Virgin Bride (22 page)

***

There was more she needed to know, Graeye decided later that day, and only one person who could tell her. But how was she to convince Gilbert she was ready for the truth about Philip?

As the last of the king's men disappeared from sight over a distant rise, she shifted her gaze to the bailey below and caught sight of Gilbert as he strode toward the donjon. Should she go to him? she wondered. Or would he come to her?

Her quandary was resolved a few minutes later when Gilbert entered her chamber.

"I had thought you would be resting," he said as he closed the door behind him.

Knowing her moment was at hand, yet uncertain as to how she should broach the subject, Graeye did not turn from the window. "I am not tired," she said, hugging her arms more tightly around her and leaning farther out to let the cool breeze snatch tendrils of hair about her face.

Laying his hands to her shoulders, Gilbert gently pulled her back and turned her to face him.

Instantly, she averted her gaze for fear he might read the guilt there, assuming he did not yet know of it. Dared she hope Mellie had kept her word? It would seem so, otherwise she was certain she would have known of his displeasure before he even entered the room.

Pulling away from him, she lifted her loosened hair over her shoulder and set herself to braiding it.

"I prefer it unbound," he said, taking the one step that brought him to her again.

Too overwrought to comprehend his words, she continued plaiting.

"Graeye." He closed a hand over hers to halt the jerky movements that betrayed her anxiety.

With no choice but to give him the attention he sought, she took a deep breath and peered up at him from beneath her lashes. "Aye, my lord?"

"You are still angry with me?"

Though she knew he referred to their argument in the hall, at that moment she could not think what had precipitated it. Frowning, she searched backward and laid her finger to it a moment later.

It had all started because of her resentment at being forced to dine at his side as if she were the wife he refused to make her. It all seemed so trivial now that she carried the burden of those men's deaths upon her shoulders.

"Angry?" She shook her head. "Nay, no more. I behaved poorly and am repentant for the embarrassment I caused you."

Gilbert's brows shot up. He had expected her to continue with where they had left off during the meal. Why was she deigning to leave the subject be? he wondered, his guard going up.

"What are you about, Graeye?" he asked. His lips thinned as he searched her face and the reddened eyes she tried to conceal beneath her spiky lashes. "And why have you been crying?"

"Forgive me, Gilbert," she said. " 'Tis the pregnancy that makes my moods flighty."

Aye, he had heard pregnant women were ofttimes unpredictable. It was how his father had explained away his mother's moodiness when she'd carried Lizanne. Still, his instincts insisted there was more to Graeye's peculiar behavior than merely her impending motherhood. Her anger was almost preferable to this.

Albeit skeptical, he nodded his grudging acceptance of her explanation and drew her to the bed.

"I would apologize for obliging you to attend the meal with me," he said, urging her down beside him. "I did not realize 'twould cause you such discomfort."

She stared at her hands, not answering.

"Well?" he murmured.

She chanced a look at him. "Truly, Gilbert, you need not apologize. 'Tis done. The worst is over with and ..." She looked away. "In the future I will have no such qualms dining at your side."

He was quiet a long moment, wondering if he was reading more into her demeanor than was truly there. Nay, something was wrong. The woman he had lived with these past months would not so easily let go of the quarrel they had begun only hours ago. But he would leave it be, for he had yet to answer the question she had put to him earlier. And answer it he must, for she would eventually hear of it from others.

"I owe you an explanation regarding Sir Michael—"

"Nay!" she blurted out, shaking her head. "It does not matter. 'Tis of no consequence ... truly."

Gilbert was surprised by the vehemence of her words. What an enigma she had become. "He is dead," he said quietly.

She threaded her fingers together over her belly, her gaze intent upon their awkward meshing. "I had guessed as much."

He lifted her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. "And how came you by that conclusion?"

She shrugged. " 'Tis obvious ill fortune befell him. Otherwise you would not have been so reluctant to discuss the matter."

He wondered at her reasoning. He was more inclined to believe she'd either eavesdropped on his conversation with Royce, or someone else had and carried the news to her. Mellie? Nay, he did not think so.

"You are saddened?" he asked.

"Of course." Tears filled her eyes.

Tears! Gilbert pulled her against his side, stroking a hand over her hair as she spilled silent grief upon his tunic. He did not understand how she could cry over a man whom she had professed to have no feelings for.

"Mayhap you loved Sir Michael after all?" he asked when she calmed. That possibility did not sit well with him, but he had to ask.

She tilted her head back. "Loved him? Nay, Gilbert, I have told you before that I did not love Sir Michael. That has not changed."

His relief was immeasurable, but quickly forgotten as he realized she had not asked the cause of Michael's death. It only served to strengthen his belief that she'd been privy to the information beforehand.

"Graeye—"

"Gilbert," she interrupted, "I need to know of Philip's crimes. Won't you tell me?"

He stiffened, dropping his arm from around her. "You tread where you ought not to," he warned, his voice chill.

"I need to know," she pleaded, edging nearer and placing an entreating hand upon his arm. " 'Tis your child I carry, Gilbert Balmaine, yet I know nothing of you—and little of my own family. I would simply know the truth of it."

"And would you accept as truth what I reveal?"

She nodded. "Aye, Gilbert, methinks I am ready now to know and accept it."

Standing from the bed, he walked over to the hearth, his back to her. "Know you that your brother was betrothed to my sister, Lizanne?"

"Aye, Edward told me."

"She adored your brother—fancied herself in love with, him, though 'twas only his looks and her youth that led her to believe herself to be in that absurd state.

