Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (40 page)

Henrietta had not returned, and so I sat in the atrium – pleased to be in the shade in my heavy clothing – and waited while Gaston located Christine, who was closeted in Agnes’ room. The girl allowed him to enter, and I watched the door close behind him with dread. I would have pondered it if the Marquis had not approached.

“Might we speak a moment?” he inquired.

I nodded for him to take the seat next to mine. “We have been to the church. The ceremony can occur at any time.”

He nodded. “Is that wise?”

I turned to him with surprise. “Do you not wish it? We know she lacks the finer qualities of a broodmare, but Gaston feels all may sleep better if he can produce an heir sooner rather than later.”

His gaze was speculative: his lips quirked in a fox’s grin. He snatched my left hand and shoved my sleeve back to reveal the bruise. I pulled my arm away.

“This morning was not the time to make mention of this,” he said quietly. “But they were noted, and wondered at. I thought…” He sighed, and abandoned whatever trail of thought he had been pursuing to gaze at me directly. “Is he responsible for those marks?”

I did not respond. It was a difficult question, especially if I was inclined to answer it honestly. And I knew not what he ascribed them to.

I surely would have been as surprised as Gaston if I had been the one first presented with Striker’s supposition of my madness. I could not see where the Marquis might leap to the same conclusion, though; but I had not thought he would see through Christine’s disguise, either.

He sighed again and shrugged at my level gaze. “Did they not result from your being bound hand and foot? Did he set upon and bind you?”

he asked with more diffidence.

“Set upon me…?” I asked.

“Does he attack you and seek to hurt you in his madness?” the Marquis asked with a mix of frustration and sympathy.

“Non,” I said quickly. “It is not… what you think. He does not attack me in his bouts of madness.”

“Then how did those bruises come to be?” he asked.

“It is not your concern,” I said without rancor. “Truly, do not trouble yourself over the matter. It concerns no one except Gaston and me.”

He shook his head. “I feel you may love him beyond…”

“All reason,” I supplied.

He smiled. “Oui, beyond all reason; and thus, you might not see the danger he could pose to another: a bride, for instance.”

I shook my head. “I do see that danger, and it is not posed by this matter, exactly.”

“I thought you could… manage him,” he said with an admonishing tone that raised my hackles.

“I assist him in managing himself,” I said with a warning in my voice.

“By allowing him to…” He gestured vaguely at my extremities.

I swore. “Oui, by allowing him to do as he did. That would be one method of assisting him, oui.” He would not let this die, and I could not tell him the truth, yet I must tell him something. “On occasion he wishes to exercise control… To feel powerful. I allow him to exercise that control over me. It is a private matter between us. It requires great trust.

It is not a thing I can ever foresee him doing with some stupid little girl.”

He was frowning, but he sat back in his chair and nodded thoughtfully.

“Do not ever make mention of this again, to anyone,” I said.

He continued to nod, and then stopped to meet my gaze and ask. “Is it an aspect of his madness he is ashamed of, or is it a matter you would keep hidden?”

I shook my head and looked away with a heavy sigh. I should have shot the man days ago.

It was an astute question: one that bore examination. Gaston had allowed me to be portrayed as the madman to keep our secret hidden from Striker, and here I was allowing Gaston to look the madder of us for the same reason. Were we truly protecting a sacred thing between us, or selfishly covering our own shame?

I did not like that question. It burned in my heart, fanning the anxiety that had been simmering there.

“Both,” I said tiredly.

He sighed. “I had thought that… his marriage, well, that marriage itself, would provide him with another caretaker; either as an adjunct to you, or as a – I will admit it – more suitable replacement. But now I feel… you are correct. No stupid little girl could love him as you do.”

I turned to him and found him smiling.

His smile changed to a grin. “Women are generally far more sensible creatures,” he teased.

Despite my cynicism and anxiety, I smirked. When that eruption of humor passed, I said sadly, “I am mad in my love for him.”

He nodded, and clapped my shoulder. “He has been blessed to have found you.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He left me alone in the shade, and I found it was not nearly dark enough. I retreated to the stable. I intended to collapse into the straw and cuddle a puppy, but they were nursing, so I paced. Gaston entered before my thoughts could overwhelm me. He was not blind.

