Claire Delacroix (9 page)

Indeed, I wagered with his specter in the shadowed bed that night. I agreed in my weakness that I would allow him one night and one night alone to haunt me.

I should have guessed that Merlyn would make the most of such an agreement. My eyes drifted closed, my fingertip stroked the cuff of one glove, my gaze fixed on the distant sparkle of stars. Sleep came quickly and deeply.

As did my dreams.

* * *

The solar is silent and cool after the boisterous if tiny celebration in the great hall. I shiver in mingled cold and anticipation, only now fearing what I have done. I have never been in this chamber. I have never been alone with a man.

I have never been alone with this man. In truth, I know very little of him.

But he is my husband by dint of my own pledge. And if his intent is foul, no one celebrating our match in the hall below will even hear me cry out.

I have made my choice and now must pay the price. How unfortunate a moment for my bravery to flee!

I wrap my arms around myself in trepidation. The lantern’s glow gilds luxurious appointments far beyond my experience. Gold and brass studded with gems. Ornate wooden furniture polished to a gleam. Glass and silver. Silks embroidered with gold, furs from distant lands. For all its richness, this is the chamber of a man, scattered with weapons of war, boots and books.

This is the lair of my lord and master.

My spouse moves from my side and I watch his silhouette, finding him even more enigmatic in shadow. He lights a candle, grants me a slow smile, then lights a dozen more. I gasp when he lights a dozen after that, and a dozen more, setting the room ablaze.

“The cost, my lord!” I protest. “The waste!”

He laughs, a rumble deep in his chest and turns to me. Candles light the wall behind him, shrouding his features. The light emphasizes his broad shoulders and his height, it glints blue in his ebony hair. Only his eyes sparkle as he watches me, and, inexplicably reassured, I shiver from something other than fear.

“A lucky man has but one wedding night to celebrate,” he whispers, the low pitch of his words making me shiver. “I have no care for the cost. I would see my beautiful bride.”

I swallow, suddenly feeling too young and too common to hold this man’s eye for long. “Yes, my lord.”

“No,” he murmurs and crosses the room more quickly than I would have believed possible. He is like a great cat, or a wolf, some untamed creature stalking his prey, stalking me, on silent feet.

But unlike most prey, it is not my nature to flee.

My face is suddenly cradled in his hands, his bright gaze is bent upon me. Confused, I try to shake free of his grip but he holds fast.

Gently, firmly.

“Not ‘my lord’,” he chides, laughter in his eyes. Perhaps I am beguiled. Perhaps that is why my mouth is dry and I cannot move away. “We are wed, Ysabella, and from this moment forth you will call me by my name.”

“If you so desire, my lord.”

His smile flashes, dangerous, heart-stopping. “I do so desire. And my name is Merlyn.”

I swallow again, catching my breath when his fingertip touches my throat and traces the movement. There is marvel in his eyes when he meets my gaze again. Marvel? I watch and wonder and realize that I have some power in this game.

Yet I am afraid, though I do not know precisely what I fear. I am not naive of what happens between men and women - no village girl can be - but this room, this lair, unsettles me. The unfamiliar privacy unsettles me. The quietude unsettles ms.

Mostly, my spouse unsettles me. My impetuous acceptance of Merlyn Lammergeier’s proposal seems suddenly to be the most foolish choice that ever I have made. We are too different, our expectations too broadly apart.

But one does not cower before a hungry dog if one means to escape unscathed. He waits and I know what he desires of me.

“Yes, Merlyn,” I whisper with a boldness I do not quite feel.

And the reward of his smile startles me utterly.

I smile back at him. The air heats between us and I can see the hunger invade his gaze, hunger mingled with restraint and admiration. He whispers my name, his breath fanning across my flesh like a caress, and I shiver anew.

His fingers slide into my hair and I close my eyes, tipping my head back to rest in his palms. His lips brush across mine, launching a thousand tingles in the wake of his touch. There is an unspoken question in his ardent but tentative touch, one that reassures me tremendously.

