Sharon Schulze - L'eau Clair Chronicles 03 (22 page)

He licked his way back up her body, then melded his mouth to hers in a sipping, tasting kiss. Placing his hands about her waist, he drew her into deeper water, then lowered her onto his shaft.

Lily moaned at the onslaught of sensation flooding her.

Ian’s heat within her, the warm water caressing them, and the delicate mastery of Ian’s mouth on hers” swiftly sent spasms of release flooding through her. HiS mouth tight against hers, Ian groaned as he joined her in satisfaction.

Arms and legs still wrapped about Ian, Lily slowly returned to an awareness of her surroundings. The air was cold now on her wet flesh, and she felt exposed, self-conscious.

“What is it?” Ian asked. He kissed her tenderly and held her more tightly when she clung to him.

“I feel strange here … like this,” she mumbled against the brawny curve of his shoulder.

“May we get out now?”

His gaze searching, Ian examined her face and stared into her eyes.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No.

“Tis just that I feel so exposed, out here in the open. What if more of those men come here looking for you?” she asked, her voice shaking.

He carried her from the pool and wrapped his shirt about her.

“We’ll be all right, Lily. Don’t worry.” He rummaged in the pouch on his belt and pulled out her comb.

“Just concentrate on where we’re headed. We’ll be at l’Eau Clair before nightfall.”

She took the comb and worked it through her tangled hair as Ian rinsed the blood from her bliaut and wrung it out.

“You’ll have to wear just your shift and under tunic for now,” he told her.

“But perhaps by the time we’re close, this will be dry enough to put on.”

The bliaut bore little resemblance to the lovely gown she’d put on at Ashby. Faded, bloodstained, wrinkled and torn beyond repair. She’d look an impressive sight to meet her sister, she thought with dismay. Yet it wasn’t anyone’s fault—and she hoped it wouldn’t matter to Gillian. It was only a dress.

she could blame Llywelyn, she supposed, though that would grow old quickly. She held him responsible for much of what had happened of late.

Still, they would triumph over him, of that Lily had no doubt. Neither she nor Ian was a person to give up easily.

For something as important as this, they’d never give up.

Wearing his braes and boots, Ian came to retrieve his shirt and help her dress.

“You are so lovely,” he whispered against her cheek. He smoothed her still-damp hair away from her face.

“I am the most fortunate of men.”

Lily couldn’t help wondering, as they headed back to the cave, why Ian’s words had held the sound of goodbye.

The rest of the journey to l’Eau Clair passed without further attacks, but it was still a hellish trip. The previous day’s storm had washed out the trail, leaving mud and rocks for them to navigate as best they could. And Swen insisted on bringing his two remaining prisoners, which slowed them even more.

Lily’s first sight of her sister’s keep took her breath away. Silhouetted against the setting sun, l’Eau Clair looked beautiful—and powerful. Like Ashby, it was a true Norman stronghold, a symbol of Norman might perched upon the Welsh frontier.

The village appeared newly built, the freshly thatched cottages laid out in a neat pattern of straight streets.

“The town burned to the ground last year,” Ian told her.

““Twas another of our kinsmen who was responsible for it.” Hatred echoed through his voice.

“You may find that belonging to this family is more than you bargained for.”

The guards at the gate knew Ian. They were admitted to the bailey—almost empty of people, since it was nearly suppertime—and swiftly brought into the keep. A deferential manservant led them to Gillian and Rannulf’s private quarters, then excused himself with a bow.

Ian had sent the two prisoners to the captain of the guard, and Swen had come into the keep with them. Lily knew that Ian had been suspicious of Swell, but evidently the Viking’s actions during the battle last night had convinced him of Swen’s sincerity. She doubted Ian would have brought him into l’Eau Clair, otherwise.

They stood outside the closed door for a moment.

“Are you ready?” Ian asked, his eyes searching her face. For the first time since their lovemaking this morning, his gaze held warmth, concern. All day she’d been treated to the Dragon’s impersonal care, but now, it appeared, Ian had returned.

She smoothed her hands down the front of her rumpled bliaut, then decided to pull her cloak closed over the much-abused gown. She admitted to herself that she was trying to hide within the cloak’s voluminous folds. But she could not hide forever.

