The Redeeming (43 page)

“Methinks ‘tis time for us to depart,” her sister-in-law said, motioning for Beatrix to follow. “Send for us if there is anything you need.”

“Thank you, Annyn…Beatrix,” Gaenor called after them.

As the door closed softly behind them, Gaenor shifted in the bed to watch Christian where he stood regarding their son, a smile of wonder upon his face.
Their
son, a little Lavonne who was surely destined to quickly outgrow his swaddling and, one day, stand as tall and broad as his father.

When Christian finally met her gaze, his had turned troubled. “Still I do not know by what name he shall be called.”

There were some, especially those who had long served upon the barony of Abingdale, who expected a firstborn son to be named after Christian’s father. However, despite having made peace with Aldous, neither Christian nor Gaenor believed it would serve any good purpose to pass the name on to their child when it could prove a burden considering the havoc—and death—birthed by Aldous’s bitterness.

“Then we must needs think more on it,” Gaenor said.

“Aye.” Christian considered the mattress, and she guessed he was measuring the space between her and the edge.

“Come.” She smoothed a hand over the coverlet. “There is room for us all.”

“You are certain? I would not wish to cause you discomfort.”

“Quite the opposite, Husband.”

Still, he hesitated, and when he glanced at the bundle in his arms, she knew he also worried as to how he would gain the bed without unsettling their son.

“Here.” Gaenor reached. “Hand him to me.”

Relief smoothing his brow, he leaned down and placed their son in her arms with such gentleness that Gaenor thought she might cry.

“He is so quiet,” Christian said as he stretched out alongside her and settled his head on a pillow. “When Helene told that I was a father, the wailing could be heard throughout the donjon, but now he looks about him as if he is quite content with this new world.”

“Of course he is.” She considered the bright eyes that regarded her. “But methinks that has more to do with a full belly than all he beholds.”

Christian grinned, slid an arm beneath her, and carefully drew her against his side.

As she shifted the babe to the seam where their bodies met, their son popped a fist free of his swaddling, jerked it side to side, and gurgled when his fingers introduced themselves to his mouth.

“Methinks those cloths will not long hold him,” Christian mused.

She looked up into her husband’s face. “As I am sure yours did not long hold you.”

“I am certain you are right. So, what shall we name him?”

She started to think on it some more, then shrugged. “It matters, but not so much that we must name him now.”

“You are right, and I do prefer the sound of ‘my son.’ It says more than any name could.”

She raised an eyebrow. “
Our
son says more than any name could.”

“Aye, ours.” He kissed her brow. “Just as I am yours and you are mine, Gaenor Lavonne. Unto death.”

Dear Reader, I hope you enjoyed Gaenor and Christian’s love story. If so, I would be grateful if you would consider posting a review of the book, even if only a sentence or two. Thank you for your consideration. Wishing you many, many hours of wonderful reading.

Amazon US

Barnes & Noble

Kobo

EXCERPT

THE KINDLING

Book Four in the Age of Faith series

Available Soon

Castle Soaring upon the Barony of Abingdale, England

September 1157

S
he came to him in the still of a night whose dark edges were beginning to fray.

As she opened the door wider the better to see him where he lay upon the bed with arms and legs thrown wide as if to test the reach of the mattress, the hinges gave a betraying creak.

She winced. She knew she should not be here, for if he awakened he would likely think she had come to offer comfort between the sheets, but despite the long journey that had delivered her to Castle Soaring after the setting of the sun, she was unable to sleep. And all because of this man.

Drawing a slow breath, more for courage than fear she might rouse him, she stepped forward and frowned over the dust and stale scent that rose from the rushes. The floor covering ought to have been replaced days ago. However, from the bits of ‘this and that’ picked up from the castle folk who had regarded her with suspicion upon her arrival, the state of the chamber was the fault of its angry occupant rather than neglect of his care.

But she was prepared—or would soon be—for what she would face in a few short hours when she stood before this possibly dangerous man.

She halted an arm’s reach from the bed and, by the glow of a brazier that would not much longer warm away the chill, considered the figure atop the rumpled bed coverings.

If not for a tunic splayed open at the neck and twisted around his upper thighs, he would be bared. Still, she was not alarmed by his state of undress. Not only did her profession as a healer require that she be well acquainted with the human body, but it was told that he had been given a sleeping draught. Of course, lest he was near the end of its influence, she would do well to proceed with caution.

She took a last, heedful step forward and looked closer upon the leg nearest her. Not even the brazier’s dim, forgiving light could disguise the severity of his injury—nor that he had begun to waste away during all the weeks spent abed. She reached forward, only to draw back. She was here to look, not touch.
Touching would come later.

There were other healing cuts on the left leg, as well as the right, but those he had not likely noticed.
This
one he certainly had, for it was far more than a wound to his warrior’s pride.

Moving toward the head of the bed, she caught her breath when the rushes crackled, then stilled when something between a grunt and a growl sounded from him. However, when she peered into his thin, coarsely bearded face, she saw no reflection of light to indicate he had arisen from the depths of the sleeping draught.

Noting the tension in his jaw and neck, she guessed he dreamed dreams he did not wish to have unfold within the darkness of his mind, but though she was tempted to try to awaken him, it would be a mistake. Blessedly, it was not long before he relaxed.