The choice is mine. Here is the nuptial gift from my spouse, the one he does not even know he offers, the precious treasure he grants unwittingly.

Because he offers a choice, there is no choice. He has set me alight as surely as the candles in the chamber. A new flame has been touched to my flesh with a single kiss. I am trembling, my heart pounding, my desire awakened, and I know that only he can sate me.

He desires me and I desire him - this is the commonality of our match, this is the rock upon which we will build a marriage.

I echo his gesture, winding my fingers into the thick silk of his dark hair. I lean against him, feel the muscles of his chest, feel his erection against my belly.

I trace the shape of his lips with my fingertip, suddenly glad of the light so that I, too, can see all of my mate. I see my own hand shake slightly when he takes my fingertip gently in his mouth. He grazes the skin with his teeth, our gazes lock. He watches me, he flicks his tongue across the tip of my finger, and I melt into fathomless desire.

“Yes, Merlyn,” I whisper. “Oh, yes.”

I have but a glimpse of his smile before he claims my lips in a possessive kiss, a kiss that leaves nothing in the night save Merlyn Lammergeier.

* * *

December 26

St. Stephen’s Day

Feast day of Saint Dionysius

* * *

IV

I awakened to find my cheeks tight with dried tears and sunlight streaming through the east windows. The air was cold and crisp. Much refreshed, I lay abed and savored the fleeting shards of my dream. I assumed that I had pleasured myself in the night, for I was languid and sated.

But then, I smelled an earthly scent that was not my own, a scent that had not been there the night before. I smelled it despite the locked doors separating me from the keep, despite the greater barriers between myself and the gates of hell.

I smelled Merlyn.

Or more precisely, I smelled Merlyn’s seed. And it was then that I knew that I was no widow, for Merlyn was not dead.

Which meant that I had been deceived.

Worse, I had been fool enough to fall for a deception perfectly typical of my estranged spouse. My own gullibility enraged me as nothing else could have done. My temper is slow to kindle, but there is no more sure way of igniting it than with mockery made at my own expense.

The faithless rogue had not only deceived me, but he had seduced me while I mourned his demise! He knew I should never have permitted him between my thighs while I was awake, so he came to me in darkness, shrouded in dreams.

Wretch! Nothing would have given me greater pleasure that morn than to fatally draw Merlyn’s blood myself! I flung myself from the bed and dressed in haste.

By the time I found the harridan Ada in the kitchens, my mood was blacker still. She was clearly startled by my appearance - I assumed because of the earliness of the hour. Then the two squires seated at the board studied me with wide eyes, before looking quickly back to their meal. Arnulf made a long, if surreptitious, survey of me.

I had not troubled with my hair and it hung loose down my back in an unruly tangle. My feet were bare in my shoes, but I had already decided not to waste time returning to the solar for my stockings.

Ada’s face pinched with as much disapproval as ever. “My lady?”

“I will have the remainder of the keys, if you please.”

She retreated, her expression guarded. “And if I do not please?”

“Last evening we agreed you should surrender the keys this morning.”

Ada shrugged. “I have changed my thinking. It would be most inconvenient for me to not have them in my own possession.”

“Do you defy me in this?”

She held my gaze in silent challenge. Slowly, disdain crept into her gaze and her lips curved in a sneer. “Yes,” she whispered. “I do.”

I guessed that Ada was only so bold because she too knew the truth. A fit of madness came upon me then, wrought perhaps of grief and sleeplessness and duress. I was convinced that she meant to aid Merlyn by keeping the keys from me, that the two of them conspired together to mock me for some unfathomable purpose. I was certain that she was privy to his scheme as I was not, that she changed her thinking because Merlyn had bidden her to do so.

And I seethed at the injustice of it all.

“You know the truth of it!” I shouted at her. Ada backed into the wall but I gave her no quarter, for her retreat proved her guilt to me. “You know where Merlyn is, you aid him in his jest! You hide him from me and heed his instruction instead of my own!”

“No, I...” Her hand fell to her girdle and I heard the tinkle of the keys hanging within the folds of her robe, hidden beneath her sheltering hand.

