My True Love (17 page)

It does my body ill
.

My bird, my bonny one

My tender babe venust

My love, my life alane
,

My liking and my lust
.’”

His smile had slipped a bit or simply changed character. “Another man ardent in his thoughts of a woman.”

“Did you hear no poetry in London?”

“Scores of it. Reams of it,” he said. “Too much to wish to quote. Most of it was written for only one purpose. When that was accomplished, I doubted the words survived.”

She smiled, well aware for what purpose the poetry had been written.

“Did you like London?”

Stephen touched Juliana’s hand. A curious benediction. Anne placed hers beside his.

“There are parts to London that are surprisingly beautiful. But then you turn the corner, and there is squalor. One moment you’re in a building crafted with the skill of Inigo Jones and the next in a street with buildings built up so much the sky is hardly visible.” He smiled, obviously reminiscing. “I can speak, read, and write five languages, but there are places in London where I cannot understand my fellow Englishman. It took days for me to decipher that ‘stren’ meant the Strand, and ‘wostrett’ Wood Street. Sometimes I felt as if I were woefully out of place there, that it was a grand jest that everyone but I understood.”

“I’ve felt that way sometimes,” she said.

“Have you?” He glanced over at her.

“Don’t you think everyone does?”

“Even at Dunniwerth?”

“Haven’t you noticed,” she said, only half teasing, “that it’s possible to be the most alone when there are other people about?”

“When I’ve been in a crowd lately, it’s been a battle. I’ve less time to worry about whether I’m lonely than whether I stay alive or not.”

“Do you ever talk about it, Stephen?”

He smiled down at her. “You will find that soldiers rarely discuss war. What time not spent in battle or endlessly traveling to or from one is spent in celebrating life.”

She could not hold back her smile.

“What are you thinking, with such a look on your face?”

“It’s an immodest thought, one a sheltered girl would not think,” she said sweetly.

“I’ve a feeling Dunniwerth did not shelter you as much as support you, Anne Sinclair.”

She laughed. “My mother would agree with you, Stephen. And so would Hannah.”

“You have still not answered my question.”

“My thought was that there had been quite a bit of celebrating life at Dunniwerth,” she said, glancing away. “Especially after the men returned from war.” In fact, there had been a decided increase in the number of babies born almost exactly nine months from the day the men had returned. But no amount of coaxing would induce her to say that.

“Is there a suitor in your life, Anne? A young Scot waiting until you finally ease his suffering and say yes to his proposal?”

“No.”
They could not compete with you
. A thought that she did not voice.

“Just no? No list of men you’ve spurned?” There was a tight smile on his face.

The miniature of Sarah floated into her mind at that moment. She smiled, absurdly pleased that the irritation appeared equally shared.

“What about Ian? He watches you closely. I would not be surprised if he had been seated in a tree observing our meal.”

Such a comment surprised her. “Ian?” She shook her head. “No,” she said emphatically, “never Ian.”

She walked away from him then, stood and faced what must have been the ruin of a magnificent window. She’d never seen the chapel before, yet it seemed rife with echoes of ceremonies of long ago, of witnessing marriage and knightings and bap tisms and burials. She was certain that if she tried, she could hear those sounds, entreaties to heaven itself. Immortal whispers of mortals. As if to prove it, a gust of wind swirled around her skirts, cast leaves and small pieces of plaster into the air.

It began as whispers.

Forgive me, for all my sins, my God. Thank you for bringing her here to me, that forever long as I might live, all my days and nights will be made bearable by the memory of her face, the sound of her voice
.

Then the echoes became words spoken aloud, proud declarations that rang in the corners and seemed to sing on their own.

Will you swear to be my vassal, Jered, for all the days of your life? To grant me loyalty and honor, and protect mine as you would me?

I swear, my lord, on my honor
.

Affirmations shouted through the room, echoed by an angry infant’s cry, a tyranny of the feted and loved.

This child, and how shall he be named?

Harold of Langlinais, brother. Known as his father’s heir and pride
.

