Enduringly Yours (21 page)

Peter was there, standing before the altar in the surcoat she had mended. She never did get around to making him a new one. If she’d known they would be having a wedding, she would have—never mind. It didn’t matter anyway.

John took her from her mother, no doubt intending to give her away. He kissed her hands. “He will recover, my lady.”

She hoped her dark look was answer enough.

“The two of you need to spend some time in the stocks. Right next to each other, where you will be forced to work out your differences.” His eyes took on a calculating gleam. “That is not a bad idea.”

“Just give me away, John,” she gritted. “Quickly, before you get any more ideas.”

Frowning, he led her to Peter and placed her hand in his. Peter wouldn’t look at her. She had to bite her bottom lip to keep from crying while the priest conducted the ceremony. The betrothal agreement was read before a church full of witnesses. And in a cloud of disappointment, she was announced his wife.

Zipporah tasted blood. She’d bitten into her lip. A single drop fell. She watched it, as if in slow motion, splatter on the stone floor. It was time for Peter to kiss her. She kept her head down until he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him.

His eyes widened when he saw her. He let out a short, agonized breath. Tilting her face back, he kissed her carefully. Peter wiped the pad of his thumb over her mouth, then took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. Unsure of what was going through his head, she walked beside him, silently, watching the stone floor, not trusting him and not squeezing his hand in response.

They left the chapel and were followed by their guests into the castle keep for a celebratory meal. Zipporah picked at her food and drank more wine than she should have, trying to block out the noise that was buzzing like bees in her head. They were herded, sheep to the slaughter, upstairs to Edward’s old chamber. It had no doubt been her mother’s idea to put them there.

The priest sprinkled holy water on the bed. One of the guests, a young lord, chuckled to himself as he drank out of an oversized tankard. “Mayhap we should stay, lads,” he called. “To witness the transaction.”

There was always one, Zipporah thought. Their night would not be complete without a drunken fool and a lewd suggestion or two.

“Sir Mark,” Lady Havendell said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Please take care of Lord Edmund.”

“Aye, my lady.” Edmund was removed by the back of his tunic collar, ale slopping onto the floor.

John and Lady Havendell shooed everyone else out of the room and the door was closed behind them. Zipporah had to force her eyes to focus. A fire was crackling in the hearth. The shutters were closed. The bed was lined with wolf pelts, a scarlet coverlet peeled aside and waiting for them.

“Alana went to too much trouble,” Zipporah said. She rubbed her temples. “My head hurts.”

“You drank too much.”

This was the last place she wanted to be, and the last person she wanted to be with. Peter barred the door, then came up behind her, and removed the circlet from her head. He took the flowers and ribbons carefully from her hair. She felt cold inside, but she reached for her laces, loosening them. She turned to face him, ties still in her hands.

This was their duty. King and country.

He tipped her face toward his. She didn’t meet his gaze. “Do not. Do not talk to me right now.”

“Zipporah?”

“Not a word.”

Sighing, he helped her with her gown. She stripped out of the shift she’d been so unwilling to remove before, dumping it onto the floor. Peter ran his fingers over the white scars from her pregnancy.

“You are beautiful,” he said, his voice rough.

Her head pounded. She didn’t know what to think. “Do not. Do not talk.”

Clearly frustrated, he pulled her into his arms. Nothing about the way his body felt against hers was surprising. But her usual fire for him felt like a dull, painful ache. 

Peter carried her to bed, laying her out on the pelts. She ran her palms over thick gray wolf’s fur, felt the warm softness of it against her bare skin. He undressed, but seemed hesitant to actually join her. She took his hand and pulled him down.

It was ridiculously easy to coax him into doing his duty.

* * *

When Zipporah awoke the next morning, it took her a moment to focus her swollen eyes, and then another to realize she was in Edward’s old chamber. Her skull ached and her mouth tasted fuzzy; aftereffects of the night before.

She turned, expecting to see Peter asleep next to her. All that greeted her was a crumpled pillow. She sat up, wincing when her brains followed a moment after her skull. Her hair tumbled down her naked back.

“Peter?”

“I’m here,” he said.

