Wings of the Storm (32 page)

Two days. That wasn't so bad. The fist clenching her heart eased a little. She could almost smile at Stephan's solemn admonitions. Ah, the wisdom of the long married—it must be at least a week, now.

"Yes, my liege," she responded, lowering her eyes meekly to hide the amusement in them.

He gave a pleased sigh. "You two will deal very well together," he predicted. "Now, go on to the bower and keep my lady company. If she isn't run-ning around the fields grubbing for medicinal roots in the rain, that is." He gently directed her footsteps

back toward the castle.

Sibelle, she thought. Yes, she would talk to Sibelle. She didn't find her in the bower, sewing with the women, but with Switha in the chapel. They were sit-ting on the floor beneath the altar in the full light of the window, sorting some kind of dried berry from a willow basket.

Melisande was lying close enough to have her head on Sibelle's thigh. The girl was feeding her the occa-sional berry. The dog's tail thumped happily on the stone floor as Jane approached the group.

Back from her poolside vacation, I see,Jane thought of the wisewoman. She settled down with the pair.

"How's Melisande?" she asked.

"Mending," Switha answered. "The shoulder will remain stiff. She'll never chase deer again."

"She never did that anyway," Jane answered. Melisande was distinctly a house pet in a time when such a privileged position was rare. Passfair, she knew, was a rare and precious haven of peace and kindness in the midst of a frighteningly brutal world. She was a lucky woman to be a part of Stephan's small domain.

"We've so much to talk about," Sibelle began eagerly. "There's so much I must learn from you before you leave."

Leave? She stared at the girl uncomprehendingly, Leave? Were they sending her away. "Leave?"

Sibelle's gentle laugh echoed against the stones of the little chapel. "I would love to have you with me

forever—perhaps someday we can be together at

Sturry when all our estates are secure and well man-aged. Meanwhile," she went on, "you can't be a prop-er chatelaine for Lilydrake if you remain here. Besides, I don't think Sir Daffyd would want you out of his sight."

"Bed," Switha added succinctly. "Or protection," she added with a shrewd look at Jane. "I thought he might be the cure you needed when I led you to him," she added smugly.

Jane refrained from answering this statement, but she felt strangely happy. She and Switha understood.

each other, somehow.

The berries went click, click, click into separate piles. Rain pattered in and ran in a slow stream down the wall. After a time, Jane let her historian's curiosi-ty get the better of her. "Granny Rosamunde," she said. "Was she Rosamunde Clifford?"

Sibelle nodded. "Yes, that's who Granny was. I miss the dear old lady."

"'A sweeter creature in this world could never prince embrace,'" Jane quoted. No wonder Sibelle's father was proud to style himself LeGauche. Being half Plantagenet by Henry II's beloved mistress wasn't such a bad thing.

"What a pretty thing to say," Sibelle said.

"It's from a poem about her."

"There's lots of those. She didn't like hearing about them. She tried to forget such worldly things."

"I thought she died about thirty years ago?"

Sibelle smiled brightly. "So did the queen. Granny Rosamunde ran away from Woodstock after a nasty fall down the stairs. She was afraid Queen Eleanor was trying to kill her. She told me that later she supposed it was just an accident coupled with her own guilty con-science. She wasn't very good at being a mistress. Said she would have been much happier as a wife. She stayed in several priories before she settled at Davington and I met her." Sibelle gave a happy little domestic sigh. "Now I understand what she meant about being a wife."

Jane leaned back on her hands, feeling quite pleased at all this information. What a story. Too bad this footnote to history would never make it into any-body's monograph. Be a shame to wreck the roman-tic legends, anyway, she supposed. Not that it was possible to wreck legends, she thought. People believed what they wanted, despite what the thor-oughly researched facts told them. Maybe you couldn't change history in some ways no matter what you did.

"About Passfair . . ." Sibelle drew her attention back to the original subject. "You must teach me as much as you can about running the household before Sir Daffyd returns."

When Sir Daffyd returns, Jane thought with a sigh. "Of course," she answered. She didn't want to leave here, she thought. What was she going to do at Lilydrake? Alone. Alone with Daffyd.

She was going to make the best of it, she thought with adamant determination. She'd learned at Pass-fair that her one special quality was making the best out of a situation. She knew how to cope. She could

cope with Daffyd. And David. And anything else the world threw her way.

She just wished he'd come home so she could tell him.

"About the rest of the demesne," Sibelle went on.

"I think I can persuade my lord of the need to appoint a new steward to oversee everything else. What do you think of Bertram?"

Jane nodded, adding with a pleased smile, "Who else?"

"I know he can't keep accounts," Sibelle went on practically, "but I can get Yves to send a clerk from Sturry to help him. And eventually we'll have a priest back. I'll want one with some learning. My children will need a teacher."

Sibelle looked very determined, Jane noted. She also looked very happy. She and Switha exchanged a swift, knowing glance. "Are you pregnant?" Jane asked.

Sibelle lowered her gaze demurely. Her fingers played with the berries. "I believe so," she said. "My lord will be so pleased."

The kids worked fast. "Yes," Jane said slowly. "Yes, he will. Congratulations." She swallowed hard. She almost whimpered, an awful truth having just dawned on her.

