A Kiss in the Night (44 page)

Then he'd wake. And she would be gone.

So sleep became the cruelest tease, one that left him restless and frustrated and dark with the longing of unanswered desire, a lingering sense of the hopelessness of his life. So he fought the cruel night's play, delaying sleep in hopes that he would be too tired to suffer through his dreams of her Linness, the only woman he would ever love.

Linness, his brother's wife.

If Jean Luc did not start adjusting better to her absence, he would have to send him back to Gaillard. Clair eased some of it, but it was still bad for him, and damn if Clair was not heartsick from missing Linness as well. Jean Luc's appetite suffered, his tutor said his mind wandered constantly and more than anything, he showed little enthusiasm for so many things he once loved. He himself was no better off than his boy, a good deal worse. The only difference was he had a man's ability to hide emotions.

If it were any other woman, he would force the boy to pass through his loneliness, but because it was Linness, he knew it in a different light. Linness claimed so much of those who loved her. Her love was a warm and fine light in their life; now that it was gone, life was empty, colorless, meaningless.

He stared unseeing at the empty spaciousness of the room, barren except for the bed and his four trunks, the fire still blazing in the brick and stone hearth. The new furnishings, being made in Paris, had not arrived as yet. There were no carpets on the wooden floor or paintings on the wall. The stark and vacant room seemed to mirror his soul.

* * * *

The farming village sat twelve miles from Beaumont, in Alsace, four miles from the start of Paxton's land. An inn was nestled at the crossing point of the two main thoroughfares, and this modest establishment had been owned by the same family for two hundred years. The current generation of proprietors prided themselves on the inn's cleanliness and their hospitality. Gone were the days when they were more likely to get robbed than paid, when every man who walked through the door was viewed with suspicion. King Francis had brought peace to France at last, and now, with the region's new lordship, Lord General Paxton de Chamberlain, there would be many travelers who stopped before making the last half day's trip to the grand chateau.

The proprietor's wife had grown up in the Swiss Alps, and the charming little house looked more Swiss than French. It had a high thatched root, open shutters, and windows lined with flower boxes. There were four rooms upstairs to let. Four or even more people could stay in one room on straw mattresses, but of course, when it was a person of distinction or nobility, he would take a whole room to himself.

The entrance and tiny rooms of the bottom floor—where the aging owner and his wife lived—opened onto a tavern. They were sound asleep when they were roused from bed by the cowbell outside the door. The woman rose dutifully, and hurriedly pulled on a smock and smoothed her graying hair as she made her way to the door.

The door opened and she confronted the stranger. An older man dressed in fine traveling clothes. A short, weary-looking servant stood behind him. She murmured a sleepy greeting as she opened the door, mentally assessing how much they would be willing to pay as they stepped inside.

"There is no one about to take ye horses,” she told them abruptly, hospitality always a bit wanting in the middle of the night. "Ye can unhitch the horses and bring them into the stables. A bucket of oats be a half ducat. We have two rooms left, at four ducats apiece; ye can take one room or both. A pot of stew for two ducats, all the ale ye can drink for two more." Few men could drink much after midnight before they fell asleep, she knew. Like the young man in the tavern. Fell right over his first cup of ale, and never made it up to his bed, he had been so weary.

John Chamberlain had traveled over three hundred miles in three weeks, certain every mile of the long journey had stolen precious time saved for the end of his life. Never had he felt the weight of his years more. He imagined when he reached Beaumont tomorrow, it would be a very long time before he would be able to return to Gaillard. He had only one question of the good woman as he withdrew his money bag: "Are the beds feather or straw?"

"Straw," she said with a slight grin, "but once you're asleep, a body hardly knows the difference.”

He supposed she was right. He handed her the money as his man left to tend to the horses. He directed the woman to present two bowls of stew and cups of ale before approaching the tavern.

It was dark there. A single lantern hung over the place where a man sat at the table, his head resting across folded arms. John eased his weary bones onto a bench across the way. He looked at the men again. The same gold hair as someone else he knew—

John's gaze dropped to the young man's spurs and then his cloak. "Michaels!"

The man did not stir. John got up and stepped over to him. "Mon Dieu! Michaels! Wake up, good man!"

Michaels lifted his sleepy head and opened his eyes. The familiar face came into focus. "Milord! By the heavens! What are you doing here?"

"I'm returning, at last, from Milan. I stopped on my way to Beaumont, of course. But what are you doing here? Do you have a letter for Paxton from his brother?" He imagined some kind of catastrophe. "Why would not the usual carriers do?"

Michaels froze, his gaze darting to and fro before, with a deep sigh, he vigorously rubbed his face, as if to come more awake. He would have to tell John. In the rush of all that happened, Morgan had never said whether John would be one of the few people who would be told the truth, but of course, he would have to be. John must be told the truth—not only had he come to love Linness dearly, but he would be one of the very few people to travel between Paxton's and Morgan's estates.

Indeed he was traveling there now."

"Milord, I have a story to tell.

"Is anything amiss? What has happened?"

"You will not believe all that has," he began just as the old woman appeared with two bowls of stew and mugs of ale. These were set on the table. John ordered for another to be brought to his servant. The woman rushed back to fill Michaels's cup. She noticed the intense look as the younger man began a story, and she hoped the house generosity had not been a mistake after all .

Two hours later, after she'd refilled their cups several times, the men were still talking. She not only knew that it was a mistake, but that even the overcharge for the oats would not cover it. She gave up waiting for them to retire and went to bed herself.

The whole incredible story had been laid before the older man and he turned a thoughtful gaze up the stairs. "So she is sleeping up there now?"