She appreciated Ian’s support, though she’d have managed without it, if she’d had to. She nodded, and Ian knocked on the door.

“Come in,” a woman called.

Ian opened the door and motioned for Lily to precede him and Swen into the chamber. She stopped just inside the chamber, scarcely leaving enough room for the men to enter.

Lily paid them no mind. All her attention was focused on the scene before her.

A finely dressed woman sat in a chair beside the hearth, some sewing in her lap, her head thrown back in laughter as she gazed with obvious affection upon the chubby infant sitting astride a man’s back as he crawled on hands and knees across the rug-strewn floor.

The woman looked up at the sound of the door swinging closed. “lanl” Tossing aside the sewing, she ran across the room and launched herself into his arms.

“Rannulf, do get up,” she called.

“Ian is here.”

She kissed Ian on both cheeks, her hands touching his arms and shoulders as she stepped back a pace and looked him over from head to toe.

“You need rest, I can tell. You haven’t been taking proper care of yourself. What have you been about?” she asked.

The man reached around and swung the child up in his arms as he came to his feet.

“Perhaps if you’d stop chattering like a magpie, my love, he could tell you.” He tugged his shirt collar out of the baby’s mouth.

“He’s brought guests.” He stepped closer to Lily and held out his hand to her.

“You’ll have to excuse my wife—she hasn’t seen Ian in months. Please, milady, come in and be comfortable.”

She placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her to a seat by the fire. She felt as though she were watching everything through thick glass, the colors vivid but remote, distanced.

Dear God, Gillian looked like their mother, startlingly so. Her coloring was similar, down to the dark, coppery braids draped over her shoulders.

But she’d never seen that expression of contentment on her mother’s face.

Gillian released Ian and smoothed her hands over the skirt of her dark green gown. A tinge of pink stained her face.

“I beg your pardon. Ian, please introduce our guests.”

“Rannulf, Gillian—this is the newest member of my household, Swell Siwardson,” he said, motioning Swen farther into the room. A typical grin on his face, Swen came forward and made his bow, lingering over Gillian’s hand until the blush of color on her cheeks deepened.

Lily cast a quick look at Gillian’s husband—her brother-by-marriage—to gauge his reaction to the flirtatious Viking’s attention to his wife. She was pleased to note that he simply smiled at the byplay. He’d obviously taken Swen’s measure already.

Ian then crossed the chamber and stood at Lily’s side.

He reached down and slipped the hood back from her hair, draping the material over her shoulders. She leaned into his touch, grateful for it now, when her nerves felt so raw.

Her stomach had been twisted in knots ever since l’Eau Clair came into view; it was a struggle to keep from simply giving in to the urge to jump up from her seat and race from the room.

Courage, she told herself. She’d faced down the Dragon himself, more than once, and survived to tell the tale. She felt Ian’s gaze upon her face and glanced up to find him waiting patiently. She reached up and touched his hand before he spoke again. He squeezed her fingers reassuringly.

“And this is my wife, Lily.”

Rannulf immediately swept into a bow, graceful despite the child clinging to him.

“I am honored, milady.” He took her hand again, this time raising it to his lips.

“Welcome to the family.”

She could see why he hadn’t seemed to find anything amiss in Swen’s greeting. His own manner charmed her, the expression on his handsome face making her feel special.

Lord Nicholas had been the same; perhaps it was a Norman trait, or else they simply had more refined manners than the few Welshmen she’d met.

“Trying to entice my wife with your courtly ways, Fitz Clifford Ian asked dryly.

““Tis the least I can do, considering the greeting you received from my wife when you walked through the door,” Rannulf retorted, laughing.

“She didn’t even notice anyone else was here.”

Lily stood when Gillian approached her, dropping into a deep curtsy. ““Tis a pleasure to meet you at last,” she told Gillian.

“Ian has told me much about you.”

“Then you have the-advantage over me, milady,” Gillian said, her eyes questioning as she examined Lily’s face.

Whatever she found must have met with her approval, for she nodded once and smiled.

“When did you marry, Ian?” she asked, her gaze still fixed on Lily’s face.

