Sworn Loyalty - A Medieval Romance (11 page)

Mary’s throat was dry. “What do
you
intend?”

He gave a ghost of a smile, looking her over. “For so long I assumed I would come home and somehow reclaim my possession of this keep,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “And yet now I find it run in exactly the way I might hope, by a woman who risked her own life to save mine.” He gave a shake of his head. “I am not sure I could ever have dreamt for more.”

Mary leant back against the altar. “You once would have dreamt of far more,” she quietly pointed out.

He gave a wry grin. “I once had reached for many things,” he agreed. “Life has taught me the folly of those ambitions. Now my goals are much simpler. My realization of human weakness is much more acute. If this is what lies in store for this keep, then I am content.”

He dropped his eyes for a moment, and when he raised them again, they were steady and strong. “You asked me, in the tower, to respect your privacy. To let you reveal your personal tale in your own time. I pledged to do so, and I hold to that pledge.”

He gave a nod to her, turned, and then he was gone.

Mary’s breathing came back to her in long draws. In a moment, Michael strode into the room, glancing around before coming up to her side. “Are you all right? What did Erik say?”

She shook her head, giving a wry chuckle. “He knew already,” she informed him. “Your training gave me away. Once he grasped the situation, it seems he accepted it.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “The lad was always too smart by half,” he sighed in chagrin. “I should have known he’d realize you were with the keep the moment you had to take on your first opponent.” He looked back to Mary. “So, what do we do now?”

She gave a soft shrug. “We remain true to our plan. We see what we can determine about the hold Lynessa has over him.”

Her eyes went to the door, to where Erik had turned and left her.

And what if Lynessa’s hold over him could not be broken?

Chapter 8

Mary fiddled nervously with the broach at her breast, smoothing down the elegant forest-green dress for the tenth time. She knew it was nearly the hour for dinner, and yet she could not bring herself to pull open the door, to descend and face Erik in her new personae. She had hoped beyond hope that she would have more time to ease into this role, to learn more about him. But it was not meant to be.

Finally she took in a deep breath, pressed open the door, and headed down the empty hall. The spiral staircase, so familiar to her, wrapped her in safety, and her footsteps slowed as she neared the bottom. She walked around the corner and into the great hall.

Erik and Lord Paul were standing together by the head table, conferring in low voices, and both turned as she stepped into the room. Lord Paul’s eyes held pride. Erik’s gaze moved slowly down her form, soaking her in as if seeing her afresh. Lord Paul gave a low chuckle, leaning toward Erik. “First time you’ve seen her dressed properly?”

Erik only nodded, his eyes on hers. She slowly approached the pair, her heart pounding, and as she reached them Erik put out his hand. She laid hers in his, and he lowered his head to press the tenderest of kisses against her fingertips. Even through the gloves she felt the movement, and a flutter rippled throughout her body.

He stood, looking her over. At last he spoke, his voice rough.

“You are stunning.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down. Only Lord Paul had ever commented on her looks. She had taken those words of praise with a smile, thinking he was being sweet but perhaps not overly accurate. The look in Erik’s eyes was another thing altogether. The heat of it coursed down through her toes.

He turned, then, her hand still in his, leading her over to the central chair. Her feet came to a halt of their own accord, and he turned, his brow creasing in confusion.

His voice had a rough, forced quality to it when he spoke. “There is no need for deception any more,” he pointed out. “You should take your proper place at the table.”

Mary’s throat closed tight. She could only stare at the chair, the chair that had previously been used by but one woman. A woman whose hard, black eyes she could see even now, staring at her in disapproval.

Lord Paul’s voice eased into the tension. “Erik, your mother has been the only person to use that chair for over twenty years,” he commented quietly. “Just as your own chair has been left empty since the day you departed, so has your mother’s chair remained vacant. Mary has only ever sat at her own place.” He nudged his head toward the low, simple chair.

Erik’s eyes went between the large, carven throne and the humbler spot, and there was a softening of the tension at his shoulders. He gave a quiet nod, then guided Mary to her own chair, taking the seat beside her. Paul sat at her other side, and in a moment the servants were moving around them, pouring out the wine, delivering the food.

Lord Paul kept up a running conversation throughout dinner, talking of the elusive nature of the wolf’s heads, how they had once again managed to escape the patrol, the status of the various villages in the area, and Mary was grateful for it. She could feel Erik’s presence at her side as a glowing fire, drawing her to him, but she could not bring herself to turn or speak. Everything had changed so quickly, and the danger of it, the potential to be burned, sounded strongly in her head.

The plates were cleared, mead was brought, and Lord Paul looked over toward the fireplace. “Maybe we should relocate?”

Mary gave a nod, standing. Lord Paul moved over to the chair he always took, a dark leather one with a low table alongside it. Mary eased down to sit at his feet, carefully tucking her injured leg beneath her. It was all so familiar. How many nights had she sat here like this, with Lady Cartwright on the low couch opposite, listening to Lord Paul share his tales as the wind whistled outside?

Erik stood to the side, his gaze on the empty stone above the fireplace, lost in thought.

Lord Paul looked between them for a moment before drawing his gaze up to Erik. “Tell us of your times in the Holy Land.”

Erik gave himself a shake, turning. “You yourself served in the Crusades when you were young. You warned me it would be brutish, nothing like the stories told in bards’ songs. I laughed at the time, but now I see the truth of it.”

Lord Paul nodded. “And yet, even in the darkest night, there is often a glimmer of light.”

Erik ran a hand through his hair. “Sometimes the black is absolute.”

Mary leant forward. “But surely, for example, when you rescued those three nuns from –”

Erik stared at her as if she were speaking in tongues, cutting her off. “How could you know about that?”