He was sitting in a chair watching her. She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, belatedly pulling the sheet up to cover herself. “What are you doing?”

“Watching you sleep. Did you think I was gone?”

“I . . . just woke up.”

He held out his hand to her. “Come, please.”

She stood, wrapping the sheet around her shoulders. His fingers closed over hers and he eased her onto his lap. “I need to question Fredrick this morning.”

“I know.”

“I still want to keep you under guard until I find Gilburn.”

“Too much to hope he might give up?”

“It is never too late for revenge.” Peter scrubbed a hand over blond stubble. “Can I ask you a question?”

“What?”

“Can you live with me now?”

She straightened to look at his face. “What are you talking about?”

“I will always need you more than you need me.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Aye, it is. But I’m too selfish to do anything about it.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Why do you think I climbed the trellis to your window in the first place? I have always needed you, in more ways than you can imagine.”

Her throat was dry. Her voice cracked. “I need you,” she said. “Of course I need you. How could you wonder?”

He shrugged.

“Is that what this was all about? Did you ruin my wedding because of it?”

“I have been avoiding you, because I knew I let you down.”

“I hate you.” It wasn’t nice, but part of her really had resented him for the last three and a half years. Maybe she needed to get it out of her system.  

They sat in silence for a time.

“I do not really hate you,” she whispered.

“I will make it up to you.”

“I thought you were avoiding me because you were angry about Katrina.”

“Nay. It was my fault. Last night was too.”

“Last night was not the best for us. We have been better.”

“Much better.” Peter kissed her shoulder.

Standing, she shrugged out of the sheet. “I think I could be persuaded to let you try again, Sir Knight.”

Eyes darkened as his pupils dilated. This was the first time in three years he’d gotten a really good look at her. A really long look that was.

He was still looking.

“Peter?”

He smiled. “I’m coming.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Peter had expected more of a familial resemblance between Gilburn and his cousin, Fredrick. Fredrick was of an average height and build, with medium brown hair and eyes. There was little about him that would stand out in a crowd, and he looked nothing like his tall, dark kinsman.

John was standing next to Peter in the guard tower cell that Fredrick was being detained in. Zipporah was behind him. He caught a glimpse of her coming up on her toes to peek over his shoulder.

He should have told her nay when she had asked to come. As much as he knew she needed closure, he didn’t like bringing her into the finer details.

“I think we should let Brunswick the Torturer have a go at him,” John said, cracking his knuckles.

Fredrick’s eyes widened.

Peter eyed John. “I do not think that will be necessary.”

“Perhaps not. But it would definitely be faster.” He grinned.

“Brunswick isn’t here anyway,” Zipporah said. “He is caring for his sick mother.”

“You are not helping,” John whispered.

“I have never heard him referred to as The Torturer before,” she whispered back. “Certainly he has been called upon to keep order, but that is different than torture, I should think.”

“Lass, you need to learn how to interrogate prisoners.”

“Why do you not teach Alana? She seems interested.”

John nodded, looking suddenly thoughtful.

“Am I to be hung?” Fredrick interrupted, glancing at the solitary window in his cell as if contemplating escape. It was barred and too small for a grown man to climb out of anyway.

“That all depends,” Peter said.

“Aye,” John stated, “you are. But if you tell us everything you know, we will be quick about it. Otherwise . . .”

“How about you start by telling me what you know about this.” Peter tossed the pouch of herbs at Fredrick.

He caught it, his face draining of color. “Well I . . .” Fredrick swallowed. “You’re going to hang me anyway.”

“It could be worse,” John said. “We could leave you here to rot.”

“Go.” Peter gestured to John. “Take Zipporah with you. I will be out in a moment.”

“Peter,” Zipporah said.

“Go.”

She glared at him as John took her by the arm and led her out of the cell, closing the door behind them.

Peter pulled up a stool and sat across from Fredrick. “Hungry?”

“A little.”

“Would you like a meal?”

“Will you hang me if I tell you everything?”

“Depends.”

“Will you leave me here to rot?”

“Not likely. Waste of room, and food.”

“My cousin is still out there.”

