Virgin Bride (19 page)

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Anticipating that Gilbert and his men would be leaving at first light to go in pursuit of Edward, Graeye arose from a restless night's sleep and hurried about the castle awakening those who were still asleep, despite the clamorous preparations being made for the departure. She set the kitchen servants the task of making the morning meal, though it was still hours before it would normally be served, and the others she directed to ready the hall.

As had become customary for her, she worked alongside those in the kitchen. Normally bread, cold meat, and ale made up the first meal of the day, but she decided that roasted venison, a variety of cheeses, fruits, and hot bread should be served instead. The servants did not question her, though they were clearly. t disconcerted by the effort required to serve such a sumptuous morning meal.

While the hot viands were being arranged on platters, Graeye hurried back to the hall. A healthy fire burned in the hearth, and numerous torches were lit about the room. The benches that had so recently served as beds had been pulled away from the walls, and the tables set and readied for the morning repast. Even the rushes had been turned and respread.

Pleased with the transformation, she called for ale to be poured, then crossed to the great double doors. It was time to announce the meal.

Stepping outside to a sky that was nearly as dark as it had been an hour past, Graeye paused to indulge in the cool air that struck her warm skin. Until that moment, she had not realized how heated she had become working in the kitchens.

Poshing a damp lock of hair out of her eyes, she looked out across the inner bailey. Here and beyond, there was the hustle and bustle of activity. By the light of torches, horses were being groomed and outfitted, weapons and armor cleaned and polished, and soldiers spoke excitedly of the raid upon Edward's camp.

Shortly, Graeye's searching gaze lit upon Gilbert where he stood alongside his destrier. Tall and broad as he was, it was not difficult to pick him out from the rest of the crowd.

As soon as she saw him, she realized he had been staring at her. Agitated that his entire attention was focused on her, even though several men around him sought to gain his regard, she swallowed hard.

Then, with the fervent wish she had taken more care with her appearance, she removed the cloth she had tied around her waist and smoothed her hair as a lopsided grin transformed the serious planes of Gilbert's face.

Her heart lurched. Since their confrontation in the garden the previous morning, she had not spoken a word to him. It had suited her fine, or so she thought. Now she realized how petty it had been, and wished she had not snubbed him when he had attempted to engage her in conversation later in the evening. However, it had seemed her only defense against the kindness he was showing her too much of lately. If not for her continued obstinance, they would certainly be lovers again, and she did not want that. Did she?

She watched as he disengaged himself from his men, crossed the bailey, and mounted the steps to the donjon.

"I had hoped not to awaken you," he said, coming to stand before her.

Uncomfortable with his intense regard, which boded no good, she looked away. "You did not. 1 purposely rose early to ensure the men were well fed before departing."

" 'Twas not necessary. Ale and a crust of bread would have sufficed."

Much against her will, she met his steady, probing gaze and saw the desire he made no attempt to conceal. "Sufficed, but that is all," she said, grateful they were not alone. " Twould not be fitting for them to ride into battle and have their bellies gnawing with hunger."

Gilbert stepped closer. "Do you also worry about my hunger?" he asked softly.

Knowing he was only playing a word game with her did little to prevent unwanted feelings from surfacing. She vowed she would not succumb to him as she had yesterday, and tossed her head back and propped her hands on her hips. "I worry only of the hunger in your belly," she said.

He stared into her eyes. Then, giving her no time to protest, he took her arm and pulled her into the shadows. "Which is where this hunger starts," he said as he forced her back against the wall with the length of his body, his hands on either side of her.

Graeye stiffened, trying hard to ignore the press of his man's flesh against her swollen abdomen. "Let me go."

"You also hunger for it, Graeye. Do not lie." His voice was low as his hips began to move against her.

She tried to push him away, to deny the feelings he roused, but he was like a rock. "Gilbert, there are others about," she protested, feeling suddenly breathless.

"If that is your only concern, be assured they cannot see." Cupping her chin, he lifted her face to his and touched his lips to her temple, then to her ear.

Desperate to end his seduction before she surrendered to her body's yearnings, she ducked beneath his arm. However, he caught hold of her and pulled her back.

"How long do you think to punish me, Graeye?" he asked, pressing his forehead to hers. "How long will you deny what is between us?"

"Forever," she breathed.

"Forever," he repeated bitterly. "Unless, of course, I agree to marry you."

She nodded. " 'Twas the bargain we made. I will not become your leman."

"Then you would have me seek my pleasure elsewhere?"

The thought of him lying with another woman pained her deeply, as it did each time she pondered the possibility. "Have you not already?" she asked.

He drew a deep breath, then released her and walked from the shadows. His back to her, he looked out across the bailey. "I have not," he said, then added, "yet."

