Virgin Bride (15 page)

"You will be returning to Medland with me this day."

She shook her head. "Nay, I have grown content with my lot and no longer—"

Before she could gainsay him further, he swung her up into his arms and carried her from the garden.

Graeye was sensible enough not to struggle. Still, she raised her voice in fury at his arrogance. "Know you the sin you will have committed by taking me from here against my will? 'Tis my sanctuary, and you can do naught without risking the wrath of the Church and King Henry himself."

Aye, the king ... Gilbert's steps faltered at the prospect of igniting that man's fury. But he was driven by a deeper need to secure Graeye and his child for himself, so he pushed aside the consequences of the action he was about to take. Sparing Graeye no more than a glance, he stepped from the garden and onto the path leading to the courtyard, his limp becoming more pronounced as he lengthened his stride to hasten away from the abbey.

"Nay, Gilbert, do not do this," Graeye protested more loudly. "God will visit this trespass upon you tenfold."

"God!" he repeated, his eyes never wavering from the course he set. "Let Him do His worst," he muttered. "I have endured all He has hurled at me thus far. I will yet endure what is to come."

"Though you may deny Him," she said, placing a hand over his heart, "you are not godless, Gilbert. Now release me ere the damage is too far done."

At the edge of the courtyard he halted and looked down at her. "For long months I have desired to have you in my bed—longed to feel you again as I did that first night. You are a scourge to my very soul, Graeye Charwyck, yet I cannot empty you from it no matter how often I remind myself of your deceit. But I intend to try."

Graeye was shocked by his declaration, but could find no words that would lend themselves to a response.

"You are mine, Graeye," he asserted, "and the babe you carry belongs to me. Now will you come willingly or have me risk your God's wrath yet again?"

That he would lay claim to her, as well as to the child, sent quivers of uncertain hope through her. But what, exactly, was he saying? She searched his face for an answer. That he would not abandon her as she had supposed he would once she delivered his heir? Dared she hope that what he offered was of a permanent nature rather than an expedient one?

"If I go with you," she ventured, "would you then wed with me that the child would be made legitimate?"

He did not hesitate. "Nay, Graeye. Though I would offer you and the child my care and protection, 'twould be impossible for me to wed you."

A great pall fell over her. "Then you already have a wife?"

"Nay," he answered, shifting her weight, "and 'tis not likely I ever will. I will have my heir from you ... and that will suffice."

Her hope came crashing down upon her. Forgetting her earlier caution, she threw her hands against his chest and began to kick her legs.

"Release me, you infidel!" she demanded in a voice choked with tears. "I will not become your leman merely to quench your thirst. Find another to beget a child on and leave me be."

Enfolding her more tightly against his chest, Gilbert stepped from the path and into the vacant courtyard.

Though, the fight went out of Graeye, her protests became louder. In answer to them the abbess suddenly reappeared, placing herself squarely in Gilbert's path. "Baron Balmaine," she said reproachfully, " 'tis clear Lady Graeye has chosen to remain at Arlecy. Do be so kind as to set her to her feet."

Gilbert fell back to earth with a thud. Previous to this most recent encounter with Graeye, he would not have believed himself so foolish as to seize her from her sanctuary. Aye, it was imprudent at best, especially considering there were other avenues yet to be explored—limited though they were.

Frowning, he lowered Graeye to the uneven stones of the courtyard and stood back.

Graeye lost no time in retreat. Stepping around the abbess, she placed the woman before her like a human shield.

"Lady Graeye," Mother Celia said over her shoulder, "return to your room at once. I will speak with you on this later."

Graeye lingered a moment longer before turning and making her way back across the courtyard.

When she had disappeared from sight, the abbess stepped nearer Gilbert, her face full of displeasure. "Baron, that you would dare such a thing is simply beyond me. What could you have been thinking?" She threw her hands into the air as if asking God to deliver her from such stupidity. "Are you so completely bereft of the words that might persuade her to go with you that you must resort to forcing her? I warned you of the dire consequences of such a scheme."

He met her steely eyes. "My apologies, Abbess. I fear I acted in haste when she refused me. Twas indeed foolish."

Mother Celia considered him a long moment. Then, somewhat appeased, she heaved a great sigh and waved a hand for him to follow her.

Gilbert complied, and a short time later found himself standing before the guest house. Not far off was a small gathering of nun, their eyes lowering immediately upon noticing the tall giant in their midst.

The abbess regarded the women consideringly, then led Gilbert back inside to the room they had earlier vacated.

"Now that you have seen her again, what are your intentions?" she asked, turning to face him.

