White Lion's Lady (14 page)

“You are quiet of a sudden,” Griffin remarked from beside her, startling her with his nearness and the intimacy of his voice, pitched low for her ears only. “Are you tired, my lady?”

Isabel shook her head, hoping her sudden melancholy did not show in her face. “Just thinking,” she answered.

“About Montborne?”

“Nay, Lamere. I was thinking about home … and my family.”

“You have been away from your kin for a long time?”

“Too long. Though now ’tis just my younger sister and me remaining. I mean to send for her as soon as I am settled at Montborne.”

He gave an understanding nod. “She is fortunate to have such a generous sibling.”

“In truth, I do it for myself as much as her,” Isabel confessed. “I have missed her terribly all these many years.”

“Does she yet reside at Lamere?”

“No. None of my family stayed on at Lamere after my father died. My mother took quite ill and returned to her relatives in France to convalesce. Meanwhile, Maura and I were sent to separate convents. She was but two years old when last I saw her. ’Tis hard to believe that she could be eight now. I wonder if I would even recognize her.” Isabel pulled at a loose thread in her homespun gown, unable to hold Griffin’s probing gaze. “What about you?” she asked, eager to turn the focus on him. “You cannot return to Droghallow after all of this. Won’t you miss your home?”

“Droghallow hasn’t been my home for a long time. If it ever was.”

She thought about what Dom had said when Griffin had demanded his payment for her abduction, his assertion that Griffin had been saving his wages because he wanted to
escape Droghallow. She could still see the malice in Dom’s eyes, the delight he seemed to take in thwarting Griffin’s plans. “Is that why you meant to leave Droghallow?” she asked carefully. “Because you felt you didn’t belong there?”

He slid her a wry sidelong glance. “More or less.”

More, she suspected, but thought better than to say so. “Perhaps something awaits you elsewhere,” she suggested when Griffin turned away to pour himself more wine from the ewer left on their table. “Have you a lady pining for you somewhere, my lord?”

“A strange thing to ask, coming from my ‘wife,’ ” he drawled, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“Well, if you’d been planning to leave Droghallow, you must have had some idea of what you meant to do once you were gone.”

He gave her a casual shrug. “Perhaps I had designs on a rather wicked life spent in pursuit of debauchery and plunder.”

His grin was as devilish as his suggestion and Isabel laughed in spite of her earlier somber mood. “I hardly think you would need a bride’s ransom to accomplish that.”

“Indeed, demoiselle,” he acquiesced. “No more than I need said bride delving into my personal affairs.”

He saluted her with his goblet, then tipped the cup to his lips and drained it of its contents, an obvious attempt to dissuade her further inquiries into his motives. But Isabel would not let him dismiss her so easily. She wanted to know more about him, a curiosity she had been denying quite aptly until now, the wine she had consumed with the meal giving her a measure of courage and loosening her tongue.

“Why did you stay, Griffin? If you were unhappy at Droghallow, why didn’t you leave … before?”

The cup came away from his mouth slowly. He looked at her as if he debated answering, his brows drawn, his lips
pursed wryly, ready to offer glib comment or ready denial. Then, for reasons she could only guess at, he relented. “I stayed because I gave my word that I would.”

“To Dom?”

“No,” he said, exhaling a quiet breath. “To his father.”

“The old earl wanted you to stay?”

Griffin nodded, studying his chipped goblet. “He and I were close, as close as any true father and son I suppose. We hunted together, trained together—did all the things that fathers and sons do.”

“Dom couldn’t have liked that—sharing his father’s attention,” Isabel suggested.

Griffin shook his head. “I warrant he didn’t. Dom was born with a weak constitution—cursed with it, Sir Robert used to say. He was frequently sick as a child, and easily taxed. Sir Robert feared for his health, so he tended to leave Dom to his own pursuits. Unfortunately, those pursuits usually led to one brand of trouble or another.”

He hesitated and Isabel saw a muscle work in his jaw. “What sort of trouble?”