One moment relieved and the next distressed, Graeye stared at his back. She did not want him to seek another, yet could not give him that which would prevent him from doing so. She wanted more. She wanted commitment, and for their child to be legitimate. But there seemed no use in pursuing the matter further.

Sighing, she stepped into the light. "Gather your men, for the meal is about to be served," she said, then turned to go back inside.

"Why do you act the lady of the castle when I have denied you the title?" he asked, keeping his back to hen

Her heart sank. Would he take this from her? It was really all she had to show she was the mother of his future heir. "You do not wish me to?" she asked as she stepped before him.

Dragging his eyes from the busy scene, he looked down at her. "It seems much work for so little reward," he replied. "Especially now that you are so heavy with child."

Unconsciously, she smoothed her hand over her abdomen. "There is naught else for me to do," she said. "Besides, 'tis my destiny."

"Your destiny?"

A faint smile touched her lips. "I may never be your wife, Gilbert Balmaine, but I will always be your child's mother." With that she returned to the hall.

Chapter 17

S
omething had gone terribly awry. And not for the first time, Gilbert reminded himself as great, roiling anger boiled through him, striving to break past his hard-faced exterior.

Two of the three men he had set to watch the village were dead—gutted like pigs at a slaughter—and the third had sustained wounds that, at the very least, would see him crippled for life. Though his injuries were far worse than Gilbert's had been those many years ago, Gilbert knew well the long suffering that lay ahead for his loyal retainer ... providing he lived. For a fighting man "it was a fate worse than death.

"Charwyck!" Gilbert spat. He urged his destrier forward, glaring at the devastation before him with smoke-reddened eyes. In respectful silence his men followed him through the center of the deserted village, where fires still burned and thick smoke choked the air. There Gilbert dismounted and motioned for half a dozen of those nearest him to follow.

Mantles drawn over the lower halves of their faces to preserve some purity of air, they spread out in search of the wounded. In spite of the intense discomfort, the men were thorough in that endeavor, but soon discovered there were only casualties—two who needed but the blessings of a priest to aid them in that most exalted journey the church promised awaited all God-fearing men.

It appeared all the other peasants had made good their escape to the surrounding woods. As none had come forth when the knights arrived it was likely they were even now making for the protection of the castle's walls.

Still, it was difficult for Gilbert to be grateful for such a small loss of human life. These were his people, and it had been his responsibility to keep them free from harm. That he had failed grieved him deeply, but worse, it fanned the fires of his vengeance.

The only dung that kept him from losing control as he watched the village complete its descent to the ground, was his determination to discover who had betrayed him and see that one suffer for the misdeed. Now, more than eve^ he was convinced there was another traitor among his men.

Methodically, Gilbert analyzed the events that had led to this terrible injustice. When word of the discovery of Charwyck's camp had come yestermorn, he had grown restless with the desire to finally get his hands on the old man. But, ever cautious, he had sent men to verify the information the villager had brought him, even though he'd had no real reason to distrust the man. Upon confirmation he had wasted no time in gathering together his army, leaving only a handful of men at each village to continue the watch he had set them months earlier.

Somehow, though, Charwyck had been given fair warning of their coming. The remains of his camp had revealed an almost leisurely departure. But the old man had left Gilbert a message—stringing up the soldier who had remained to watch the camp until Gilbert arrived. The sight of the man hanging from a tree in the middle of the clearing had torn a roar of fury from Gilbert's throat. Other than cutting down the unfortunate soldier, no time had been wasted in pursuing the brigands.

Though Gilbert had left the castle well enough provided for, the vulnerability of the villages had spurred him and his men on. In a blur they had progressed through the countryside, passing villages mercifully untouched by Charwyck's evil hand.

Gilbert had just begun to think himself fortunate to have suffered no more ill consequences when, from a distance, great plumes of smoke rising above the tree-tops had turned him north.

They had come too late.

Gilbert's fists clenched, his knuckles whitening as he turned to look at the men who awaited his next orders. With an eye toward exposing the traitor, he looked at each in turn, thoroughly assessing them. Most had been in his household for years, and never before had he been given any just cause to question their loyalty. He was almost ashamed that he would now, but this tragedy was no mere happenstance.

As the man Was partially hidden by the bulk of another knight's horse, Gilbert almost overlooked Sir Michael. Though he again started to dismiss the possibility of the young knight's treachery, something niggled at the back of has mind. Beckoning it forward, he recalled Sir Lancelyn's remark made to him two months earlier.

On the morning he had made ready to depart from Medland, fully believing he could leave Graeye behind, his vassal had approached him and warned of Sir Michael's reaction to the news that Graeye carried Gilbert's child.

