A Lord for Haughmond (43 page)

     He laughed and pressed all the closer, trapping her hand. Her fingers brushing against the hard bulge in his chausses gave rise to a burning desire. From the brief time left them, ’twas clear her burgeoning need would remain unrequited. Panting, she reluctantly slid her hand free to stroke his chest, a safer distraction.

     “Keep well, my love.” He kissed her soundly then set her away and snatched up his abandoned stocking. “I wish my faithful Zeus were here to protect you. Hear me, under no circumstance open the gate to Sir Geoffrey.”

     She snorted. “Have you no thought to the consequence of such an action?”

     “He may be my father but he remains a danger to you, Katherine. He would use any paltry excuse to spirit you away from those who protect you.” He pulled on his wool breeches and shoved his feet into his boots. “He still views Haughmond as a lost prize and would punish you for taking it from him.”

     She handed him his linen shirt. “And what trifling excuse am I to invent when I do not open the gates to him?”

     Her husband had no ready reply, as she knew he would not. She leaned toward him. Taking her cue from his comment, she answered her own question. “I shall call out to him from the ramparts and say you are punishing me for past sins by keeping me locked away.”

     “And spying your happy countenance he will not believe a word of it.”

     “Have you a better thought?” She gave her skirts an inviting swish. 

     “With you so close I am prodigiously distracted.” 

     Her lips quirked in merriment. “That, my lord, is difficult to believe.”

     He leered at her. “Come hither,” he instructed with a beckoning finger. “And examine your influence upon me.”

     Katherine sighed with pleasure as she stepped into his embrace and felt for herself his raging desire against her hip. “My lord, you astound me. A tested knight in the king’s service— ”

     “Brought low by a mere wife.” Dafydd finished. “Aye, madame, I am ready for service!”

     Katherine perked up, put as much allure into her smile as possible. “Then allow me to remain by your side, sir knight, that you will not find the nights long and empty.”

     Laughing, he drew her closer.

     She pressed her hands to his broad chest and beseeched him, “Watch your back, Dafydd. I would have you return safely.”

     “Aye, dear wife. I shall return posthaste, for all I desire abides herein.”

*  *  *

     “Praise St. Winifred, she has answered my prayers.” Anne stood beside Katherine, straining to keep Simon in view as they stood on the western parapet, their backs to the morning sun. But the knights and soldiers were quickly gone on their trek into Wales. She released a forlorn sigh.

     “What did you ask of her?” Katherine asked, yet eyeing the road to Shrewsbury.

     “That you would be joyed to see Sir Dafydd safely recovered.”

     Katherine nodded with a smile.

     “I feared you would think to save your misery and let him perish. Simon thinks him the best of masters. I am glad you have reconciled your feelings toward your husband and have relinquished your hopeless dream of Sir Rhys.”

     Swallowing nervously, Katherine recalled her husband’s warning. He claimed she would betray him. Setting a scowl upon her brow, she turned away, but not before her hand shook from nervous tension. She wished an end to this unsettling conversation.

     “If we dally much longer, we shall grow quite brown. Come, Anne, let us to Gilbert and see him occupied with the king’s latest edict.”

     “First, I must needs see the embroidery on my collar finished.” Anne smiled with a sudden sparkle. “As a wedded woman, I shall require such finery.” She turned and started toward the stairs.

     Jack, the dyer’s son, stood at the end of the wallwalk.

     “I must speak to ye, m’lady.” His eyes shone with excitement. “I’ve gladsome news,” he murmured. “But ’tis a secret.”

     Anne leaned closer and Katherine chuckled, drawn in by his youthful intensity. Always bursting with eagerness, Jack would have some grave concern. It usually amounted to naught, except within his own mind. As always, she showed forbearance, for he was a polite and hard working lad.

     “Well, Jack, out with your news. I must find Gilbert without further ado. The king has sent us new instructions.”

     The lad nodded, his eyes animated, but he looked behind him before he leaned close to whisper, “We’re not knowin’ who we can trust. Ye must keep mum of what I say. Do ye give me yer word?”

     “Of course, Jack,” she replied, smiling. ’Twas easy to indulge the boy. Would that she had as much of his energy these days.

     He leaned closer yet. “Your babe was stolen.”

     Katherine’s breath came out of her as though she had been clouted with a mace.