“When he was young, it was generally pranks and bullying, but as he got older …” Griffin let the comment drift off as he reached for the flagon and poured himself another cup of wine. “One spring a few years ago, word came up from Droghallow’s village that a daughter of one of the peasants had been attacked. Sir Robert went down immediately to look after the situation. He was shocked—sickened, no doubt—to find it was the reeve’s girl who’d been battered and violated. She was a sweet young woman, soon to marry a respected man of the village. Sir Robert did not count many men as his friends, but the reeve was one of his most trusted folk and he considered the crime against the man’s daughter to be a personal affront to him as well.”

“Who attacked the girl?” Isabel asked, but in her heart she already knew the answer … Dominic.

“The woman wouldn’t say who did it. She had been
beaten severely—her face ruined by bruises and scrapes she had to wear to her wedding later that week—but she was too terrified to tell anyone who was responsible. Sir Robert vowed to the reeve that he would get to the bottom of it. He questioned everyone in the village and castle alike, but nobody knew a thing. Finally, he questioned Dom.”

“Did he admit what he had done?”

Griffin’s smile was sardonic. “Actually, he attempted to put the blame on me.”

“He said you had raped the girl?” Isabel gasped, appalled at the very idea. “Surely Sir Robert did not believe him?”

“No, he didn’t. He told me what Dom had said, but he never asked me to refute it. And he never looked at Dom the same again. Sir Robert was too ashamed to admit to the reeve that his son was capable of such a heinous crime, so instead he offered to support the young woman and her husband for the rest of their days at Droghallow. He had a cottage built for them, and he provided for their every need. He never told Dom what he had done to make repairs. Dom didn’t find out until … later … after his father was dead.”

A strange distance had crept into Griffin’s voice. Isabel watched him, seeing the hauntedness in his eyes as he lifted his cup and took a long swallow. “Was that why you promised Sir Robert that you would stay at Droghallow? To help clean up any of Dom’s further messes?”

Griffin tilted his head, not quite a shrug. “Sir Robert had never been confident of his son’s ability to manage a fief. This last transgression likely convinced him of the fact. That same day, he called me to his solar and made me pledge to remain at Droghallow after he was gone, to do my best to see that Dom would not destroy everything he had worked so hard to build. In truth, I didn’t expect that I would have to make good on my vow. Sir Robert was a
robust man, scarcely into his forties. I thought he would live forever. He died later that year.”

“So you stayed,” Isabel said, respect and sorrow twining together when she thought of the sacrifice Griffin had made. “Despite that you had plans of your own—dreams of your own—you stayed.”

“For all the good it did,” he drawled, draining his goblet and setting it down with a hollow-sounding thud.

“Perhaps things will work out for the better now,” she said, softening to him now that she knew some of his past. She hated that she had made him think of those awful times and knew a sudden want to help him find a brighter future. “Droghallow is behind you now, Griffin. You might use your newfound freedom to look for your own kin.”

“My kin?” he asked, his head pivoting toward her, his gaze suddenly piercing and narrowed. “What know you of that matter, my lady?”

She hastened to explain. “Only what you told me when first we met—that you were orphaned as a babe and found nearby Droghallow’s gates. That Dom’s stepmother—Lady Alys, I believe—recovered you, and she and Sir Robert took you in as their own.”

He grunted. “You have a good memory, to recall so much that was said so long ago.”

She didn’t tell him that there was nothing about their meeting that she had forgotten. She remembered the day as if it were but a few hours past, not a full decade behind them. Nor did she tell him how often she had thought of him in the time since. How often she had prayed for him. Dreamt of him.

“Have you never wondered in all this time, Griffin? Have you never thought you might have family somewhere?”

“I used to question the idea,” he admitted after a long moment’s consideration. “When I was young, I used to imagine that Alys knew something more than she was saying
about my arrival at Droghallow—a secret that she was keeping from me and everyone else.” He shook his head, staring into his empty cup. “When she was dying of fever a few winters ago, she told me that I would have all the answers I needed once she was gone. She said I need only look around me and I would find them.”

Isabel frowned. “What did she mean?”

“Would that I knew. She was in and out of wakefulness by the time she summoned me to her chamber. I suspect it was merely the fever talking, for if there was a key to the riddle, she took it with her to her grave.”