Mary flushed, but there was no way to un-say what had been blurted out. “Your commander wrote us,” she admitted.

Erik looked between them in baffled confusion. “What, Commander Bavent? He wrote you?”

She held his gaze. “Yes. Your mother had an arrangement with him. Every month she wrote him with a status of his daughter, who was lodged at the St. Francis convent a short distance to the north. And every month he wrote back, sharing details of your activities.”

Erik took a moment to absorb the news. “I knew of the letters,” he stated at last, “but I never had any idea that I was their subject, or that the incoming ones were from my mother.”

Mary gave a wry smile. “She did not want you to know of it,” she agreed. “But she lived for them.” She glanced at Lord Paul. “The moment one arrived, she would send for Lord Paul, and we would gather right here. He would read it to us, over and over again, until we had memorized every word. And then it became almost a prayer for us, one we could recall at will, for the long month before the next one arrived.”

Erik looked across to the empty table, to the throne that sat vacant at its center. “I had no idea.”

Lord Paul gazed fondly down at Mary. “This lass could probably recite to you every action you have taken, every siege you withstood, every campaign you fought.”

Erik’s eyes drew down to her, and there was a tumult of emotions in his gaze – the surprise melding into respect and something stronger.

Lord Paul spread his arms. “If you are not interested in talking about your time in the Holy Land, maybe you have some questions about the keep or its lands? How it has fared since you have been gone?”

Erik looked over to Lord Paul at that, his gaze even. “The keep’s people. Yes, I have a question.”

Lord Paul arched an eyebrow. “Ask, and I shall answer.”

Erik’s gaze became steely. “I would like to hear how you allowed Mary to end up alone in the Mangy Cur tavern without support nor succor.”

Lord Paul’s shoulders tensed. “I had nothing to do with that decision,” he stated firmly. “I myself would like to know how Michael thought –”

The main door pushed open, and Michael strode in, coming over to join them. “Night patrol is taking over,” he reported to both Mary and Erik. “Nothing of concern. It’s been quiet out there.”

Erik held him with his gaze. “And what do you have to report about sending Mary alone into Caradoc’s home base?”

Michael’s stance sharpened, and he glanced down at Mary. His lips pressed into a thin line.

Mary sighed, running a hand through her hair. “It wasn’t Michael’s fault,” she explained. “He argued long and hard for other options – for any other option. But in the end I overruled him. It was the only path I saw which might –”

She cut off, realizing that she had almost been drawn into revealing the core of Lady Cartwright’s mission for her. She flushed, looking down.

Erik’s shoulders were drawn tight. “Which might what?”

Mary’s eyes were pulled to the empty sofa, to where Lady Cartwright had glared down at her with those marble-cold eyes. Mary could still salvage part of her mission. She could still follow through with the task she had been ordered to fulfill.

Erik’s gaze sharpened, and for a moment it was as if Lady Cartwright was looking down through his eyes, staring with that same focused determination. “God’s teeth, Mary, I accept that you own the keep. I am not contesting your leadership here. I accept you have every right to sleep in the master suite, to sit in the family chair, to tear down my portrait –”

Lord Paul was on his feet, a pulsing vein bulging at his neck. “Now you have gone too far!”

Erik put up his hands in a move of surrender. “I was only saying –”

Lord Paul took a step forward. “I was here that night,” he growled, his voice rough. “I was here the night the messenger came in with the news that you had left for the Holy Land. Your mother flew into a rage. Until then she had been absolutely convinced that you would return home any day, that your fleeting infatuation with Lynessa would come to an end. But when that messenger finished speaking –”

His eyes went to the bare wall above the fireplace. His voice dropped low. “She was like an enraged boar. She dashed her crystal goblet of wine against the floor, shattering it. Then she strode over to that painting on the wall, the one her eyes barely left any time she was in this room, and she ripped it down from its hook. She flung it into the fire.”

Erik’s eyes widened, and he turned to stare into the roaring flame.

Michael’s voice was hoarse. “And then Mary dove in after it.”

Erik’s face went white with shock. He turned to Mary, his gaze moving down to her gloves.

He gave a low groan. “I thought you had been burnt during the destruction of Cintersloe.”

Mary looked down at the leather gloves, then into the maw of the fireplace. She could remember the moment with vivid clarity. The painting of the man she both resented and craved with all her heart. The violent crack as the frame hit the back of the stone, the fierce crackling as the flame took hold. She had moved without conscious thought, a sheer rush of emotion, and she had grabbed the fiery image to drag it out. The shock had carried her through for a minute or two. And then the searing pain …

Erik was kneeling before her, holding her hands in his, looking into her eyes. “Why did you do it?”

She gave her head a shake, hardly knowing herself. But his eyes were steady on her, and she tried to put it into words. “You were always there,” she murmured. “A part of the keep. I had seen too many people burnt. She couldn’t burn you, too.” She put her head down, wrapping her arms around her knees. “She couldn’t burn you.”

The room went quiet, and after a moment Erik had put his arms around her, drawing her up against him in a tender carry. He nodded to the other two men, then turned and headed for the stairs. Mary eased against his chest, the aroma of anise surrounding her, comforted by his steady stride. He moved down the hall to her room, pushing the door open with his shoulder.

The thick curtains were pulled shut, and the only light came from the low embers in the grate. He glanced around in the gloom, then took a step toward the large, canopied bed.

Mary tensed, her arms wrapping tightly around his chest. “No.”

Erik froze, looking down at her. “I don’t understand …?”

Mary nudged her head to the right. “By the fireplace,” she murmured.

Erik took the few steps toward the fireplace, and stopped in surprise. He took in the low bunk stretched across the foot of the bed, the small pillow and thin blanket which waited there.