Sharon Schulze - L'eau Clair Chronicles 03 (26 page)

“We thought you were dead.”

“Then you must be very surprised to see me.” He laughed.

“I’m sure you forgot all about your dear cousin—who would have been your husband, if you hadn’t betrayed me with that Norman bastard. It’s time for you to pay—and if I gain l’Eau Clair in the process, then that’s justice, is it not? It should have been mine to begin with.”

“How will you win l’Eau Clair if I go with you?” Lily asked, her beautiful face clouded with confusion.

He smiled. He didn’t mind if she knew. Actually, this made it even better, for Gillian to know what she’d lost—and stood to lose.

“When we wed, I’ll ask Llywelyn to give this keep to me. He owes it to me. He should have done more to help me win it before, but he was afraid Ian would find out what we planned. Llywelyn is a craven bastard—” he spat “—with all his secrets.”

Lily stared at Toad, her head awash in startling revelations.

He must be the cousin Ian had told her about, the one who had tried to marry Gillian, then attempted to kill Catrin. He’d burned the village, too.

He must have been a madman before.

What did that make him now?

He looked even worse than when she’d seen him at Dolwyddelan, if that was possible. Although she had to admit he didn’t smell as bad. All that rain the other night must have rinsed him off, she thought with a strange burst of humor.

Obviously he didn’t know that she and Ian were wed, She’d probably be wise not to mention that to him. She intended to do nothing that might set off his temper while he held his blade to her sister’s throat.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked him.

“We’re going to go out of the keep and through the bailey. There’s a postern gate. I’m certain Gillian has the key—don’t you, my dear?” When Gillian nodded, Steffan smiled.

At least she thought that was what he did. She found it difficult to read the expressions on his misshapen face.

But his dark eyes glowed; he looked as though he were enjoying this, very much.

Her mind working furiously, Lily tried to remember the route they’d have to follow to leave the keep. If she found any place where she could try to disarm Steffan, she’d do whatever she had to, if it would prevent his plan from succeeding.

She doubted he intended to let Gillian live.

“You go ahead of us,” Steffan told her, “but not too far. I don’t want to give you a chance to warn anyone what I’m about.”

As Lily passed by them, Gillian met her worded gaze with a slight smile, and the acknowledgment in her eyes that they’d try something—anything—to stop him.

Lily crept down the stairs, her attention more on the couple behind her than on what was ahead. It was a miracle she didn’t pitch headlong down the spiraling flight of stairs, and even more of a wonder that Steffan didn’t accidentally slit Gillian’s throat, considering his uneven—and unsteady gait.

She met Gillian’s gaze once again. This was likely the only place, the only chance, they’d get to stop him. Thinking quickly, she decided what she would do.

Lily stopped dead in the middle of the stairs, throwing them all off balance. Gillian tripped, then doubled over and shoved at Steffan while he was in midstride. His weight shifted onto his crooked leg and he pitched forward, taking the knife with him. Lily pressed herself flat against the wall and Steffan tumbled past her, making a horrible, keening wail. He landed against the wall at the bottom of the flight.

“Gillian!” she cried, turning and gathering her sister into her arms.

The two women clung together on the stairs, Gillian gasping for breath, as a crowd of people came rushing into the stairwell. One of the men bent over Steffan’s motionless body and felt his neck.

“He’s dead, milady.”

Gillian carefully eased out of Lily’s grasp and rose to her feet.

“Good,” she said firmly.

One of the maids gave a shocked gasp.

“Milady!”

“Enough. Have done, Ella,” Gillian said, her voice tart.

“This man just tried to kill Lady Lily and myself. Since he didn’t succeed, a certain amount of rejoicing is in order, don’t you think?”

Lily stood, as well. Taking up Steffan’s knife, she un tied her sister. Arms about each other for support, she and Gillian descended the stairs.

“Your face and neck, milady!” someone gasped.

“You’re covered with blood!”

“Who was he, Lady Gillian?”

“My cousin Steffan.” Gillian scanned the group crowded into the foot of the stairs.

“I’m certain you all remember him,” she stated, “since his men attacked this keep and took me captive.” She leaned over him and felt his throat herself.