“He won’t live long enough to rescue you. We have men out searching for him now.” Peter looked Fredrick over. “I doubt he planned to rescue you anyway. Your choices are limited. You can talk, and I will be as lenient with you as is reasonable. Or you can continue to have faith in your cousin, who we both know cares only for his own arse.”

“He paid me,” Fredrick said.

“Go on.”

“Paid me to produce a blend of herbs that would keep Lord Havendell incoherent, but alive.”

“Didn’t work quite like you expected, did it?”

“There must have been some other complication.”

“Aside from a failing heart?” Peter lifted his brows.

“His heart was failing him, aye, but there was a very good chance he would have recovered, at least this time. I have seen it before. He survived the first attack, but it weakened him. It was only a matter of time.”

“Would a toxin be enough to tip the balance?”

“It would.

“Your herbs build up in the system, eventually killing the recipient.”

“I . . .”

Judging by Gilburn’s reaction the day before, and Fredrick’s now, Peter assumed they’d had no idea what they’d been getting themselves into.

“It was just until the Lady Zipporah agreed to marry him,” Fredrick said. “If anything, it is her fault.”

Peter shook his head.

“My apologies, my lord. My cousin feared Lord Havendell would change his mind. Especially when we learned that you had returned to England.”

I was the catalyst?
Peter kept a straight face.

“Gilburn knew you might win both the lady and her father over.”

“So you started administering the herbs after I came home.”

“The very next day.”

Peter stood, his mind onto other things.

“What will you do with me?” Fredrick called.

Peter opened the barred door and went into the corridor. He would deal with Fredrick later. Maybe stash him somewhere where he would not harm himself or others. He could clean privies at a monastery in France.

“Have a meal brought to him,” Peter told a guard. “Cold, but relatively free of maggots will do.”

Fredrick’s questioning voice followed him down the corridor, disappearing behind the tower door. Peter met up with John and Zipporah on the battlements just outside. This high off the ground, the wind was whipping. The obscenely long sleeves of his wife’s burgundy gown were trying her patience. After several attempts to gather them in, she finally gave up with a sigh and let her clothing do as it willed.

“Gilburn paid Fredrick off,” Peter said. “He did not know the herbs would become toxic.”

“So he says,” John added.

“I have no reason to believe otherwise. He began administering them the day after I came home. Gilburn was afraid I would win you and your father over.”

Zipporah turned away, her hand on the wooden railing, fingers tightening on it. He slipped his arm around her waist from behind, her temple against his chin. “Please talk to me.”

“I didn’t know how obvious we were. I wonder what my father would have done if he had known you were back.” She turned to look at him, then brushed his hair off his face. “Let’s get out of here.”

Peter took her hand, walking with her in silence. He never liked silence between them and had the urge to fill it. His wagging tongue was rarely what she needed though.

They met up with Alana. John seemed grateful that he was no longer odd man out. The four of them sat, John discussing interrogation skills with Alana. Peter wasn’t sure why his brother was attempting to woo a lady in quite that way.

Then again, John had never tried to woo a
lady
before.

Or any woman for that matter. As lord, all he had to do was smile and nod and he had all the companionship he needed. And he usually did, have plenty of companionship, but his nightmares had started right after news of their mother’s death had reached them. He slept alone after that.  

Zipporah scooted closer to Peter. “When I was a little girl I thought my bridal period would be a more festive occasion.” She rested her cheek on his shoulder.

“Oh, I don’t know. Lord Edmund was festive last night.”

“I could draw and quarter him for it too.” John laughed at something and she lifted her head. “Your brother is attempting to impress Alana.”

“So I noticed.”

She frowned to herself. “Take me for a walk outside. I need to do something other than sit here.”

“Aye, my lady.” They made their way out the door and into the garden.

Peter felt like he really should be in the forest looking for Gilburn. He wasn’t accustomed to letting other men do his dirty work. It was something he would have to get used to, now that he was lord. The wind blew, sprinkling the occasional green leaf down on them. John’s voice carried on the breeze.

“I think we’re being followed,” Peter said. “We cannot seem to get rid of them.”

Peter heard the zip of a drawn sword. Without thought, he pushed Zipporah behind him.