He laid a hand to his chin to run his fingers through his beard, but found his face bare, having scraped away the last of the beard just that morn. "I do not know," he admitted. "I cannot take her to wife, yet neither can I give her to another. I would have her and the child with me."

"You told her this?" At his nod the abbess shook her head. "Then I understand why she would refuse such an offer, Baron. 'Tis quite unseemly what you propose." Stepping nearer, she pinned him with her direct gaze. "Tell me, do you love her?"

Gilbert was so astonished by the question, he nearly choked on his own saliva, his color deepening as he fought to control his reaction. "Love her! A Charwyck?"

Mother Celia shrugged. She no more believed his denial than she had believed Graeye's. "Then what will you do, Baron Balmaine?"

"There are other ways." He began to pace the room. After several crossings he came back to stand before her.

She did not like what she saw upon his face, the slight, triumphant smile curving his lips.

"I will petition King Henry for the charge of my child once 'tis born," he said. " Tis not likely he would deny me my heir."

Mother Celia was taken aback by his declaration. Aye, he might just succeed with such a petition. Having been awarded the Charwyck lands, he was obviously, in the good graces of the king. "That could take a very long time," she said, attempting to dissuade him from this ruinous course of action.

He shrugged. " 'Twill still achieve me the same end."

"And what of Lady Graeye? You would take her child from her without remorse?"

His smile widened. "Nay. She will come of her own accord, and then I will have all I desire."

Mother Celia knew such a plan would likely widen the rift between these two young people, so much so that it would be impossible ever to bridge. Still, there was another way to bring them together, a way she would never have contemplated had not the baron informed her of his plans.

"There is one other possibility," she said, folding her hands before her waist as she waited to gain the baron's full attention.

He gave it to her.

Her expression turned rueful at the prospect of disclosing that which she had recently learned. "I fear I will repent for the breaking of this confidence," she began, "but I am told that, following matins, Lady Graeye is wont to slip outside the walls. She walks along the river that lies beyond."

For an interminable time the baron only stared at her.

Interpreting his silence as ignorance of what she was striving to say, she tried to clarify. "Alas," she said, " 'tis lamentable indeed, but the Church cannot extend its protection outside the walls."

He frowned with obvious suspicion. "And why would you tell me this?"

"Were I Lady Graeye, methinks I could more easily forgive you the trespass of carrying me away than that of stealing my child from me by decree of the king."

She was right, of course, Gilbert thought. Having had a fair glimpse of Graeye's temper, his means of having her and the child lost much of its appeal. He nodded. "How goes she?"

The abbess smiled. "By way of the postern gate, of course."

Chapter 12

A
ngered at having been a party to what he perceived as trickery, Gilbert decided it was time to put into motion his other plan of petitioning the king.

For four long, wet days he and his men had hidden themselves in the woods surrounding the abbey, lying in wait for their prey to venture forth. In all that time Graeye had not left her refuge. Gilbert was certain of this, for he was not so foolish as to trust completely in the assurances offered by the abbess. Hence he'd set men to watch the comings and goings through all the gates of the walled sanctuary, lest an attempt be made to spirit Graeye away while he watched for her at the postern gate.

It was well past the hour of matins' on that fourth hellish day when he and a handful of his men returned to the camp empty-handed. Heatedly barking off orders, his mood evident to all, he lent his shoulder to hastening their departure that they might make for London.

Sensing his fury, Gilbert's destrier shied away from him when at long last, they were ready to ride. Reining in the flood of his emotions, Gilbert offered a soothing hand to the animal's quivering muzzle, all-the while wondering with deepening irritation where his squire had wandered to. As he thought further on it, he could not remember the young man accompanying them back from the river.

When the destrier had calmed sufficiently to be mounted, he grabbed the pommel of his saddle and slid his foot into the stirrup.

"My lord, she comes!" his squire, Joseph, called as he sprinted from out of the trees to the center of the disassembled camp where Gilbert stood.

"She comes," he repeated.

Gilbert took hold of the younger man's shoulders, "To the river?"

"Aye, my lord, though she does not venture too far from sight of the abbey."

Though it would have been best to come upon Graeye without the hindrance of the clamor made by horses, there was no time to waste. She might return too quickly to the protection of her sanctuary.

"Good man." Gilbert slapped a hand to Joseph's back. Smiling broadly for the first time in days, he vaulted into the saddle and turned to look again at his squire. "You will ride with me," he said, then motioned to a half dozen of his men to follow.

With nary a care for the noise they made within the deep of the woods, they rode with speed toward the river. However, as they neared the clearing that lay beyond the dense grouping of trees, and through which the river snaked, Gilbert motioned his men to spread out and proceed with more caution.