The imagined words lingered in the air, a benediction of sound, a hint of the life lived here. Not only in joy, but in sorrow, too, and all the emotions in between.

They could have been spoken. Once. Now the chapel was a sanctuary for only the wind.

Stephen came and stood beside her, placed his finger on her cheek, exactly as gently as he had on Juliana’s. “Why do you look so sad?” he asked softly.

“It seems a place for sadness,” she said, granting him the truth.

She remained still and quiet, trapped by fascination. There was a look in his eyes, one she’d never seen before. As if he felt the same enchantment as she did now.

His finger poised upon the lobe of her ear, held there by the stillness of his body, a habit he had of seeming to become stone. His eyes were as motionless, but in their depths she saw them widen, their black centers expanding.

A cloud passed over, blown by a playful gust of wind. It seemed to trap the sun behind it until it was colored luminous, tinted rose and peach and yellow. The statue of Juliana was touched by an errant sunbeam emerging from that cloud. It dusted the smile on her face with radiance until it appeared as if she smiled tenderly.

Her hands brushed against his chest, not to forestall, but rather to entice. Her fingers opened wide, felt the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt. She lifted her head, watched as his lips neared hers. Then let her lids flutter shut as he kissed her.

It was like being welcomed. His lips were soft and warm, the touch of his tongue both shocking and evocative. Her mouth fell open beneath his, her hands clenched his shoulders.

Was life given in the power of a kiss? She felt her body change, her breath grow tight. A sensation like fire raced through her, as if a cord tied all the various parts of it to this kiss.

One hand wound around his neck, the other strayed to his cheek, thumb pressed against his jaw as if to hold him closer. His skin was almost hot beneath her palm. He pulled her to him, the tightness of their embrace accentuating all their differences. Curves against solid muscle. Hollows pressed into hard flesh. His height and strength. Her softness.

It was almost as if a chasm divided them, one that could only be conquered by the flesh. Their joining was necessary and almost painfully needed. Something within her whimpered, craved it. Demanded it. Something wild and yearning and ancient.

She pressed up against him, felt his hand upon her back. An urging she did not need.

An odd time to fall in love. Or perhaps it had happened fifteen years ago when she was a child cowering in her bed and he was a boy suffused with grief. Perhaps her soul had reached out to him then with love and understanding. But it didn’t matter when it had happened. Only that it had.

The love she felt for him was not that of a child. It was not a soft and comforting thing. It was strong, a beast of intent. One that had been dormant for so long and now demanded attention and sustenance. Completion. Acknowledgment. Fulfillment.

He stepped away, the kiss ended as quickly as it was begun. On his face was a look of surprise. Or regret.
Do not let him speak of apologies
. A plea she voiced in silence.

Twice he’d kissed her. Twice they’d been lost to passion, the two of them. Would they to pretend now that it hadn’t happened? As if each of them were turtles that retreated into their shells? How could something this powerful be ignored? Or per haps she was wrong and he did not feel the same.

Were there words to measure this longing? If so, she did not know them. Or they had never been crafted. Not in English, nor in Gaelic. Perhaps in his Latin there were such sentiments. Something to express the pain of this moment and the near beauty of it.

When she’d first seen him, he had startled her. Then she’d felt only a strange sort of sadness because he had not recognized her and she had found it difficult to reconcile the man of her visions with the silent man whose eyes were blank and flat.

But she’d grown to know him, and they’d each imparted part of themselves to the other.

She knew, finally, that she loved him. Not the vision but the man.

He raised his head. If there was regret in his eyes, she didn’t see it. Or did not wish to. But even that thought was stripped from her as she turned and saw them. Her hand brushed his arm.

“Stephen.”

He followed her gaze.

Ned was approaching them. Behind him was a man dressed in livery. He looked oddly out of place, a peacock among pigeons. His trousers and jacket were a jonquil yellow; his cape a sky blue. There was a bouncing yellow feather on his hat. His boots of pale brown leather were over-sized, lace hanging from their thigh-high cuffs.

In contrast, Stephen’s garments looked almost Puritan. His white shirt was loose at the neck and flowing at the sleeves; his black breeches and boots were coated with a fine dust.