     Beside her, Anne’s face went deathly white.

     Jack whispered into her ear. “He abides not far from here.”

     Her heart pounded in her breast. “My—my child lives?”

     “Aye, but tush, m’lady.” Jack nodded with a scowl. He tugged her forward. “Hurry, before someone stops us. The babe is not dead. He abides in Shrewsbury.” 

Chapter Thirty-one

     “Come hither, Katherine. Come greet your son.”  

     At the familiar and dreaded voice, Katherine froze in the doorway of the small chamber. Though her mouth went dry, she had no chance to indulge her fears. Sir Geoffrey grasped her arm and pulled her within the sparse cell of the Abbot’s guest house. Her senses heightened, she was more than aware of the knight, with his hot, putrid breath and his hulking frame pressing close.

     But for once she ignored him. Her vision focused on the nun seated on the low bench. With her back against the far wall and her face framed by the white wimple of her order, Sister Mary Margaret clutched a sleeping babe.

    
Her
babe.

     Without hesitation, Katherine stepped into the small chamber, staring fixedly at the swaddled bundle nestled within the nun’s arms.

     Mindless of the consequence, she and Anne had followed Jack to Shrewsbury Abbey, ignoring her husband’s desperate caution. Against his orders she had been enticed away from the safety of Haughmond.

     But what an extraordinary inducement!

     Leaning closer, she peered into the tiny face, trying to catch each detail in the flickering illumination of the lone candle. The babe stirred and struggled to open his eyes. Yawning, looking so like Anne, he lapsed back into sleep.

     Katherine’s heart skipped a beat. 

     Sister Mary Margaret stood, her eyes fastened on Sir Geoffrey. But her words, clearly, were meant for Katherine. “He was christened Robert. We thought you would be pleased. I have loved him in your stead.” Ever so carefully, she laid the babe in Katherine’s outstretched arms, so gently he never wakened.

     With all her love pulsing within her embrace, Katherine took her child, cradled him to her. The weight of him, relaxed and heavy in sleep, with his small head rolling against her breast, filled her with awe.

     But while she stared at him in wonder, the ache in her heart—her constant companion these past months—dissipated beneath a rising fury.

     “You stole my babe. You let me think him dead.” Her voice, low and determined, came out in a grating rasp. “You dare tell me you have loved him? In my stead? When you kept him from me?” She lifted her gaze and met Sister Mary Margaret’s troubled stare. Startled by the nun’s pale and gaunt face, and by her eyes—round hollows of fear—Katherine caught her breath. Wrath took flight. Terror rolled through her, for Sir Geoffrey’s fearsome threat pierced her memory.  

    
A quick snap of its neck will put it out of its misery.

     Whirling, she met the dangerous glitter emanating from the depths of his ice-blue eyes. He would show no mercy. Rhys had known that, had clearly sought to protect their child by hiding him.

     But he’d ridden off to war. 

     Fear, and the instinct to protect—to flee—gripped her. She sidled past Anne, toward the doorway. Sir Geoffrey’s heavy hand clamped down upon her left shoulder, holding her immobile.

     “I grow weary of this discourse,” he growled. “Give me the child. We will end this folly.” Within his grip a blade flashed in the candlelight.

     Knowing escape was impossible, Katherine’s heart pounded in her ears. Clutching her precious burden to her breast, she spun away from her stepfather. Using her body as a shield, she huddled against Anne, whose arms encircled her.

     Startled awake, Robert let loose a wavering cry.

     Sister Mary Margaret pushed past them and stood betwixt Katherine and certain death. “You do harm my grandson, ’twill be the last day of your earthly existence.”

     Startled by the breathless pronouncement and the heavy silence that followed, Katherine peered over her shoulder, saw her stepfather hesitate, saw his startled interest. Her gaze flew to Sister Mary Margaret. This was her husband’s mother, Rhys’s
mother? 

     Brandishing his knife, Sir Geoffrey eyed the nun. “Which of this whore’s lovers do you claim as your kin?”

     “Dafydd de la Motte is my son. He is not like to thank you for slaying his heir.”

     Sir Geoffrey drew in a sharp breath.

     “Aye, this is your grandson thereto, more is the pity,” Sister Mary Margaret grit out.