Gilbert had not bothered to learn the specifics, for at the time he had been far too annoyed by the idle talk that had led to such a conclusion, accurate though it was. Now, he realized, he should have paid more heed to the warning.

Aye, he concluded, seeking to catch Sir Michael's elusive gaze, the man certainly had motive for betraying him to Charwyck. Had he not made clear his desire to have Graeye for himself? And to discover that his new baron had already laid claim to her, and worse, gotten her with child, would certainly have given him reason to seek revenge.

Mercilessly berating himself for having been so blind, Gilbert swung himself into the saddle.

"Sir Michael," he called, "come forth."

The knight sat straighter in his saddle, his gaze falling upon Gilbert's unsmiling face before skittering away.

The others were quick to sense something was amiss, their heads swiveling to stare at the knight. Even as Sir Michael hastened to turn his horse about, the men efficiently closed ranks around him, leaving him only the path ahead, toward the baron.

"Come forth, man," Gilbert repeated, his voice a snarl of anger. "I must speak with you on a matter of grave importance."

Obviously in a quandary as to how he might save himself, Michael remained unmoving in his saddle. His gaze, though, strayed far beyond Gilbert to where uneasy refuge lay among the trees.

"What know you of this, Sir Michael?" Gilbert taunted, throwing his arm out to encompass the devastation. "Mayhap you can enlighten me as to how Charwyck knew of our coming, hmm?" He guided his horse nearer, readying himself for the moment when the knight would break free in an attempt to charge past him.

"Did he promise you the Lady Graeye in return for that information?"

Michael allowed him to come no closer. Driving his heels into his destrier's sides, he spurred the animal forward, setting himself a course to the right of Gilbert.

Gilbert wheeled his own horse around and urged the animal into the other's path, forcing Michael to take the less desirable course to the left, through the obstacle-strewn village. However, determined he would not get that far, Gilbert gave chase.

As he drew alongside Michael, Gilbert surrendered the reins to guide ms mount with only the pressure of his legs. Then, with a bellow of rage, he launched himself sideways and collided with the other man, sending them both flying through the air.

"You stole her from me!" Michael screamed the moment before they slammed to the ground.

Gilbert took the brunt of the fall, Michael atop him. Ignoring the lancing pain shooting through his injured leg, he threw his greater weight sideways, pulling the other man beneath him.

"You bastard," Michael spat in his face, struggling for the dagger belted at his side. "You had your pleasure with her and then tossed her aside like a common trollop. She was mine—never yours."

"You know naught!" Gilbert snarled, seizing the weapon Michael sought and pitching it behind him.

"There you are mistaken, Baron." Michael laughed, his lips peeled back in a grotesque sneer. "I know Charwyck will see you dead and that bastard whelp of yours sliced from his daughter's belly ere he'll rest."

The threat against Graeye and his unborn child closed a fierce hand around Gilbert's heart. "How long?" he demanded, grabbing hold of the neck of Michael's tunic. "Have you betrayed me to Charwyck since the beginning—since you gave me your oath of fealty?"

Eyes cold and hard, Michael stared up at him. "Nay. 'Twas only when I discovered you had taken Graeye for yourself that I betrayed you."

"Your attack on William—"

" Twas convincing, wasn't it?" He chuckled. "You are a fool, Balmaine."

Raging, Gilbert propelled himself backward, dragging Michael upright. "Will you die a knight—or a coward?" he ground out, thrusting the man away.

As Michael struggled to regain his balance, Gilbert withdrew his sword so swiftly, its arcing descent made the air sing a shrill song of death. "Draw your weapon," he ordered, " 'ere I disembowel you where you stand and save myself the ceremony of chivalry."

Michael's eyes flickered past him to where the others sat silently astride their mounts, their faces hardened against the one who had betrayed their lord. All was lost, he knew. For that one taste of revenge he had forsaken all.

" 'Twill not be necessary," he said, looking back at the baron. Drawing himself fully upright, he unsheathed his sword and angled it to the ground. He stared down its glowing length for some moments before raising the tip heavenward.

All watched as he placed the flat of the blade to his lips and lifted his eyes for a moment of prayer. Then, before Gilbert fully understood his intent, the knight turned the sword on himself, grasping its sharp edges with both hands and plunging it into his vitals.

Still standing, blood running from the mortal wound and puddling at his feet, Michael threw back his head and met Gilbert's disbelieving stare.

"All for a woman," he choked. "One you don't even want." With a desperate gurgle he slumped to the ground and drew his last, wheezing breath before death snatched it from his shuddering body.

Lowering his sword, Gilbert crossed the short distance to where the knight lay and knelt beside him. He stared into the glazed, sightless eyes that were fixed on the blue sky above.

"Again you are wrong my poor, misguided enemy," he murmured, drawing the lids down over those tormented eyes. "I do want her."