He guided his horse to the edge of the wood and peered around, but saw nothing that would indicate Graeye's presence. He glanced at the abbey beyond, thinking she might have already started back, but saw only an empty stretch of land laden with the soak of recent rainfall.

Then, to his left, he heard the beautiful trilling of a bird. It was a call he knew well. Farther up and nearer the river sat Joseph, a smile splitting his youthful face as he gestured to a place hidden from Gilbert's view.

Relief washing over him, Gilbert gave the signal, then prodded his destrier out of the covering of trees.

Though it didn't matter how noisy their approach was, for it would be impossible for Graeye to reach the abbey before they came upon her, they proceeded at barely a canter. It was a consideration based on Gilbert's worry that if they frightened her, or alerted her too soon to their presence, she might take an unnecessary risk that would harm her or the babe.

Nevertheless, Gilbert's impatience was great, for he could not remember ever wanting anything as badly.

Graeye had barely seated herself on a large rock when she heard unexpected sounds above the rush of the river. Horses! she realized, her eyes flying wide. Jumping up from the rock, she whirled about. Immediately, her gaze lit upon more than a half-dozen riders. And it was Gilbert at the head, his hair so incredibly black it could be no other.

For long days she had surrendered herself to the safety of the abbey, knowing that if she was caught outside its walls, the Church could do little to aid her. But that morn, restless and thinking to take advantage of the break in the rain, she had decided the risk was well past. And he had lain in wait all that time....

She gauged the distance to the abbey and, with sinking heart, acknowledged that it was too far to traverse, especially in her condition. Nevertheless, she hauled her skirts up and hastened along the bank of the river. She had to try, for it was simply not in her to surrender so easily to this man.

Carefully picking her way over the undulating ground, she kept her eyes down to ensure a secure footing. Still the riders drew nearer, though they seemed in no hurry to intercept her. Sparing a glance over her shoulder, she saw that Gilbert's men were moving outward in an arc on either side that they might enclose her.

Futile, she realized, dragging her feet to a stop. Unless something untoward were to befall Gilbert Balmaine and all of his men—such as their horses unseating them amid the bog—she hadn't a chance of gaining the abbey. It was not even worth a token resistance.

Out of breath and warmed by the spurt of exertion, she resignedly turned and gathered her mantle around her, molding a comforting hand over her belly.

Although Gilbert rode up to her at a leisurely gait, his arrival came too soon for her liking, giving her little time to compose herself. He drew his destrier to a hah not far from where she stood and stared at her.

Though unnerved as always by his direct gaze, she stared back. "You are a more patient man than I would have expected, Gilbert Balmaine."

"And you are very stubborn," he returned.

"You expected otherwise?" At that moment she was not averse to engaging in a verbal sparring match.

"Nay," he admitted, "but I would have preferred your willingness to this."

"This," she repeated, looking beyond him to the abbey. " 'Twas the abbess, was it not? 'Twas she who betrayed me." She looked expectantly back at him.

"And what makes you think she would care to aid me?" he rejoined.

A tight smile came and went upon Graeye's face. "She brought you to the abbey, did she not?"

He shifted in his saddle. "Aye, that she did."

"Then it only follows that, in her eagerness to see me gone from Arlecy, she would stop at nothing to achieve that end."

Gilbert shook his head. "Nay, Graeye, you judge her wrongly. If 'twas not to have been this way, then 'twould have been a far less desirable way I would have laid claim to my child. Truly, she has done you no disservice. You should be grateful for her wisdom."

At that moment Graeye could see nothing good coming of such a betrayal, nor did she think it likely she ever would. Well-intentioned or not, it injured her and stole the future, albeit uncertain, that she had begun to plan for herself and her child.

Would she never be free of the domination of others? she wondered, wanting to scream at the injustice of it all. Instead she swept her eyes from Gilbert's face and looked, in turn, at each of the mounted knights on either side of her.

Aye, Gilbert Balmaine was determined to have his heir. He was convinced that the babe within her carried his blood in its veins.

Throwing her arms out to indicate the men beyond, she gave a short, harsh laugh. "Do tell. What warrants my pursuit by so many? Am I truly such a dangerous beast that all this is necessary?"

"I take no chances with that which belongs to me," he replied.

"Once again you imply, Baron, that I belong to you. I assure you, 'tis far from being the case."

"The child is mine, and I'll not have you deny me its upbringing."

"And when he is born?" she asked, sudden pain closing around her heart. "Will you then take him from my breast and cast me aside?"