“Perhaps you can solve it even without her help. Perhaps we can solve it together.”

He shrugged, giving her a careless chuckle. “It doesn’t matter. If I have any living relations, they have made no attempts to find me. Why should I seek them out?”

“Because family is all that matters,” she answered, astonished that he could even ask such a question, especially after all he had been through at Droghallow. “Family is all we have in this world. Everything else—wealth, title, property—is merely incidental. Meaningless.”

Her impassioned avowal earned her a snort from the cynic seated beside her. “I wager that’s easy to say when one is in possession of all those meaningless incidentals. As for myself, I’ll gladly take silver over siblings any day.”

She frowned to hear him say it, but he afforded her no opportunity to reply, leaving her to help the other men prepare the hall for the night. Trestle tables were stacked against the walls, where they would remain until the morning, the rush-strewn floor to be used as a sleeping quarters for the castle folk and assorted lodgers. Lady Hexford offered up a down coverlet and whatever blankets she could spare, instructing her servants to make sure the brazier remained burning so that everyone would stay warm and be able to dry some of their belongings.

Isabel was pleased when Griffin secured them a pallet
close to the fire, instead of favoring a more secluded spot away from the other people. As important as it was to be discreet so long as they stayed at Hexford, Isabel could think of nothing more inviting than the lure of a warm bed. She tried not to think about the fact that Griffin would be sharing it with her, all but dismissing the thought from her mind until he was situated beside her, the front of his body pressing against the back of hers.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked, stating the question so glibly that Isabel had to wonder if sleeping thus with a woman was something he did every night.

In truth, Isabel was not sure if she was comfortable. Although she was exhausted, sated from the filling meal and heady red wine, her every fiber and bone now seemed alive and fully awake. She could feel Griffin’s heart beating against her spine, could feel his warmth, the hard planes of his chest and thighs, his breath tickling the fine hairs at her nape.

“Isabel,” he said again, his voice little more than a deep rumble beside her ear. “Are you all right?”

Was she all right? she wondered. The last time they had slept like this, not even a knotted tether was enough to make her want to stay at his side. Now all that held her in place was the warmth of Griffin’s body, the comforting weight of his arm slung over her protectively, holding her snugly against him. Now she found herself nestling into his embrace, telling herself it meant nothing, when all the while her heart fluttered in her chest like a caged bird.

“Yes,” she whispered a trifle breathlessly. “I’m fine.”

Indeed, though it was the worst sort of madness, at the moment she could think of no place else she would rather be.

Thunderstorms kept everyone indoors the next day, the inclement weather convincing many of Hexford’s lodgers to stay another night, Isabel and Griffin among them. They spent the morning in the great hall with the rest of the folk, breaking their fast and taking dinner, then passing the bulk of the day being entertained by Hexford’s bard.

The lanky singer regaled them all with chansons and bawdy verse, each of his ballads a wonder to Isabel, whose imagination had been fed on naught but Scripture and Bible tales while she lived at the convent. She delighted in the poems he sang about love and romance, hanging on every colorful word, rejoicing when the tales ended happily and groaning her disapproval with the rest of the ladies when fate proved unkind to the lovers in the songs.

She could scarcely breathe when the next ballad sung told of a young woman, betrothed to a man of her father’s choosing while her heart pined for a simple knight whom she had long adored. Isabel could not help casting a thoughtful, sidelong glance at Griffin as the bard sang his sad song. Griffin had left the table some time ago, seeming uninterested in the day’s entertainment. Instead, he busied himself with checking their supplies, all but ignoring the bard and the rest of the folk as he tied up his satchel and placed it on top of his folded mantle.

Now, as she had so many times since their arrival at Hexford Castle, Isabel surreptitiously watched the man
who pretended to be her husband. It was unseemly, this compulsion she had to look upon him, to study him, to know him. It was sinful the way she relived the memory of his touch, letting her thoughts return time and again to the kiss he gave her at Droghallow, that false display of affection that should not have made her burn so then, nor all these days later. It was madness to think that any measure of his tenderness toward her had been based in truth.