“Will?” he queried and stepped into my path to peer at my face.

“Your father noticed the marks,” I said, and then I told him what I had said in explanation.

My matelot’s face hardened, but he chewed his lip and stayed quiet.

“I am sorry,” I said. “I wished to say nothing, but I felt I must. I did not wish for him to seek explanation elsewhere.”

“You did not say it was about sex?” Gaston asked – or rather his Horse did.

Mine answered: I backed him to the wall, my fist pounding the wood next to his head to punctuate each sentence. “Non. I did not say how I beg you for it. I did not say how I writhe beneath you in pleasure, or how much delight you take in it. I said none of that! I kept our secret.

From my shame, or yours, I know not which; but we are both the madder for it now!”

I was surprised at myself, perhaps moreso than he was. For one frozen moment I thought he might strike me: I thought I might strike him. Then his hands were on either side of my face and he was gazing into my eyes earnestly, as I often did when seeking to calm him.

“I am sorry,” I gasped. “I am sorry.”

“Perhaps I should take to binding you,” he said with wry amusement.

I wrapped my arms around him and he held me.

“What is wrong, Will?” he whispered in my ear.

“I do not know. It has been eating at me since…”

“You woke?” he prompted.

“Non, non, I woke happy. Since I walked into that chaos this morning.”

“I have already been bucking about,” he said. “It is no wonder you are, too.”

“I know.” And I did. I had every reason to experience feelings of unease under the circumstances, but I felt unease at that. “It is… I have faced what I faced this morning before. I should not be so distraught. It is not as if it has led to…” And then I understood; and I shook my head and pulled away to meet his gaze. “I have faced that before, and it has ever led to a duel or my leaving some place. I always lost something or someone or… And now…”

“You are not losing me,” he said. “We are not leaving, and I may not even marry.”

“Why? What did she say?”

He shook his head and sighed. “She does not wish to marry this day.

She was appalled at the suggestion.”

“Did she give reason?” I asked.

“Non, she said she would marry me next week, perhaps.” He shrugged. “We discussed where she should sleep until then. She does not wish to share Agnes’ room.”

Anger still flamed in my heart, and his words gave it a new direction to burn.

He caught me before I reached the door. “Will?” His voice held equal parts concern and warning.

I fought turning my anger back upon him. “Trust me. I have learned to trust you when you are thus.”

He nodded and let me go.

Agnes and Sarah were standing in the doorway of Agnes’ room, speaking to Christine, as I charged up the stairs. My sister regarded my arrival with a concerned frown, and I wondered what Striker had already told her. It only served to fuel my anger, and the knowledge that I would say or do little within the next moments to change their perception did little to damp me.

“Do you intend to proceed with the marriage or not?” I demanded of Christine.

“Aye,” she said sharply, her own surprise at my sudden appearance turning to ire. She looked past me to Gaston in query. “I would prefer it be next week.”

“I would have a reason,” I said. “I would know if you are merely delaying the matter so that you might formulate some other escape from your father. If that is what you wish, we will be happy to oblige you, but do not toy with us.”

“I toy with no one,” she spat. “I will marry Lord Montren, but not this week, not that it is any concern of yours. If I am not to marry both of you, then the matter lies between him and me and has not a thing to do with you,” she said with a spiteful sneer.

“Non,” Gaston said.

Christine turned to look at him. The ire left her fine features as she beheld his stony face and stance. “I am sorry, my Lord,” she said, “but I am either marrying you, or I am not.”

“Non,” he said. “You are marrying me, but above all others, he is my matelot, and all things concerning me concern him. If that is not acceptable to you, then leave.”

She flushed. “I do not wish to argue over this.”

Despite my Horse’s wishes, I kept the smugness from my face. “I ask again, with all that is afoot, why is today unsuitable?”

Her cheeks became even redder. “I am indisposed this week,” she growled.