"He?" Gilbert grasped at her easy use of gender. "And how know you 'tis a boy you carry?"

Though Graeye had long sensed it was a boy child growing inside her, she would not admit that to Gilbert. "I speak only in general terms. It may just as well be a girl."

He looked unconvinced, but merely held out a hand to her. "Come, Graeye," he said. "This rebellion of yours is at an end."

She took a step back. "You have not yet told me of your intentions toward me," she reminded him, refusing to be deterred.

"We will speak of it later" he said, and motioned her forward.

She shook her head. "Nay, I would speak of it now."

His gaze shooting heavenward, Gilbert threw a leg over his saddle and dismounted. "Otherwise?" he prompted as he turned to face her.

She looked more closely at the men flanking her. Her eyes lit upon the familiar visage of one positioned directly in her path to the abbey. Though he was far enough away that his features were indistinct, she realized with a start that it was Sir Michael. Disconcerted, she looked back at Gilbert.

"Otherwise I will resist you no matter the odds," she bluffed.

A corner of Gilbert's mouth turned up as he took a step toward her. "Why is it I do not believe you, Graeye?"

"Because you don't know me." She took another step backward that, unbeknown to her, had her at the edge of the bank. "Aye, 'tis simple enough for you to take me from here, but be warned, I will not make the journey to Medland easy for you."

Gilbert looked from her to the river. It was not deep, and its course was gentle, but he was unsettled by the vision of her falling into its iciness. Knowing that one more retreating step would likely land her in it, he moved no nearer. "I have already told you, Graeye, I will not marry you."

"Aye, and I have told you I will not become your leman. I will not be forced into your bed!"

Gilbert was willing to concede to her on that point. It was not in his nature to force himself upon any woman, though he could not easily forget that he had nearly done that very thing to Graeye months ago. That loss of control pained him still.

Aye, he would give her the assurances she sought. However, he would do so on his own terms, for he had no intention of holding himself from her if her resolve weakened. He would yet exorcise her from his mind and body.

"So be it," he said. "You will simply serve as mother of my child."

"I do not believe you."

His jaw worked as he fought to quell his irritation. "I give you my word, Graeye. You will suffer no unwanted attentions."

For long, silent minutes Graeye considered his vow. He was giving her what she wanted—or at least thought she wanted—but after his earlier profession of his desire for her, and his intention of having her in his bed, she was reluctant to believe him.

With a ring of steel upon steel, he drew his sword and lowered its tip to the marshy ground. Clasping a hand to the hilt that heaven might take note of what he was about to offer, he captured Graeye's stare and held it. " 'Tis my vow," he said. "I will not force myself on you."

"You would have me believe a vow you make before God, when you have made no secret of your aversion to the belief in Him?"

He resheathed his sword. " 'Tis a knightly vow I have made," he said curtly, "the ceremony of which is of less consequence than the words I have given you. However," he added, dropping his hands to his hips, "be warned now that if ever we do come together again out of mutual need, 'tis not likely I will refrain from taking what you offer—and then you are mine as much as the child you carry."

Though she was apprehensive about this last bit he had added, Graeye held her chin high. "Then I have nothing to fear from you, my lord."

"Nothing," he affirmed, taking a step toward her.

"Ergo, you leave me no choice but to accept the arrangements as such." Feeling as if she were stepping into an abyss, she walked forward and reluctantly placed her hand in his.

He hesitated, his gaze drifting down to where his fingers closed around hers. Slowly, he drew his thumb over the back of her hand.

Disturbed by the intimacy of his touch, she started to pull away, but he tightened his grip. "Release me," she demanded in a voice that trembled betrayingly.

He did not look up, his gaze intent upon her small, fine-boned hand trapped in his, his brow creased with thought.

Graeye held her breath as she experienced anew the surging feelings she had vowed never again to allow herself. Why could she not hate him? she wondered, lamenting her body's betrayal. Why was she unable to disassociate herself from this man as she'd done her father? Had he not—

"Beautiful." His voice cut across her frantic musings. He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist.

Immediately, her pulse quickened, her eyes widening as she found herself floundering in the depths of orbs that sought to gain her soul. Knowing he felt her response against his mouth, and desperate to hold to her convictions, she tried again to pull free.

Surprisingly, Gilbert released her, though a moment later he caught hold of her thickened waist. " 'Tis past time we ride," he said gruffly. In spite of her added bulk he easily lifted her onto his horse, then mounted behind.

Though she would have liked to, Graeye did not resist when he pulled her into the firm cradle of his chest and draped his mantle around her. She was too tired to fight him anymore.