"I had to force her. She kept falling over in the saddle. I promised I'd wake her in one hour, so we could reach Beaumont by midnight, but God knows she needs a full night's rest after this trip, and anyway, we are days ahead of the messenger bringing the news of her death."

"And Paxton knows nothing of this incredible plot?"

"Nay," Michaels said. "Nothing.”

* * * *

John sat quietly on the edge of the bed, watching her sleep, deeply, dreamlessly. He had woken feeling surprisingly refreshed. Nothing could revive an old man like a happy ending to this love story.

She stirred in her sleep, nudging her face against the pillow. The trilling cries of birds out the window roused her senses and she dreamt briefly of glorious pigeons in flight, then of porridge, great big bowls of steaming porridge. She woke with a rumble of hunger stirring through her, and this itself was strange, for she had not had much of an appetite for some time.

Light poured through the closed shutters of the window and she opened her eyes. The man sitting on the edge of her bed made her gasp. "John!”

"Michaels told me."

"Everything?"

John nodded. She waited to see his condemnation but saw his smile instead. She returned a tentative smile. He said, "The magnitude of what Morgan gave you—"

She interrupted in a whisper, "Is nothing less than my life."

The emotion in which this was uttered registered through him, like a caressing sweep of warm wind; her words conveyed the profundity of the gratitude she felt. Nothing less than her life and—" 'Tis Paxton's life as well..."

She nodded and then he was reaching for her. She fell into his embrace and closed her eyes, willing down her impatience to reach Beaumont, but she was so close, so terribly close. Today she would be in Paxton's arms and she would witness his joy. Today she would feel his lips, touch his smile, today she would lay her head against his heart and hear its swift, steady beat.

Today and every day for the rest of her life.

She pulled back to see into his thoughtful gaze, wise beyond his years.

"You're crying, milady."

"For happiness." She nodded, a tingling warmth suffusing her. "A happiness I never dreamt I would know."

"Let’s get ready, milady. My coach is waiting."

By the time she was finally prepared, the sun reached the meridian and shone in a rare winter brightness. Michaels and John waited for Linness outside by the coach. She stepped into the sunshine in a burst of pretty violet colors. Paxton's favorite dress—the only one she took. There was no one to dress her hair, and so it fell unbound to her waist, held back by a matching purple band.

John thought Linness had never looked men beautiful. Her smile, soft and mysterious, seemed to light his soul from the inside out. Curiously, he felt as if he were delivering a daughter to her new husband, and how strange that was! How strange the entire magical circumstances of this one young woman's life!

Linness felt as if she walked in a dream.

"I've never been in a coach," she said, seeing John's two trunks secured on top.

"After what you've been through, you'll find it quite comfortable, I'm sure."

She gathered her skirts and stepped up. 'Twas like a small room suspended on four wheels. The curtains were drawn over windows. It had maroon velvet-lined seats and a wooden floor, and as she reclined, she realized it was in fact quite comfortable. Anything would be comfortable after the ten days riding a horse across France, snatching bits and pieces of sleep at small inns, and most often the forest floor. That she could still pull her knees together seemed nothing short of a miracle.

Every moment seemed suffused with the light of a miracle.

Mary's miracle. The gift of Mary's love in her life.

She willed her heart to slow for what she knew would be the longest part of her very protracted journey. John took the seat across from her, while the Lady Beatrice's sole remaining servant sat on a narrow cushioned seat above, to hold the reins. Michaels rode alongside, holding the extra horse.

The coach started forward.

The area they crossed first was made of an endless stretch of flat farmland, barren now before the spring planting. Mountains rose in the farthest distance where Beaumont waited. Where her new life waited. She tried to temper the race of her thoughts with the question of what she would tell Jean Luc. Morgan begged her to tell the truth as simply as she could: that it was the only way they knew that she could be with him.

She abruptly realized John was speaking to her about his own mission in Italy to oversee Paxton's estates. He didn't realize her mind could not fix on a thing so simple as a string of words. Not now.

Though John had always found in Linness an intelligent and perceptive listener. He had often counted on her help in making Morgan see reason through his impetuous and rash judgments to the better policy, and so, long denied any familiar company, he discussed the land preparations he had made, all the purchases, his worries over leaving, the two men he left to oversee the properties, what they were like, the repairs he initiated. "And, you see, if we could just get the western fields to barley by March..."

She nodded, smiling, while internally excitement burst through her in a heady rush; 'twas all she could do not to stop the carriage and run the rest of the way. She cast her gaze out the window, tilting her head to see the mountains rising in the far distance, much larger than any at Gaillard.

An outward calm concealed her inner turmoil and excitement. What would he do when he learned of their changed fate? Of what Morgan had given them? She kept forgetting that while she had this long time to contemplate this miracle, he was in ignorance still.

She remembered the ferocity of the battles after they made love, lying entwined in each other's arms and fighting desperately against the thief stealing their last moments together. Sleep. Often the poignancy of his lovemaking would make her cry, but once she remembered waking to see the tears shimmering in his soft, dark eyes as well. . .

I love you, Linness, I love you.

"Michaels said you foresaw the Lady Beatrice Lucia's death? That you already told Morgan."

She abruptly understood what he was saying and realized John waited for a reply She could barely create a polite pretense of acknowledgment of his wife's death. "Aye," she added stupidly, "she was so young..."

"She was such a strange creature, you know." John mused out loud as the carriage brought her closer and closer to her blessed destiny "And it was odd, but one of the few things she said to me was that she feared she would not make the trip, I thought it was her extreme delicacy speaking; imagine that she had never once left the small convent where she grew up! The Italians are so circumspect and protective of their women. The cloistered life made her shy and withdrawn, so much so that I always had the horrible feeling my mere voice was an assault on her nerves."