“May God have mercy on his miserable soul,” she said, making the sign of the cross.

“But not too much. He deserves to suffer, after all the evil he did.”

Completely ignoring the cut on her neck, which still oozed blood, Gillian stood and began to make arrangements for the removal of the body.

Once the crowd had thinned, Lily stepped to her sister’s side.

“The things he said make sense to me now,” Lily said thoughtfully.

“What he said to us upstairs?”

Lily shook her head.

“No. I’d seen him before, at Dolwyddelan.

When Llywelyn had me locked away in the vaults, that vile creature came to visit me. He smelled even worse than he does now, if you can imagine it, and he said many strange things that I didn’t understand at all. I simply believed him a madman.”

“He was that,” Gillian agreed.

“Even before he fell over that cliff. Until he abducted me, I had never realized such ugliness existed. And it was hidden beneath the veneer of a handsome—” “Handsome?”

Gillian nodded.

“Aye, a very handsome face, and a body to match. He was something of a courtier, in the French fashion—fine clothing, the best horses. Most Welshmen would rather be dead than trussed up in fancy garb. But Steffan always wanted more than he already had. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that, so long as you don’t try to rob others—including your own kin—to get what you want.” She turned away as two men picked up Steffan’s limp body to cart it away.

“He told me to call him Toad,” Lily said, shuddering as she remembered those horrible hours of darkness.

“The name fit him, I must admit. He said the man he’d been was dead—for the nonce. He must have planned this even then,” she said, shaking her head in bemusement.

“Come, let’s return to my chamber,” Gillian said, her voice suddenly shaking.

“We both need to sit down and try to forget we ever saw him.”

“Don’t you think that will be a bit difficult?” Lily asked as she turned to follow Gillian.

“I said we’d try,” she said.

“I don’t know that we’ll succeed.”

The thundering sound of running feet echoed through the hail and up into the stairwell, Ian led the way, with Rannulf and Swell right behind him.

Ian grabbed Lily about the waist and pulled her into a rib-crushing embrace.

“He didn’t harm you?” he asked.

His gaze swept over her.

Rannuff elbowed his way past them and hauled his wife into his arms in a similar fashion.

Then Lily didn’t see anything but Ian’s face as he stared into her eyes, his own dark with panic.

“He made a cut on Gillian’s neck, but no, he didn’t harm me,” Lily murmured against his cheek.

“He just frightened me.”

“I knew we should have made certain he was dead, Ian,” Rannulf said, his voice cold as ice.

Ian and Lily looked up. Rannulf slumped down on the stairs, tugged Gillian onto his lap, wrapped his arms about her and buried his face in her hair.

“How could we have known?” Ian asked.

“No one should have survived that fall. And I can’t imagine how he got out of that valley, injured as he must have been.”

He clutched Lily close, and she burrowed against his strong body for comfort.

“He was very bitter,” she said.

“When he spoke to me at Dolwyddelan—” “You saw him there?” he asked sharply.

“Aye, in the cellars. He said he’d heard about me and wanted to see me for himself. I thought he was mad. I didn’t know who he was until he came to us in Gillian’s chamber.”

Lily watched as Swen sniffed the air, then stalked back into the hall.

His roar filled the hall. He walked into the stairwell again, pausing beside Ian and Lily.

“You should kill me now, Dragon,” he said, his tone serious for once.

“Here, use my knife.” He took his knife from his belt and held it out tolan, and stood with head bowed, refusing to meet their eyes.

“I knew he’d been following me about before I left Dolwyddelan, skulking in the shadows, but I thought no more about him once I left. I never imagined he would follow me. He didn’t look as though he could do any harm.” Swen looked earnestly up at Gillian.

“I beg your forgiveness, milady.”

” ““Tis not your fault, Swen,” Ian assured him “If he knew who Lily was—” Lily nodded her head “—then he had to realize we’d come here eventually. He probably came here on his own. Believe me, he’s been here before, the bastard.”

A servant paused before them.

“Lord Rannulf. What should I do with that?” he asked, pointing back toward the hall.

Rannulf raised his head and stared down at the man.

“Send him back to Llywelyn, with my compliments.”