Near five years ago, when she was but turned fourteen, at the behest of my father I took her from Penforke to be wed with Philip."

He feH silent, and Graeye could only guess at the emotions rising in him as she saw his muscles bunch and tauten beneath his tunic.

"Though 'twas during the time of Stephen's reign when lawlessness abounded," he continued, "I was too self-assured to believe the short ride warranted a sizable escort. You see, I had not counted on the delay caused by such a cumbersome baggage train, and when night suddenly fell upon us, we were forced to erect a camp."

Again he paused, leading Graeye to believe something terrible had befallen their camp. In the next moment he confirmed it.

"We had only bedded down for the night when we were set upon," he said. "All my men were slaughtered and Lizanne was ..."

She heard him draw a deep breath, but no words followed. "Violated?" she asked delicately.

"Nay, though nearly," he growled. "And then that bastard brother of yours refused to honor the marriage contract on grounds she was no longer chaste."

His anger was mounting, Graeye realized, and sought to distract him from the subject of his sister. "What of you, Gilbert?" she asked. "Did you manage to escape?"

With an invective he swung away from the hearth and advanced on her. "Think you I am a coward?" he roared.

Alarmed by the force of the anger she had ingenuously sparked, Graeye eased herself farther back on the mattress and drew her knees up. It was a tangible thing that stood between them, an anger so deep, she felt she would have to physically push it aside to reach the man beyond it—were she strong enough.

"Nay, Gilbert. Pray do not put words in my mouth, or thoughts into my head. I did not mean to imply such a thing. You know I would not do that."

"Do I?" he rasped, coming to stand only a few feet from her. "Did you not accuse me of being a coward before?"

Had she? She had to search through each of their encounters to discover the one he referred to. She remembered it with dread, for she had, indeed, accused him of such a failing in the graveyard the morning he had sent her from Medland.

"Aye, you are right," she admitted, "and I am more than sorry for having done so. But I was angry at the time and only sought to hurt you as you were hurting me."

He did not respond.

"Come sit beside me," she urged.

He moved closer, but ignored her invitation. "I fought them ... I wounded some ... I killed some." He placed his hands on the mattress and leaned near her. "And then they left me for dead ... a cripple."

"Nay, not a cripple," she protested.

Catching her hand, he placed it on his thigh where the thick ridge of the scar could be felt through his leggings. "A cripple," he repeated as he drew her hand downward.

Though she had to go onto her knees and lean precariously over the edge of the bed, Graeye did not resist. She allowed him to guide her hand lower and around the side of his calf where the scar finally melded with the smoother skin below.

"So many promises to keep and I failed," he said. "As if 'twas only yesterday, I still remember Lizanne's scream. Do you know how it feels to live for years with such a reminder of your failings?"

Graeye shook her head, unable to bring herself to look back at him.

"Would you like to know who ordered the raid upon our camp?" His voice, filled with raw pain, grated in her ear.

Lifting her head, she stared at him through the veil of hair that had fallen over her face. He was like a caged animal, she thought. Or rather, like one caught in a hunter's trap—oddly resigned to its fate, yet ready to hurl itself at the offender if given the chance. She put a hand to her throat as she fought to calm her racing heart.

"Not even a guess?" he prodded, his mouth a cruel slash across his handsome face.

She knew what he wanted to hear, and didn't disappoint him. "Philip?" she mouthed, no sound emitting from her lips.

His brows raised. "What?"

She summoned every last bit of courage. "Was it Philip?"

He smiled, a bitter smile that only served to frighten her more. "How very perceptive." He articulated each word carefully before assisting her back to a sitting position.

"Why?" she asked. "Why would he do such a thing?"

"You have much to learn about the blood that runs through your veins, Graeye Charwyck. 'Twas not simply that Lizanne was not beautiful enough for him, but mostly that her dowry was deemed insufficient when the opportunity arose for him to wed a wealthy widow. So he thought to be rid of my sister without suffering the consequences of a broken betrothal. He ordered our deaths."

Shaking her head, Graeye lowered her eyes. It was not that she didn't believe Gilbert, but that she didn't want to. Aye, her memories of Philip were alive with the cruelties he had visited upon her, but what Gilbert was accusing her brother of was the purest form of evil she had ever imagined.

"So you are not ready to accept the truth after all," Gilbert concluded, contempt darkening his words.

"I had not thought the truth would be so terrible," she admitted, forcing her gaze back to his. " 'Tis difficult to accept how such evil could be in a man's soul. It frightens me."

Her reluctant, albeit undeclared, acceptance of the truth calmed him—somewhat. "Did you learn nothing from your father's attempt to murder you?"

That was not something she was likely ever to forget. But the old man had been half-mad over losing everything dear to him—and all to a man he believed responsible for the death of his precious son. What was Philip's excuse for the evil in his heart?

"When—when did you discover 'twas Philip who was responsible for the attack?" she asked.

Straightening, his fists on his hips, Gilbert stared down at her. "Last summer," he said, "when he decided he would have Lizanne after all—even after she was already wed to another."

His hand strayed downward to knead the injured muscles of his leg. "He stole her when she was returning from a village on her husband's property,'' he continued. "The bastard beat her and then tried to force himself upon her. He would have had her, too, if her husband and I had not discovered his encampment."

Graeye felt as if he was leaving something out, but did not press him on it.

"Your brother was bested in a fair duel, Graeye—and not one between me and him, as you think. Though 'twas Philip's blood that I craved to dress my blade, I fought another ... and killed him. 'Twas Lizanne's husband who fought your brother, and when he bested him, the coward yielded. The coward yielded."