed you.”

“If not betrayal, what?”

After a long moment, during which her eyes moistened, she said, “Love.”

Christian felt the imagined knife sink deeper. Jaw gripping so tight he thought the bones might crack, he said between his teeth, “You love Sir Durand.”

“Nay, ‘tis my sister I love—and you, though you refuse to see it. But you will see it if you lower your sword and allow me to explain why I am here.”

“What is there to explain? Once more, you have chosen him over me.” He jutted his chin at the man who hardly looked a knight, unshaven and bedraggled as Sir Durand was.

“I have not. I but agreed to accompany him that we might convince you and your men to turn toward Castle Soaring.”

Christian blinked. “What fantastic tale is this?”

Knowing the minutes that ought to be carrying them toward her sister were fast slipping away, Gaenor fought back her own feelings of betrayal, stepped forward, and spread a hand upon Christian’s thigh. “’Tis, indeed, fantastic, but not as you think, and there is not much time for the telling.” Relieved that he did not shirk her touch, she peered over her shoulder. “Do you not recognize the horse upon which Sir Durand sits?”

His gaze shot past her and, for a moment, no recognition shined in them. Then he frowned.

“Aye, ’tis your brother’s, taken from his camp on the day past after Sir Durand freed Sir Mark.”

Christian looked back at her.

She nodded. “The same who sent word of the location of the brigands’ camp weeks past. He has been following and keeping watch over them.”

“Why?”

“He feared for Beatrix, and with good reason. Your brother seeks to scale Soaring’s walls and work revenge upon my sister. For that, and not me, Sir Durand stole into Broehne and overpowered Sir Hector—that he might gain my aid in convincing you to ride on Soaring.” She stepped nearer and moved her hand from his thigh to his white-knuckled fist. “Pray, believe me and delay no more.”

The tension in his jaw eased slightly, and for that she was unprepared for his next words. “Does it pain you that ‘twas not for you that Durand stole into Broehne?”

She pressed her lips against a gasp and, with great ache, removed her hand from him. “The only pain I feel is pain of fear for my sister and pain of love for a man who thinks so ill of me he would ask such a question, especially after all I have told.”

His jaw loosened further. “You say you love me, Gaenor?”

The ugly beast of pride moved through her, urging her to declare that his disbelief had undone those feelings, but she could not. Still, there was no quieting the anger with which her pride would have to make do.

Fighting off tears she longed to spill, she said, “Will you or will you not ride to my sister’s aid?”

Something—was it regret?—flashed in his eyes, and a moment later he sheathed his sword, opened his fist, and reached to her. “Come up in front of me.”

The longing to give her hand into his was so great that she had to dig her nails into her palms to hold from doing so. “What of my sister?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “I will send my father on to Broehne and turn my men toward Soaring as you ask.”

Gaenor had guessed that the bundle she had seen Christian hand off to a man-at-arms was the old baron. “Your father lives?”

“He does.”

It took every bit of her fortitude to not retreat. She had not wished the vengeful Aldous Lavonne dead, but the reality that the one who had worked such ill upon the Wulfriths would share the roof beneath which she dwelt was almost too much to bear. As difficult as it had been to find acceptance at Broehne, it would be nothing compared to what awaited her when the old man and his fomenting hatred once more resided within the castle walls.

“Robert left him to die,” Christian said.

As Durand had told.

“Gaenor,” Christian said sharply, “you have naught to fear.”

Only then did she realize how fast her breath came, causing her shoulders to heave as if she had run many leagues.

Christian reached his hand nearer. “Though, methinks, he knows his error, my father is not much longer for this life.”

She could not help but grasp at the comfort of knowing that no matter what Aldous made her suffer, it would not be for long. She drew a trembling breath. “Still, Robert will do his bidding.”

“And for that we must delay no more. Come.”

She put her hand in his and he lifted her onto his destrier. As she touched back against him, she longed to sink into this man who, even if he did not return her love, felt enough for her that he did not relegate her to the rear of his saddle. Regardless of what he determined about her and Durand, she was precious to Christian to some degree, whereas…

It struck her that, even had Durand loved her in return, his feelings would never come near whatever her husband felt for her.

Looking to the knight who loved Beatrix, she was relieved that, as Christian had returned his sword to its scabbard, so had he. Sitting the saddle with a restlessness that bespoke impatience, he stared at them.

“Sir Abel!” Christian called. “D’Arci!”

Gaenor’s brother and the physician broke from the others, and Christian turned his mount sideways to receive them.

The steely gaze Abel landed to Gaenor as he reined in told that Christian was not the only one who believed ill of her, but she did not look away. No matter how things might appear, she was redeemed.

“Our plans have changed.” Christian looked to D’Arci. “Though I would have you escort my father and the healer to Broehne, I cannot ask it of you.”

The physician glanced at Gaenor. “I do not understand.”

“’Twould seem Durand enlisted my wife to bring word to us that the brigands have set a course for Castle Soaring—may even now be within its walls.”

D’Arci paled and Abel cursed.

“Let us converse with Durand that we might ride on Soaring,” Christian said and urged his destrier forward.

