The Redeeming (7 page)

“I thank you for asking, though I am curious as to your reason, especially after my unforgivable trespass on that first day.”

“It is not unforgivable, Sir Matthew. Were it, I would not have requested that you attend me again.”

“I am pleased.” He smiled again, this time larger.

From the slight tuck of her lips, she was tempted to respond in kind.

“Is there some way I may be of service, my lady?”

“Simply by meeting with me again, you are of great service.” She smoothed a hand over the mantle. “As you surely know, I have been long within these walls and with little companionship excepting that which my brothers are able to spare away from their duties.”

“But surely there are others at Wulfen who attend you and would be better company than I?”

“There are a few to whom I have been entrusted, but they are duty bound. You, Sir Matthew, are not, and yet you attend me of your own accord. Why?”

Now was the time to reveal himself, before his deception became further entrenched. But though he could not hope for a better opportunity, he remained loath to do so. “As told, I am moved by your plight.”

Her lids narrowed. “The plight of someone you do not know? Why?”

“Few noble marriages are made for other than material gain, my lady. Thus, you are not alone in having others set your course.”

Interest brightened her eyes, and she turned to more fully face him. “You also suffer from the prospect of an arranged marriage?”

Suffer…

Carefully choosing words that would not further complicate his deception, he said, “Like you, I am betrothed.” Was it disappointment that flickered across her face? “And the choice of whom I wed is denied me, but I would not call it suffering.” Indeed, though his initial response to the king’s decree was resentment and defiance, after grueling reflection on the benefits of wedding into the Wulfrith family, he had accepted the decision.

“Then you have met the lady you are to wed?”

Yet another opportunity he would let slip by, but at least he could be truthful. “Aye, we have met.” Uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken, he said, “Tell me, Lady Gaenor, since first you and I were acquainted, have you become better resolved to marrying the baron?”

Bitter laughter escaped her. “Hardly.”

Though she knew he had witnessed her prayers that first day, what next met Christian’s lips was too bold to speak, but he had to know. “Then you yet pray the Lord will release you from the obligation?”

“Nay. If there is one thing I am resolved to, ‘tis acceptance that God shall not grant my request. Thus, as my family has determined I shall wed Baron Lavonne, there is naught for it.”

“Unless you steal away again,” Christian reminded her of her flight that had nearly cost her sister’s life. Then, remembering her heart lay elsewhere, he added, “Or if someone were to steal you away.”

Her reaction was delayed, but when it came, it was not as expected. This time, her laughter was playful. “Are you offering, Sir Knight?”

Struck by the sparkle in her eyes and the bow of her lips that not only revealed white teeth but caused comely dimples to groove her cheeks, Christian stared at her transformation from almost plain to pretty.

Her head listed right on her slender neck. “Are you?”

It
was
as implied, though not as intended. “Pardon, my lady, but when I asked, I referred to the man to whom you have given your heart.”

Her breath caught and she swept her gaze down.

The minutes stretched, during which Christian chastised himself for mentioning that other one whose absence he preferred. Though not normally prone to speech without forethought, with Lady Gaenor, words stole past his lips before he could check them. Why? Because of this tightness in his chest at the thought or mention of the man who possessed the heart of the woman who would be his wife?

She looked back at him. “He is in my past, and there he shall remain.”

There was no mistaking the pain in her voice. Suppressing anger that reeked of jealousy he had no reason to suffer, he said, “That is good, as ‘twill make it easier for you when you wed.”

She inclined her head. “I do not mean to sound self-pitying, Sir Matthew, but I fear there is little that will make it easier—unless you reconsider stealing me away.”

Then perhaps she
would
run, given the chance.

Christian stared at her, one moment offended that she so hated him that she would allow a man of whom she knew little to take her away, in the next flattered at the prospect she would entrust herself to him—rather, Sir Matthew. “Are you truly so desperate to escape marriage, my lady?”

Her brow furrowed. “Do not worry so, Sir Matthew. I would not ask anything of you that would endanger your relationship with the Wulfriths.” As if to lighten her words, she smiled. However, the expression wavered, evidencing her forced gaiety.

Had he reacted differently to her suggestion that he steal her away, how would she have responded?

She looked down. “Be assured, I will do my duty to my family, for though I resent being reduced to chattel, I love them well.”

Once more, his thoughts birthed words that slipped past his lips before he could consider them. “Then you would not go with me if I did offer to spirit you away?”

Her fingers paused in the midst of smoothing her mantle. “I would not.”

Did she speak true? Or did she fear he would alert her family to the possibility she might once more flee?

“I am grateful,” he said, hoping to ease the tension, “for I would not like such a temptation set before me.”

“Temptation?” She put her head to the side. “I should not tell you this, but I like you, Sir Matthew.”

Progress. But was it enough with which to buy forgiveness when she learned he was the man she detested? Relieved that her shoulders had relaxed, he said, “Such a statement begs the question of why you like me.”

She shrugged. “You are different.”

“From whom?”

“Those who look through me.”

He leaned near. “I do not understand.”

“I shall enlighten you.” She raised a finger. “Though you must promise not to laugh.”

“I give you my word.”

“Then I shall take the chance, though only because I shall not see you again when you leave Wulfen Castle.”

Once more accosted by his deception, Christian clenched his teeth.

She clasped her hands. “When your gaze falls upon me, you look
at
me, and I like that. I like that you see me.”