     “Then we have been lovers.” He inspected her from head to toe. “You must have come late to your order, for I have never been tempted by one of God’s chosen.” He pointed the blade toward her face. “For your deception and your insult on the day of the joust, think you your crucifix will save young Katherine’s brat?”

     Sister Mary Margaret angled her head away from the glinting blade with a wary eye.

     Katherine clutched Robert tighter, bringing from him another howl of protest.

     Drawing herself taller, the nun spoke with conviction. “You will not harm him. Know you he is your grandson. He is Dafydd’s heir.”  

     “So you do claim, but I doubt me ’tis soothfast. I have had information that says elsewise. He bears a Welsh name. No son of mine is Welsh.” The flash of Sir Geoffrey’s blade accompanied his disgust.

     Sister Mary Margaret stepped back. “’Twas the worst brand I could cast upon a child of the Marches,” she murmured, fingering the rosary at her waist. “I thought ’twould be fitting punishment. Should you ever meet your bastard child, you would needs speak the hated Welsh language.”

     Sir Geoffrey’s snarl filled the chamber. “A cruel twist from a vengeful bitch.”

     Sister Mary Margaret crossed herself. “’Twas appropriate at the time, the worst appellation I could bestow. I viewed your handiwork with disdain. God forgive me, I have since come to love my son most dear.”

     Sir Geoffrey pointed his knife at her throat. “Tell me your name, that I may know who bestowed her favors so freely.”

     “Bestowed?” Sister Mary Margaret’s chin rose defiantly. “’Twas outright theft.”

     Sir Geoffrey pointed his knife closer. “Tell me, else I put truth to your words and steal your life.”

     “Cecilia de Chaumont,” came her halting murmur.

     Warmth flooded his eyes. “Ah!” His wrist snapped and the blade pointed toward the plastered ceiling. “I recollect you.” He stepped closer. His hand slid under the wide white collar of her habit and closed over a round breast. When she shuddered, a sickening smile of pleasure filled his lips. “You came to my chamber at Truxton Castle.”

     Tension showed in the nun’s hunched shoulders. “You forced your way into mine.” Tears glittered her lashes.

     Sir Geoffrey’s hand continued its rhythmic motion. “You were most accommodating.”

     The nun shook her head. “Nay, ’twas upon the hearth where you did take my maidenhead.” Though her lips barely moved, the words came out in a rush betwixt the babe’s swelling cries.

     Sir Geoffrey smiled and his hand moved with more precision. “You must have been anxious for me. A bed is usually preferred.”

     “’Twas where you caught me when I tried to flee.”

     Pity filled Katherine’s heart. “Oh, Sister!” she murmured. 

     Sir Geoffrey scowled in her direction. “Her smiles must have been inviting.” His gaze shifted back to the nun. “You got what you deserved, Cecilia.”

     “I was young and knew no better. You left me with a babe in my belly!” The broken cry rose above Robert’s loud squalls.

     “Would that you had been willing, when my seed took root so readily. Had I known you carried a son, we could have wed. Your father never broached a marriage contract. How cruel to have kept my son from me,” he snarled.

     “You were already married to a bride you had yet to meet.” A tear dropped to Sister Mary Margaret’s cheek.

     “Estrild?” Sir Geoffrey snorted in derision. “She was taken by plague before I set eyes upon her. ’Twas a most unfortunate circumstance, being married and yet celibate.” He smirked. “How fare you in a similar circumstance, dear Cecilia? Was that by choice, or was your family so shamed that they locked you away?”

     Biting her lip, the nun stared at the flagstone floor.

     Sir Geoffrey chuckled. Past the rosary beads tucked at her waist, his hand moved downward. “I see celibacy has been no cure for my touch. I feel the trembling.”

     Sister Mary Margaret remained outwardly motionless, yet her unsteady breath showed the effort of a weakening resolve.

     The knight’s eyes, alight with power and excitement and success, made Katherine shudder. His ungodliness soured her stomach. She yearned to close her eyes, to shut out his dreadful sight. But the danger of his dagger made that impossible.

     Suddenly, Sister Mary Margaret gasped and jerked backwards.

     Sir Geoffrey burst into laughter, cruel and full of scorn, full of arrogance. His eyes became slits of anger. “Do you repudiate me because I arouse your womanly desires or because they languished for so long? ’Tis plain you desire my touch.”