The Redeeming (5 page)

Which was likely as near an apology as he would get. “Will you sit with me, Lady Gaenor?”

She stared, but just when he thought she meant to refuse him, she said, “For a moment.”

Christian inclined his head, crossed to the solitary bench positioned against the chapel’s left-hand wall, and lowered onto it.

She followed and returned the dagger to its scabbard before seating herself on the far end of the bench.

Christian looked from her face to the pale throat and bit of collarbone revealed by her parted mantle, and when his perusal caused her hands to fly up and snatch the edges of the woolen garment together, he felt like a lecher.

Reminding himself that the audience he had been granted was not without time constraint, he said, “I know of this marriage from which you seek deliverance, Lady Gaenor.”

Though she was hardly relaxed, clutching at her mantle and sitting the edge as she did, she stiffened. “As ‘tis by the king’s command, my marriage to Baron Lavonne is no secret.”

“It is not, just as it is no secret that you fled to Wulfen to avoid it.”

Gaenor stared at the man before her. He was too bold, and though she knew what he said was true, she was inclined to challenge him. “Is it not?”

He smiled, a tolerant smile that, despite the anger it roused in her, forced her to acknowledge that Sir Matthew was not without attraction. Almost handsome, though not nearly as well-favored as—

“In all of England,” he said, “there is no castle more impregnable. Thus, what else is there to conclude than that the Wulfriths hid their beloved sister here?”

Beloved! She, whom her family intended to hand up as a sacrifice? She would laugh if not that the long months of believing Beatrix had given her life that her older sister might escape marriage had made her a stranger to such expression of emotion.

“Why are you opposed to the marriage, my lady?”

“Only a fool or martyr would put their head in such a noose as that which awaits the woman who weds a Lavonne.”

The knight looked momentarily away. “You speak from the experience of having met these Lavonnes?”

The man was insufferable! Wondering why she had let him convince her to sit with him, she said, “My family and our people have suffered much at the hands of that family.
That
is experience enough.”

He nodded slowly. “Given time, mayhap the Lavonne you are to wed will prove different from the others.”

“Ha!” It was as near a laugh as she was capable of producing. “And mayhap one day you, Sir Knight, will surpass my brother at swords.”

“’Tis possible—given time.”

Gaenor rose and swung away, but the knight was instantly at her back and turning a hand around her upper arm. Before she could retrieve her dagger, he pulled her around to face him.

“What I spoke was not meant to offend, Lady Gaenor, only to encourage.”

She opened her mouth to rebuke him, but his words seemed so sincere that she faltered.

Looking up at him—a rarity for a woman as tall as she—something moved in her chest. He was not as handsome as the one who held her heart, but his face was well-formed. Forgetting they stood so near, she considered his defined chin, generous mouth, broad cheekbones, and long, straight nose. Lastly, she settled on his most intriguing feature—brown eyes flecked with gold, unlike her own eyes that could best be described as muddy.

It took Gaenor some moments to realize the knight scrutinized her as intently, but though she knew she ought to be offended, she felt that movement again. And it disturbed her as she could not remember being disturbed the last time she had been so near a man. Why? And why this pang as if she betrayed the man she would choose to take her to wife—a man who did not want her?

She drew a shuddering breath. “Why are you at Wulfen, Sir Matthew?”

“As you have seen, I am training with your brothers.”

“I have seen, but ‘tis boys and young men who seek training here, not men who have already earned their spurs.”

The knight inclined his head. “On the battlefield, I discovered to my near detriment that my previous training was lacking. Thus, that I might not find my legs or life cut out from under me, I came to Wulfen.”

“I see.” Not entirely, but it was much the same as Everard had told when she had questioned him about Abel’s student. “And have you gained what you sought?”

His gaze drifted to her mouth, and the gold in his eyes seemed to shift amid the brown. “Not all, but methinks soon I shall.”

Gaenor felt herself sway toward the knight. Horrified, she lurched back and he released her. “I thank you for your concern, Sir Knight, but I must return to my chamber.”

He inclined his head. “Good day, my lady.”

At the door, she paused. “When do you depart Wulfen, Sir Matthew?”

“Less than a fortnight.”

For some reason, the prospect that it was not sooner was not displeasing to her. “Should you be present when next I seek the chapel, I but ask that you not delay in making your presence known.”

His eyebrows rose. “I give you my word.”

There was that movement again. Wishing it away, she swept the hood over her head and pulled the door open.

Long after her departure, Christian remained unmoving. Though he could not be certain, he had sensed the lady felt something not unlike the attraction that had surprised him when he had touched her and stood so near. Was it possible she had not truly given her heart to another? That it might yet be claimed?

In the next instant, he rejected such thinking. He did not seek nor require Gaenor Wulfrith’s heart. He wanted an end to the feuding between his family and the Wulfriths. He wanted children and a wife who neither feared nor loathed him. And now that he had met and spoken with his betrothed, it seemed possible he might gain all he sought—providing his deception did not upset everything. But there was time aplenty to reveal himself and make amends. Time during which he would not only continue to better his sword skill, but meet again with Lady Gaenor.

He looked over his shoulder at the slant of light coming through the eastern window. As it was another hour before he and Sir Everard returned to the darkened cellar, he considered remaining here and seeking God as he knew he must do. He wavered and, in the end, silently vowed he would seek God another day.

S
he did not understand it—did not know why it was no longer mere monotony and curiosity that drew her to her window to watch for Abel and his student. More, she did not understand the sense of loss when, for the second day, they did not appear.