Yet there was no doubt between the two of them who was the Earl of Langlinais.

Stephen nodded to the messenger, then turned back to her.

He did not have to tell her; she knew it without a word being said. This idyll, these moments of peace, this time of sweetness was at an end.

Chapter 15

T
he view of rolling hills and green-bearded land was serene and without a flaw. The flowers were beginning to bloom in the gardens and the trees bud in the forests. A bucolic scene.

If she’d had to be injured, Hannah decided, at least it was a pleasant place to recuperate.

She had been led to her chair by Richard, who’d walked up and down the hallway with her. She allowed him to accompany her, feeling an amused tolerance for this man that surprised her.

He was now, he said, attempting to find something that would give her a better disposition. Something to make her sweet. She hadn’t told him that with other people she was considered quite charming. It was just with him that all of her comments seemed acerbic. She wondered why that was and why both of them enjoyed it so.

She turned and folded her hands in her lap, wishing that she had something to occupy herself.

The faster she healed, the quicker they could return to Dunniwerth.

But one blessing had been accomplished by her injury. Not once had Anne mentioned her visions, nor had she attempted to cajole her in allowing her to continue on her quest.

She turned, sighed with acute boredom, and stared out the window.

There were some moments in her life that had seemed to occur in slow motion. As if her mind decreed that the reality of it be given to her a droplet at a time, the better for her heart to bear either the pain or the wonder of it. As she sat staring out at the scene before her, Hannah realized that this was just one of those moments.

Anne walked beside a man. They were followed by two other men. Once they stopped and conversed, then continued to walk toward the house. The breath grew tight in Hannah’s chest. There was a look of such longing upon Anne’s face that she marveled the rest of the world could not see it.

Hannah directed her attention to the man who stood beside Anne. He was tall, possessed of broad shoulders and a way of walking that declared ownership of the very land beneath his feet. There was a bandage on his arm. A mystery solved, then. She’d heard that the earl had been treated for a putrid wound.

“I’ve had cook prepare you a heartier broth,” Richard said, entering the room.

“Is that the earl?” she asked, pointing at the man who walked toward the house with Anne.

Richard glanced in that direction and then back at her. “That’s Stephen Harrington,” he said, “the Earl of Langlinais and your host. I want you in your bed, Hannah. You’ve had enough excitement for today.”

Stephen.

She did not argue with him, a fact that caused him to frown. She nodded and allowed him to help her back to bed.

“Here, I have something for you. A remedy known far and wide for its medicinal properties. You cannot fault it.”

There on his palm were three tiny tablets. “Anderson’s Pills,” he said. “It will ease that headache of yours.”

“How did you know?” she said, reaching out for the tablets. “Do you bill yourself as a mystic, too?”

“Like Culpepper? I do wish you knew something about him. It would be great fun to debate his methods. Do not chew them,” he warned, handing her a cup. “They are to be swallowed.”

“Why is the earl up and about and I am barely able to escape from this room?”

“Because your injury was slower to heal,” he said. “Now let me examine your side, and tighten your bandage and be of great charm in order to make your life miserable.”

“Are all your patients treated with such assiduous good cheer?” He helped her lean forward, and the motion was unexpectedly painful. She closed her eyes again.

“I wouldn’t cause you pain, Hannah. Truly.” It wasn’t fair that his voice was so gentle. “And I’ve rarely had a patient who’s amused me so much.”

“Do you make a practice of visiting all your patients so often?”

“It is a pleasure to come to Harrington Court.”

He moved to stand in front of her. Hannah stared at the ceiling as he thumped on her chest, made her cough again.

“What sort of man is Stephen Harrington?”

“I could have answered that question a few years ago. But I am not so certain now.” He laid his cheek against her chest, and the sight of him lying there against her so intimately discomposed her. “War has a way of changing a man. I know it’s changed Stephen. A year ago he would not have thought to take leave without permission from the king. But he did so without thinking to bring his men home. Every day that passes means he is in that much more disfavor.”