Though Gaenor tried to maintain space between herself and her husband, she was forced back against his chain mail-clad chest.

Moments later, the two men with whom she’d had relations faced one another, one wafting an odor so deep it nearly burned the eyes, the other wafting a jealousy so wide it threatened to swallow them whole. Aware that she was all that stood between them and the swing of their swords, Gaenor sent up a prayer that reason would prevail.

“Baron Lavonne,” Durand said with an almost imperceptible lowering of his chin that held his eyes firm to the man at Gaenor’s back.

“If all you have related to my
wife
is true,” Christian said, foregoing the formality of acknowledgment, “then the sooner we ride, the sooner my vassal’s
wife
may be delivered from harm.”

Christian’s emphasis on “wife” caused the knight’s gaze to darken as he looked between Christian, Abel, and D’Arci. “I am no coward,” he said, “but neither am I so fool to rashly seek out those who wish me dead. I have good reason for placing myself at your mercy, and that reason is Lady Beatrix.”

“Another man’s wife,” D’Arci snarled.

Gaenor knew Durand would not welcome her pity, but still she felt it for this man who faced not only the husband of the woman he loved and could never have, but the husband and brother of the woman whose virtue he had claimed.

Durand inclined his head, more perceptibly this time. “God willing, still she is your wife. Unfortunately, much depends on how much time you waste discussing the matter.”

He was right. At this very moment—

Gaenor whipped her chin around and landed her gaze upon her husband. “Enough posturing. We must ride.”

Light flared in Christian’s eyes, but as he stared at her, it dimmed. “You will return to Broehne with my father and—”

“Nay!” Something had been building in Gaenor of which she was only vaguely aware until that moment. “I did not risk all, especially your good opinion of me, that I might skulk back to the castle. Like it or nay, I will accompany you to Soaring.” She looked to her brother. “And neither will you gainsay me, Abel.”

Of course, neither had to gainsay her. They had but to pass her to a man-at-arms who would return her to Broehne—but not without a fight. And, it seemed, both men realized this, for the order was not forthcoming.

“Very well,” Christian said, “but you will do as told.”

Perhaps she would. Perhaps she would not. Much depended on what lay ahead. If they believed she would simply stand by when she could aid her sister, they did not know the woman she was becoming.

She raised her eyebrows. “And now can we ride?”

Christian’s jaw tensed, and she knew he wanted to demand her submission, but it would be a waste of yet more time.

Within minutes, the party was organized, a small escort sent to Broehne to deliver Aldous and the healer to safety, and the larger number of knights and men-at-arms spurring toward Soaring.

G
aenor was only as yielding in her husband’s arms as the fierce ride forced her to be. And Christian knew regret time and again as the sun lowered and the leagues passed too slowly though the horses could give no more.

What have I done? What has my jealousy wrought? Will she forgive me as she did when I believed she clung to Durand’s missive?

He glanced at the bedraggled knight where he rode alongside Abel. All this time, the man had been on the barony of Abingdale and, it seemed, had made himself the unlikeliest of allies. All for love of Beatrix D’Arci, not Gaenor, though it had appeared—

Aye, this day it looked to all that Gaenor betrayed, but I should have listened ere believing what ought not to be believed of her. And what if the time wasted on bringing me around proves the difference between saving her sister and not?

The terrible thoughts crowded Christian though he repeatedly turned from them to how he must make use of the skills taught him by the Wulfriths if he was to put an end to the terror his half-brother wreaked on Abingdale.

Think death,
Abel had commanded.
Feel death. Breathe death. Embrace death.
And yet—

If he did not, how many more lives would be ravaged and lost to Robert’s misbegotten revenge?

Christian gripped the reins tighter. He must not waver, must remember he was no longer of the class of men who prayed, must now and forever claim his place among those who fought.

When Castle Soaring came into view, it looked as it always did. But that was hardly telling, especially as night had nearly overtaken day. More telling were the four riders who came out of the wood to the right of the castle. They were expected, for D’Arci favored night patrols, especially when he was absent from the castle, but that did not mean these men were to be trusted.

As Christian and his party slowed and drew weapons, Gaenor’s head snapped around. “They are Robert’s?”

Sword to hand, Christian said, “I do not believe so, but we shall know soon enough.”

A moment later, D’Arci shouted, “They are mine,” and spurred forward.

“What does it mean?” Gaenor asked.

“It seems all is well—that the walls have not been breached.” For the first time since he had taken her up in front of him, Christian felt her relax.

“Thank you, Lord,” she said so softly he nearly missed the words.

As Christian and his party assembled before the castle, D’Arci gave the order to lower the drawbridge. With a labored creak and groan and clank, the chains let out. However, as the thickly bound wooden planks began their journey toward the ground, the thanks that Gaenor had offered up were dashed by shouts and cries from within the walls.

“My lord!” a man-at-arms bellowed from atop the gatehouse. “The donjon is taken!”

As D’Arci, Abel, and Durand roared and cursed, Christian ground his jaws. Somehow, the brigands had, indeed, breached the walls, meaning it could be too late for Beatrix.