“And why were we not invited?”

Ian nudged Lily to sit, then stood behind her chair, his hands resting on her shoulders. She reached up and touched his hand once again, gaining comfort from the contact.

She didn’t know what to say, what to do. Ian hadn’t told them anything, and Gillian continued to observe her.

Mayhap she would be thus with any woman Ian brought to them; from their surprise, it seemed he’d never brought anyone here before.

““Tis a long and strange tale,” he said.

“It could take a while in the telling.”

“Then sit and be comfortable,” Rannulf said. He went to the door and called for the child’s nurse, then sent a servant for food and wine.

They spoke of inconsequential things until the supper arrived and everyone had been served. Then Rannulf motioned for Ian to begin.

“What I’m about to tell you might be difficult for you to hear, Gillian,” Ian said.

She sent him a questioning look.

“I thought ‘twas your tale, and Lily’s.”

“It is. But it begins before our marriage. Indeed, it begins before Lily’s birth.”

Ignoring the food before him, Ian stood and prowled the room with a restless gait. Lily met his gaze and smiled reassuringly. Smiling in return, he appeared to steel him self for the task ahead, taking up his goblet of mead and drinking deeply of the brew.

“Lily and I met when I discovered her clinging to the curtain wall round Dolwyddelan.”

Gillian gasped; Rannulf looked interested. Swen, as usual, just grinned.

Lily stared down at her hands, clasped nervously in her lap. She didn’t want to watch their faces after all, she decided.

“Twas too difficult to try to interpret their reactions.

And what if she saw disgust in their faces?

“After I pulled Lily the rest of the way up the wall, she told me–eventually–her reason for attempting such a desperate feat. She needed to see Llywelyn. When she couldn’t get in to see the prince by more conventional means—such as through a door,” he added with a wry smile, “she thought to climb in and find him herself.

She’s fortunate she didn’t get herself killed.”

“Sounds like something you might try, my love,” Ran-huff said to Gillian, grinning when she sent him a disgusted glare.

“I locked her up in a cell, since she appeared to be so dangerous.” Ian paused behind Lily’s chaff and bent to place a kiss on the top of her head.

“I went to Llywelyn and told him what Lily sought, why she’d been so desperate to talk with him. He seemed completely uninterested in her tale, and claimed he knew nothing about her.”

“But what did you wish to know?” Gillian asked.

“What was so important you were willing to risk your life to gain it?”

Lily looked up.

“I wanted to know who I am.”

Gillian seemed puzzled.

“Do you mean to say you’ve lost your memory? I’ve heard of such.

“Tis a terrible thing!”

“Nay, milady. It’s just that I’ve lived all my life behind the wails of Saint Winifred’s Abbey. I knew nothing of where I’d come from, or who I am. I escaped that prison to seek the answers to those questions, and to see something of the world.”

Ian placed his hand on her shoulder.

“I helped Lily to find the information she sought. What we discovered will be important to you, Gillian, as well as to Lily.”

Lily felt as though someone were examining her. Scanning the faces surrounding her, she found Rannulf gazing at her, then his wife, with a curious expression on his face.

When she offered him a slight, nervous smile, he stared more intently at her.

“Get on with it, Ian,” Rannulf said, his voice vibrating with suppressed excitement.

Running his hand through his already disordered dark curls, Ian sighed.

“I don’t know any other way to tell you this but straight out. Gillian, when your mother left here all those years ago, she did not die, as Llywelyn told your father. Instead, the prince took advantage of her confusion at the time, and told her that both you and Simon were dead. He took her to live as a boarder at Saint Winifred’s Abbey. Your sister was born there six months later.”

Unable to resist, Lily watched Gillian’s face as Ian told her. She saw confusion give way to anger, then dawning recognition. Scarcely daring to hope that it was acceptance she’d seen, Lily stood and waited until Gillian rose from her chair and came to stand before her.

“You are my sister,” she said. She touched Lily’s cheek with a gentle hand and examined her face carefully.

“She has the eyes, don’t you think, Ian?” She looked up at him.

“They’re from the Welsh side, I believe, for yours are very similar.”

Rannulf stood.

“There’s more to the story than this, unless I miss my guess.”