Having become ill-accustomed to the ways of ladies these last years, it took me several moments to divine her meaning. When I did, I shook my head with annoyance. “That is of no concern. It surely will not affect the ceremony, and as for the consummation, you will merely need extra linens and an ewer of water.”

“Will!” Gaston hissed.

I saw by his horrified expression that her having her monthly bleed would indeed have more impact on the matter of the consummation than the addition of a bathing tub in the wedding room.

I sighed. “You need not consummate the marriage until she is done with it then, but I still see no reason for it to delay the wedding.”

Gaston nodded. If Christine could have struck me dead, she surely would have. Agnes was appalled and glaring at me as well. Sarah was attempting to stifle her mirth.

“I have not yet had the opportunity to try such a thing,” Sarah said.

“Is it truly not… ill-advised, other than the mess?”

I grinned. “I have known several ladies who swear it alleviates the cramping often associated with the matter.”

“I look forward to testing that supposition, then,” Sarah said, and walked toward her room.

“Striker may be appalled by the notion,” I said. “Many men are.”

She snorted. “He can be persuaded.”

I turned back to Christine. “We plan to go to the church this afternoon for the baptism of our daughter. It would simplify matters if you were to accompany us and marry Gaston today. Can you find a gown? Perhaps you can borrow one of my sister’s.”

Furious, she stubbornly looked to Gaston. “My Lord?”

“As he said.” Gaston turned away and walked toward the rooms being cleaned – where I noted his father and Striker stood watching us.

I turned away as well. Christine’s parting glare told me we were far from the end of the battle. For a panicked moment, I considered telling Gaston to end the matter: it surely could come to no good; but then I remembered my words concerning Vivian, and I thought of how that had begun. Christine would not be about forever, and Gaston seemed intent on making her place very clear to her. I truly had no reason to be concerned: it was just my Horse shying at… madmen in the bushes.

I sighed and wrapped my arms around Gaston when I reached him. He was just telling his father that there would likely be a wedding that afternoon. Striker and the Marquis regarded me with concerned curiosity. I ignored them, and brushed a kiss on my matelot’s cheek before entering the Marquis’ room to see what progress was being made.

Rucker gave me a hearty smile and hurried past me to fetch more paint from downstairs. Pete and Dupree were painting. I knew the Marquis and Striker had also been involved in the endeavor, as they were somewhat spattered, but I felt their labor had been less intense than that of the two men working now. The Golden One’s bronzed skin was nearly as white as Dupree’s shirt, due to the splatter from applying the paint to the ceiling with a mop. I considered stripping and throwing myself into the labor in order to divert my attention, but then I remembered I could not expose my chest, and that recollection only served to make me wish to divert my attention even more.

“I am sorry we are so little help this day,” I said. “We are to baptize the baby and get Gaston married this afternoon.”

“Oui, my Lord,” Dupree added. “Will we be attending?”

“If you wish,” I said.

Pete set his mop in the bucket and wiped his face before awarding me a wry smile. “Ya Be Well With This?”

I did not lie, or perhaps I did. “Aye. Well enough.” I smiled.

He grinned, but his eyes were narrowed, and I felt as I sometimes did in his presence: that I was being perused by some ancient spirit.

“All O’ It Be Enough Ta Drive A Man Mad.”

“And if one is already mad?” I asked.

His grin widened. “Then Ya Na’ ’Ave Far Ta Go.”

I smirked. “Nay, I do not feel it is a destination, but a state of being.

One either stands so that they perceive the world as all other men do, or one does not. And of late, I have ceased to be convinced that the sanity purportedly held by many is the truth.”

He frowned at me, as did Dupree.

“I do not think I am any madder than any other man,” I clarified.

Pete leaned on the unpainted wall and crossed his arms.

“Some ’Ave Been Worried. Ya Gonna Hurt Yarself?”

“Nay,” I replied with a dismissive snort. Though, I wondered if allowing another to hurt me would be part of the answer he sought.

“Ya Gonna Hurt Another?”

“If they are my enemy, I should hope so,” I said with a grin.

He grinned. “Ya Know Friend From Foe?”

“Not always, it seems,” I sighed, “but unless I am faced with betrayal, I mean none I now call friend any harm.”