“Who else would I see?”

“’Tis not who else you would see, but who you would not see that would cause such disappointment.”

“And that would be?”

“My sister, Beatrix. Had you met her, no explanation would be necessary.”

He
had
met her, and though he realized Lady Gaenor likely referred to the differences in their appearances, he still wanted an explanation. “Continue.”

Again, she smiled, and he almost wished he had kept count of the number of times she had done so this day, for each turn of her lips was precious.

“Beatrix is not only profoundly lovely,” she said with a flicker of resentment that might have been imagined, “but of a height that does not cause men to strain their necks to look upon her. I do not need to tell you I was not so gifted by God. Thus, I have but to be placed alongside her to be reduced to a blemish.”

Though Christian did not wish to offend her, he swept his gaze from her darkly blonde hair, to her eyes, nose, and mouth, and down her figure to the slippers peeking from beneath the hem of her gown.

It was true Lady Beatrix was a beautiful woman and that Gaenor presented as plain and, at times, severe, but there was more to her, as evidenced by what he had glimpsed this day. “If that is so, and I doubt it, surely it is because you withhold the smile from your eyes and lips.”

She blinked.

“Aye, Lady Gaenor. When you smile, you are most becoming. Methinks you should aspire to do so more often.”

She was thoughtful for some moments, then she let her lips turn. “You give me much to smile about, Sir Matthew.”

Pretty, indeed. “I consider it an honor, my lady.” Attraction pulling at him, he barely caught back the impulse to lay a hand over hers as he had trespassed on the day past. And if she had allowed it this time, it was possible he might have kissed her.

As it was past time for him to join Everard in the cellar, he straightened from the bench. “If you will permit me, I shall come again on the morrow.”

She rose beside him. “I would beg it if you did not ask.”

He nodded and, shortly, stood in the corridor outside the chapel wondering at all that had transpired between them. And trying not to think on the deception that would soon be revealed if he did not confess it.

“I
had begun to believe you incapable of humor, Baron Lavonne.”

Christian looked from the squires at a nearby table to Sir Abel who sat to his left. “I am amused when something is worthy of amusement.” And the young men’s pranks upon one another
had
amused him.

As he had marveled since his arrival at Wulfen, there was much beyond knighthood training that those sons promised to the Church would never see or experience. But then, were they exposed to the exhilaration and camaraderie inherent in a life committed to the defense of one’s people, lands, and country, more would surely rebel—as Christian had done until there was nothing left but for him to accept his fate.

Remembering the long, cool, unbroken days at the monastery when he had suppressed his restlessness through prostration and prayer, he silently thanked God for delivering him. Despite all that had transpired since he had left the monastery, he had come to a better place in life.

A place that should never have been yours,
his conscience reminded him of the consequence of unholy prayer.

He clenched his hands. Geoffrey was dead, and their father’s pain over the loss of his favored heir was greater than the suffering caused by the burns that scarred the old man’s body.

“You appear to have sustained fewer cuts than on the day past,” Abel said. “I wager that your awareness of the darkness has sharpened considerably beneath my brother’s tutelage.”

Wondering at the man’s rare attempt to engage him in conversation, Christian said, “My time at Wulfen has been of certain benefit.”

“Then you are pleased.” The knight lifted his goblet and took a long drink.

“I am. Though I do not expect my sword skill will surpass my facility with a dagger, I believe the instruction I have received here will prove more valuable.”

Abel raised an eyebrow. “Indeed,” he murmured, then frowned. “’Tis a curious thing how adept you are with a dagger considering you were promised to the Church at a young age.”

Christian was well aware that he should not be able to easily find his mark, especially at the distances at which he was able to do so, but his relationship with the youngest Wulfrith brother was not such that he felt inclined to explain his skill—that a dagger had been far easier to secrete and practice at without his father’s knowledge.

“It
is
a curious thing,” he said, then returned the frown. “But tell me, Sir Abel, are
you
pleased with my progress?”

Something flashed in the man’s eyes, but then he blinked and it was gone. “As well as I can be.” Boredom dragged his words across the space between them. “Certes, you are better prepared to defend your lands and the family you will make with my sister, and
that
pleases me.”

The mention of Lady Gaenor nearly made Christian smile. “Be assured, I shall keep your sister safe.”

Abel turned his goblet on its stem. “That you shall, lest you know the wrath of the Wulfriths.”

It was no idle threat, and one to which Christian tried not to take offense. But he did.

Holding the knight’s gaze, he said, “You forget, Sir Abel, that the Lavonnes have already suffered your family’s wrath—a wrath that took the life of my brother and for which marriage to your sister is intended to prevent further retaliation.”

Though the light in the knight’s eyes had not been friendly, at least there had been light. Now there was darkness. “Geoffrey Lavonne murdered and murdered again,” Abel said. “For it, he suffered a coward’s death—one for which no retaliation is warranted.”

It was as the Wulfriths and the king’s men told, and as Christian was inclined to believe, but it gave his father no relief. Indeed, it had increased Aldous’s pain. And his yearn for revenge.

“See there”—Abel jerked his head to the right and followed with his eyes—“the knight at the end of the table?”

The man was familiar to Christian, and not only because he was among the esteemed warriors who trained Wulfen’s squires. “I do.”

“He is Sir Rowan.”

Christian returned his regard to Abel, the better to enjoy his reaction. “Aye.”