Ian carried Lily up to their chamber. He couldn’t believe how badly shaken he felt at the realization that Steffan might have harmed her. How was it that goodness never lasted, but evil seemed to linger on forever?

Slamming the door shut, he set Lily on her feet and gathered her into his arms. She felt solid and vibrant pressed up against him. He stared into her eyes for a long moment, warmed by the softness he saw there, then lowered his mouth to hers.

Any thought of giving her time, of holding back, he forced from his mind. His body throbbed with the need to pillage, to take her mouth with all the depth of emotion roiling through him, but he feared he’d do her harm, so intense were the feelings.

Mayhap the baffle lust he’d felt earlier still raged through him, despite Swen’s efforts to beat it out of him.

But he didn’t really believe that. Steffan’s attempt to take away Lily had outraged his sense of possession. And it had made him realize how much he’d nearly lost.

He savored every inch of Lily where they touched, the sweet, flowery scent of her, the reassuring sound of her breath whispering across his skin.

Someone pounded on the door.

Ian dragged his lips from hers.

“What?” he snarled.

He felt like taking his sword to whatever fool stood outside the door, to let him experience the wrath of the Dragon.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped away from Lily and struggled for calm. He doubted Gillian would appreciate it if he murdered her servants.

“Lady Gillian said as ye’d be wantin’ a bath, milord,” the man said.

“Can we open the door?”

Ian tugged Lily loosely into his grasp and rested his forehead against her brow.

“Fine,” he called. Though he was sorry they’d been interrupted, a bath posed some interesting possibilities. He knew of no reason why he could not make love to his wife in the tub. For make love to her he would.

As soon as they had some privacy.

He seated Lily on the edge of the bed—he could feel how she still shook from her ordeal—and opened the door. The servants carried in the tub and water in record time, spurred on by Ian’s impatient glower.

Finally they were alone.

He raised Lily from the bed and wrapped her in his arms.

“How do you feel?” he asked, running his hands slowly, soothingly, up and down her back.

“Are you certain he didn’t harm you?”

“He never touched me, Ian. But he frightened me. I know he intended to kill Gillian,” she said, her voice quavering.

“Steffan will never harm anyone again,” he reassured her.

“He is finally, truly, dead–God be praised.”

He held her close, savoring the way she nestled into him. She felt so good in his arms. When he considered what might have happened to her… “I could have lost you,” he said, closing his eyes against the thought.

Lily stroked her palms over his shoulders and smiled reassuringly.

“He wouldn’t have harmed me, Ian.” She shuddered.

“He wanted to marry me.”

“That would have been difficult, since you have a husband already,” Ian said dryly.

“Although Llywelyn would have approved. He certainly allowed Steffan enough opportunities to wed his way into l’Eau Clair.”

Ian scanned Lily’s face, not pleased by her continued pallor. He forced his lips into a bracing smile.

“Come, sweeting. Enough of such thoughts. We are together, our family is well, and so far as we know, Llywelyn isn’t lurking outside the gates.” He led her toward the tub.

“We’ll help each other forget about the world outside this room for a time.”

Lily looked into his eyes for a moment, her gaze assessing, then nodded.

“I would like that, husband. What shall we do, I wonder?” She glanced down at his hands as he worked to the laces of her bliaut.

“Are you still sore from our travels?” he asked.

“No.” A lazy smile on her lips, she leaned into his body like a cat begging to be stroked.

“And I’ll not complain if you continue what you’re doing.”

He led her to a chair and pushed gently until she was seated. Ian traced his hands over the smooth column of her neck, stroking her warm skin, then feathering his fingertips along the creamy flesh. Taking up her braid, he ran’ his hands cares singly down its length before he un-plaited it.

“What are you doing?” Lily asked, the drowsy purr of her voice streaking along Ian’s spine. His mouth suddenly dry, he swallowed and took a deep breath. Spying her brush on the table next to the bed, he reached over and snatched it up, then stood staring down at the top of her head.

A fine tremor ran through his fingers. How he wanted her! He felt like a youth with his first woman—his reaction unchanged, it seemed, no matter how often they made love.

“Ian?” Lily spun in the chair and gazed at him quizzically.