She should not care, should proceed with her unending day the same as she did every day. But something kept her at the window, and she knew what it was. Despite Sir Matthew’s offense of stealing upon her, she was drawn to him.

She recalled his gold-flecked eyes that looked at her as if he truly wished to know who dwelt within; saw those same eyes waver when she flung contempt at him, and in the next instant warm upon her; saw his mouth tighten with impatience, then tuck up as if to smile; heard the ebb and flow of his deep voice that made her skin prick; felt his hand on her that had been firm, yet gentle; felt the pull in the space between them that had made her long to fill it.

She shook her head. She was not attracted to the knight. Could not possibly feel anything for a man she did not know beyond his discomfiting interest in her plight. More, it was another for whom she felt. And though her dream was hopeless, it was surely betrayal to feel anything for another man. Even if only attraction.

Gaenor groaned. She
had
felt something for Sir Matthew—something familiar, yet unfamiliar. Unfamiliar, for it was as if he had also felt it, unlike…

“Durand,” she whispered the name of the knight who felt naught for her despite what had gone between them.

Awash in shame, she silently vowed she would not return to the chapel until Sir Matthew left Wulfen a fortnight hence. Though she was surely mistaken in thinking he was attracted to her, if it was true, naught could come of it but more pain.

Less than a fortnight ere he departs,
she told herself, only to realize she would also be gone from Wulfen. And that hardly bore thinking on, as it was then she would meet her betrothed on the occasion of Beatrix’s wedding.

Resolved to remaining in her chamber and praying for the strength to accept her fate, she pressed her shoulders back, crossed to the bed, and lowered to her knees.

L
ady Gaenor had not returned. Though three days had passed since they had spoken, she continued to eschew the chapel. Thus, all Christian had to show for these past days were cuts and abrasions delivered by Sir Everard’s sword in the darkness of the cellar. Hardly a loss, for he was beginning to sense sounds and movements that had previously eluded him, but neither was it the gain he had expected.

Not for the first time, he wondered if Lady Gaenor had told her brothers of their meeting, but he again rejected the possibility. Had she spoken of it, the Wulfriths would surely have confronted him.

Accepting that his betrothed would not return to the chapel this day, he looked to the altar that beckoned each time he entered. And nearly turned away.

Setting his jaw, he strode from the shadows and knelt before the cross. He confessed his sins, from the private lusting of his body to the godless thoughts that aspired to his tongue. Every sin that came to mind he laid down, excepting the deception worked on Lady Gaenor.
That
he stored up for last. And yet, when he could think of no more sins to list, he hesitated. No sooner did he accede to its confession than he heard footfalls in the corridor.

Though tempted to stand that he would not be found kneeling, he remained with his back to the door. It whispered open and Lady Gaenor—it had to be her—entered.

Whether it was surprise at finding him inside that made her footsteps falter, or the unexpectedness of seeing him before the altar, he could not know, but she resumed her stride and knelt beside him.

“Sir Matthew.” She looked at him, the hostility that had previously shone from her eyes no longer in evidence. Still, there was wariness beneath the sweep of her lashes.

“Lady Gaenor.”

She averted her gaze and, for a moment, he thought she might smile. “Now ‘tis
I
who interrupts
your
solitude.”

“A welcome reprieve, my lady.”

She clasped her hands and closed her eyes. Unlike when he had watched from the shadows, she did not speak aloud her prayers, the only evidence of her conversation with God a slight movement of her lips.

As it would be unseemly to repent for his deception until he committed to revealing the truth to her, which he was now loath to do, Christian did not bow his head again but used the opportunity to observe her.

He liked the curve of her eyebrows that were darker than her hair, her lashes that threw long shadows across her cheeks, the bow of her upper lip that was not as unyielding as first thought, and the slender column of throat that was surely smooth to the touch.

“If I distract you from your prayers, Sir Matthew,” she said, eyes remaining closed, “mayhap I ought to leave.”

It seemed her senses were as keen as Sir Everard’s.

Christian straightened from the altar. “I had only just finished when you entered.” Though he did not wish to withdraw, having waited days to see her again, he said, “‘Tis I who ought to leave.”

She looked up. “It is not necessary. Indeed, if it would be of little imposition, I would have you wait on me.”

This he had not expected. “I shall, my lady.” Once again, he settled on the lone bench. It was not long before she joined him, and this time she left only three feet between them.

When Christian smiled, she looked down. Intrigued by the flush that warmed her cheeks, he said, “I had only just accepted I would not see you again when you entered.”

“I did not intend to return.”

For fear of him. “And yet you came.”

After a long moment, her eyes rose to his. “You and my brother, Abel, no longer practice at swords beyond the castle walls.”

Dare he believe his absence bothered her? “We do not. It is with Sir Everard I now train. He has set me the task of sharpening my senses to the sounds and movements of the dark.”

Her mouth quivered as if tempted to smile. “The cellar.”

“Aye.”

“That would account for…” She touched her cheek and chin to indicate two corresponding cuts on his face. “…your injuries.”

They were not much more than scratches. “Aye, though your brother is not without his own injuries.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Far fewer, I wager.”

Twinged that his man’s pride had caused him to point out that he was not an unworthy opponent, he said, “That wager you win, my lady.”

“Then I have but to name my prize, Sir Knight?” Her playful unguardedness surprised not only him, but her, as evidenced by the startle in her eyes.

Captivated, Christian took a risk he knew he should not and moved nearer. He laid a hand over hers. “Name it, my lady.”