I seized her black sleeve. “Then, how did you know he was dead? Fitz had not returned and no others come this way.”

“The ravens...”

“That is only superstitious foolery, Ada. You are more keen of wit than that.” But I was not certain of this even as I uttered the words, for her expression turned fearful.

One squire murmured a blessing and crossed himself. I saw now that the two boys had pushed back from the table and Arnulf had huddled against the wood pile. All were staring at me as if I had been struck mad.

I realized belatedly how I must appear and forced myself to take a deep breath. I released Ada’s sleeve and she backed away, taking great trouble to rearrange the folds of her garment even as she watched me.

Though I spoke softly, there was still a thread of anger in my tone. “Tell me where he is, Ada.”

She huffed. “As he is dead, no doubt my lord Merlyn will be found in a churchyard somewhere.”

“I think not.”

Ada glared at me. “Ask Rhys Fitzwilliam.”

“You tell me.”

She brushed down her garment with elaborate care, then granted me a piercing look. “I have no time for your folly this morn, my lady, and indeed, I do not possess the answer you seek.”

“Then give me the keys.”

“I have need of them.”

“Then you shall ask me for them, as required. The keys are mine, Ada, and you know this well. They should be in my possession alone.”

“And suddenly our ladyship knows so much of the running of a large keep,” she snipped, her sarcasm undisguised.

“Give me the keys.”

“No.”

Her defiance infuriated me anew, for my patience wore thin. I snatched at the keys, laying claim to the ring. I wrested them from her grip and though Ada fought hard for control of the ring, she shrank away from me when she lost them.

“And if you feel the compulsion to warn Merlyn, then tell him that he will regret my discovery of him.”

Ada sniffed. “Perhaps you forget, my lady, that my lord Merlyn is dead.”

“I know he is not.” I gave them each a hard stare in turn. “As do all of you, I am certain.”

I strode from the kitchens without waiting for an answer and set to my task. It was clear that Merlyn did not wish to be found, but I am stubborn and I was angry.

We had matters to discuss, Merlyn and I.

* * *

Ravensmuir is not an old keep, though its site has been occupied since ancient times. What I know of it was told to me by my mother, or by Merlyn. There were vicious battles over the once-rich holding of Kinfairlie, as in so much of this region, the last of those battles having ended with Kinfairlie’s keep razed to the ground.

The ruins of Kinfairlie keep have been left untouched ever since. The ghosts of the tormented family are said to still haunt the site, rumored to interfere with any attempts to build there. I do not know whether that is true, but I know from my mother’s account that unfortunate family was burned alive, trapped in the keep that should have been their sanctuary.

Their screams had haunted the serving girl who had failed to bring aid to them in time.

Only Kinfairlie village remains of what had once been a proud holding, though it no longer has a manor to serve. It is a place of poverty and disillusion, the place in which I was raised and to which I returned after leaving Ravensmuir and Merlyn. By accident of war and plague, Kinfairlie village still has no overlord and is frequently preyed upon by warriors in need of funds.

But the villagers remain, hoping that the status of freemen bestowed upon other local towns might one day be bestowed upon them. Even in hardship, none are anxious to swear themselves to the service of one lord or another. Memory runs too long.

Though it is harsh to say, we are peasants all - bred to follow, not to lead. Had there been a persuasive speaker or a man with a firm scheme ever born in Kinfairlie village, perhaps matters would be different. As it is, we simply continued, endured, and waited for we knew not what.

Meanwhile, after the destruction of the Kinfairlie strongholds and the onslaught of the plague, the Lammergeier quietly laid claim to the abandoned ruins of Ravensmuir. Merlyn told me once that the place had suited them, though he did not explain why, not then.

Now I can well imagine that his family desired no witnesses of their nefarious deeds. Merlyn’s father, Avery Lammergeier, built this new and formidable keep at Ravensmuir relatively unobserved. The other local lords fought bitterly with each other, with the English, and with the grim reaper himself. By the time they noted his deeds and decided to act, it was too late. The fortress was built and Ravensmuir secured.