“What?” she squeaked.                     

“It’s lovely.” Alana appeared with John from behind a row of juniper bushes.

“It’s just John showing Alana his sword,” Zipporah said. “A little tense are we?” She came out from behind his shoulder.

“You could say so, aye.” He smiled. “Well, John said he wanted a woman who could appreciate his sword.”

“The two of them are going to need some help if this is ever going to work.”

Peter lifted his brows.

“Wouldn’t she be better off with John than Besville?”

“Of course she would. And her brother’s debt?”

“John will think of something. He is good for that.”

“Mine is in my chamber,” Alana said. “If you would like to see it. My brother taught me to fight. I’m really not very good, but he humors me. And I enjoy the exercise. May I?” Alana reached toward John’s sword and he passed it to her.

Which was phenomenal.

He never let anyone touch his sword.

“You have your own sword?” he said, looking at her like she had a halo over her head and a choir of angels singing around her.

She lifted his weapon, tilting it into the sun. The ruby in the crosspiece winked. “I have two, actually. One is dull for practice, and the other sharp.”

“But are they weighted the same?” John asked. “If not, then you could find yourself at a disadvantage in an actual fight.” He paused, looking her over. “Not that you should ever find yourself in combat, but it is always best to be prepared.”

“They are exact replicas of each other. I brought both of them with me.”

Peter watched Zipporah’s brow knit. Then her eyes lit up and she went to Alana. “Why do we not go get your sword?”

Alana turned to John. “Would you like to . . .”

“I would be honored to see it, my lady.”

Peter was sure he would.

“How about we all meet up in the lists?” Zipporah looked at Peter. “You and John could use the diversion. And maybe, once you’ve worn John down a bit . . .”

John snorted.

“He can give Alana a lesson,” she finished.

Alana’s eyes lit with a brilliance that had nothing to do with the sun shining down on them.

John was staring again.

“Truly, would you teach me?” She brushed her hair back with one hand, his sword in the other. “You are the best in all of England.”

“Well, I do not know about that,” John said.

“Aye, he does,” Peter added.

John glared at him.

“But would you be willing to teach a woman?” she asked.

“I never thought about it before. It would depend on the woman.”

“Right.” She smiled tightly. “I probably shouldn’t have asked.”

Zipporah bumped Alana with her shoulder. “He means you,” she whispered.

“Oh.”

“I will teach you,” John said, his voice husky. Alana blushed, then looked away, playing with her hair.

“Why do we not get your sword,” Zipporah said.

“Your dull sword,” John noted.

“Aye, of course.” Belatedly, she passed John back his weapon. “Thank you.”

He sheathed it as they walked off. “They really shouldn’t be left unguarded, should they?” he said a moment later.

“Nay, they shouldn’t,” Peter agreed.

“I better watch them.”

“Aye, you had better.”

John walked off.

* * *

“Thank you for the diversion,” Alana said. “I’m sure the last thing you want right now is to humor me.”

“I am not humoring you. Besides, Peter and John need this. And I need something to think about besides Gilburn.”

“You mean Peter needs something to think about besides Gilburn.”

“I know it probably sounds strange, but I feel safe, now that I have Peter with me.”

Alana sighed. “That does not sound strange. It sounds nice.”

They ascended the stairs to Alana’s chamber. John waited for them outside. Alana took her sword out of her trunk, laying it on the bed. Zipporah picked it up, still in its sheath. It was light-weight, so to speak. All swords were heavy, but this one seemed designed for a woman. It was about the same length as John’s, which made sense, seeing as Alana had long arms. The button on the end of the grip was set with a blue opal.

“My brother had it made for me,” Alana said. “Before we knew we shouldn’t be wasting our gold on such frivolities.”

Zipporah pulled the sword free from its sheath, surprised to see that is was honed to a deadly edge. “Alana?”

“I know. I have my practice sword here.” She took it out, placing it on the bed. They looked alike.

“How can you tell the difference?”

“Here.” She took up the dull weapon, pointing to the blade. “This one has my initials on it. My brother said he would allow my initials on the sharp one only over-his-dead-and-rotting-corpse.”