Though she would have liked to familiarize herself with the injuries to his torso, she was fairly certain he was not wearing braies, and for naught would she risk having him awaken to find her raising his tunic. Since h
is right hand was too deep in shadow on the opposite side to verify its injury without moving it, she also let it be. Fortunately, there was enough light on his face that, when she bent close, the injury inflicted by a cruel blade was well enough told.

“Dear Lord,” she whispered and, too late, sealed her lips. However, her softly spoken words seemed not to penetrate the fog that provided him the rest required to heal.

Forcing her fingers into her palms to keep from tracing the stitched flesh that cut a path from his left eyebrow to the outer corner of his eye to the lower edge of his jaw, she lingered over his face though she had done what she had come to do.

She pitied him for the unsightly scar but reminded herself that, were it allowed to heal properly, its appearance would greatly improve. Too, once he began to eat regularly and resumed exercise, the hollow and angular planes of his face would fill in. But even then, would he ever again resemble the man she had known, if “known” could even be used to describe their two brief encounters? Of course, she also knew him by way of a boy who missed him more than was good for so young a soul…

She squeezed her eyes closed. This warrior who believed he would never again wield a sword ought to have stayed in her past. Had his brother, Baron Wulfrith, and her liege, Baron Christian Lavonne, not asked this of her, she would not have had reason to see him again. And she wished she had not, though not because it made her ache to gaze upon his disfigurement. Her longing to remain as firmly in his past as she wished him to remain in hers had more to do with who she was and who, even if not by his own hand, had done this to him.

He made another sound low in his throat, and distress once more hardened his face. This time it was accompanied by a marked increase in the rhythm and strength of his breathing. This time it did not soon resolve.

Go,
she told herself.
They are his demons to undo, not yours.
At least, not directly…

His uninjured leg kicked out, head snapped toward her, and lips drew back to reveal clenched teeth. But still his lids remained lowered, eyes moving rapidly beneath them. As she continued to ignore the good sense that urged her to leave, perspiration broke upon his brow.

She bit her lip. Though she could abide the suffering of others as was required of one who made her living as she did, still it caused the soft places in her to ache.

“Nay,” he rasped, his voice so tight and deep she did not recognize it as the one she had known when his life had been other than what now made his heart beat.

His breathing took the next turn with greater speed. “Do not!”

They are not your demons
, she reminded herself, and yet she laid a palm to the uninjured side of his face, bent nearer, and whispered in his ear, “They are slain, Sir Abel.
Pray, leave them there.”

His breath that moved the tendrils of hair escaping her braid stopped and, before she could berate herself for being so foolish, his right hand shot up and captured her wrist. Though she felt his fingers convulse, they did not turn tight around her. And she understood the reason just ahead of the impulse to wrench free that might have undone the healing of his hand.

“Not again!” he spat.

Dreading what she would see, she raised her head. The light reflected in his eyes causing her heart to jerk violently as if to free itself from her chest, she braved a face so contorted that the anger with which he had regarded her all those weeks past seemed hardly anger at all.

“I…” What? Was there any way to excuse her presence that would not further enrage him? Surely he would—

The pressure of his hand on hers eased and, though his eyes remained open, he seemed to stare through her. Was he yet dreaming?

She forced herself to remain still, hoping he did, indeed, see something beyond her, praying he would sink into a restful sleep.

At last, his lids lowered, as did his hand, drawing hers downward until her palm lay against his chest and, beneath it, she felt the work of his heart that, beat by beat, moved from a rushing river toward a calm stream.

Back aching, legs beginning to cramp from holding her bent and awkward position, she tried to pull her hand from beneath his, but he pressed it tighter against him.

Patience, he will soon move to the next realm of sleep and relax his hold.

But it was not soon enough for her straining muscles, and she sought relief by pressing her free hand to the mattress and lowering to her knees in the dry rushes alongside the bed. Minutes passed and more, and throughout he retained his hold on her.

When sleep began to tempt her to rest her head upon the mattress, she pushed her drooping chin high and studied his face. He looked almost peaceful—more approachable than ever she had seen him. And she wanted—

Nay, that would be more foolish. She knew her purpose here and that, even if she was not perceived as far beneath his rank, still he would want naught to do with her when—if ever—he knew all of her, especially considering how much he had lost and suffered in his quest to end the terror that had stalked these lands.

Testing the weight of his much larger hand and finding it had slackened, she slowly drew her arm back. When her fingers slid free, he did not stir, nor when her knees creaked with their unfolding.

“God speed your rest,” she whispered and, with as light a step as possible, crossed the chamber to the door that stood open as she had left it.

She slipped into the passageway and eased the door closed. The worst was over. Now to claim what would likely be fewer than two hours of sleep before the castle began stirring toward a new day.

Hooking her fingers in her skirts, she hitched them clear of her slippers and took a step forward—only to take it back when a large shadow parted from a deep pool of darkness upon which the light of the expiring torches did not waste their efforts.

She would have cried out if not that she knew who it was even before he stepped into the dim light. How could one not know such a man who was rivaled in size only by her liege?

Guessing that from behind whichever door he slept he had heard the creak of the hinges or his brother’s protestations, she straightened to her full height, every hair of which was needed to come as close to appearing as adult as he.

When he halted before her, her search for words to explain her presence yielded only the truth, and she put her shoulders back. “My lord, Wulfrith, I apologize if I did wrong, but I could not sleep for thinking on seeing your brother again as he would not want me—or anyone—to see him. Pray, believe me, I but meant to prepare myself.”