Pregnant. She had never thought about getting pregnant. Why hadn't she thought about getting preg-nant? Neither of them had taken any precautions. She wasn't on anything. And even if David had had a con-traceptive implant, it would have stopped working years ago.

"There's nothing to worry about," Switha said as if she knew what Jane was thinking. She probably did.

Jane got to her feet. "I think I'll go wait for Daffyd."

She heard Sibelle calling, "But he won't be back for—" as she hurried out of the chapel.

She didn't care. She still went to linger by the gate. She thought maybe wishing for him would bring him back to Passfair sooner.

She couldn't help but be frightened he wouldn't come back at all. The quest was over. The prize was won. Was there a new quest waiting for him beyond the horizon?

She prayed not.

She knew now he was all the prize she needed.

32

Two days crawled pastbefore she saw David's horse approaching up the track leading to the castle. The day was harsh; a purplish-black mountain of storm cloud rode the sky at David's back. Light-ning backlit the clouds. The wind whipped his pale hair; the light cape he wore around his shoulders stood out like black hawk wings. Jane watched anx-iously from the spot by the gate where she'd spent much of the last

two days. Villagers and castle folk were rushing indoors to escape the coming down-pour, but she stood motionless as a statue, unafraid of the coming torrent. She had more pressing worries on her mind.

She hoped the things she wanted to tell him didn't come too late.

He gave her a disapproving look down his arro-gant nose as he rode in the gate. He didn't pause but pointed at the hall without a word and rode quickly on. His actions didn't encourage her to think things were going to be settled between them. Her heart sank. She raced after him, skirts flying in the wind.

He dismounted and met her by the steps as a groom hurried the horse to the shelter of the stable.

"We have to talk!" she shouted, but a rising gust of wind blew her words away. He shook his head, grabbed her arm, and pulled her indoors.

He didn't stop until they reached the warmth of the hearthfire. Once there he threw back his cloak and shook raindrops out of his hair before turning to her. She held out her hands to the warmth and waited.

"Hello, Jane," he said in English. "Greetings, my lord," she replied in French. Puzzled brows lowered over his brooding eyes. "Jehane?"

She reached up to brush strands of damp hair off his forehead. She brushed his lips with her fingertips as well. The room was full of people. She didn't see anyone but David. "Call me anything you like."

He looked around. The presence of other people seemed to bother him. A sharp crack of thunder rolled overhead, loud enough to penetrate the stone walls of the fortress.

He took her arm. She was used to it by now. "We have to talk." She let him lead her up to the store-room.

"I'm packed," she said as he closed the door behind them. She went forward and struck flint to light the candles. It was early in the day, but the storm made the room dark as night. Rain hissed and beat at the outside stones. Water beat relentlessly on the thin-scraped oiled hide covering the window.

He took off his cape and the damp black surcoat underneath. She noticed he wasn't wearing mail, but the black undercoat, braccae, and hide boots. He unfastened his sword belt and set it aside as well. It seemed like a symbolic gesture to Jane.

"Packed?" he questioned suspiciously. "Where are you going?"

She swallowed an instant of panic. Perhaps she'd been wrong. Perhaps he was abandoning her. The quest was over and . . . Don't panic, she told herself firmly. Talk to the man.

"Sibelle and Stephan thought you would take me to Lilydrake."

"I see." He leaned against the door, crossing his arms. It was a very familiar gesture. She had never seen him more serious.

She wanted to go to him, take his hands and pull them around her. The unreadable expression on his

face stopped her for now. "If you want to go to Lily-drake, I'll take you there," he told her. "I'll take you anywhere you like." He spread his hands before him. "It's your call, Jane."

She didn't understand what he meant. "Daffyd," she began, "I—"

"I've been doing a lot of thinking the last two days," he interrupted. He looked her over, his eyes raking her from head to foot. She felt as if she were standing in the middle of some bright, hot spotlight, every flaw and every good point being scrutinized and carefully judged. The feeling caused a shiver to run up her spine.

"Two days alone," he went on. "Trying to decide what I was going to do about you."

"Me too," she admitted.

His lips twitched, just a little. "Decide on any-thing?"

"Yes." She licked her lips nervously.

"Me too."

She put her hands behind her back and looked him squarely in the eye. "You first," she said, chickening out.

He came to her and put his hands on her shoul-ders. "I decided," he said after dropping a quick kiss on her forehead, "that if Daffyd is what you want, Daffyd is what you shall have. I offer you his heart, his holdings, his person without reservation. You mean too much to me, Jehane, for me to lose you now. Try to forget who I was and I'll make you happy. Here and now," he vowed. "I love you."

She was beginning to have a suspicion of under-standing of what he was talking about. His words, his fervent intentions, warmed her. His words were all a medieval lady could hope for. She knew they could build a life together that would be as good and fulfill-ing as this time and place could offer. But she wasn't a medieval lady. She wished he'd get the notion she was out of his head.

He was looking at her expectantly. Hopefully. "My turn?" she asked. He gave a slow nod. "Maybe I don't want to forget who you are," she began.

"Uh-oh."

"Listen," she ordered, pointing an admonishing finger at him. "You seem to think I like you all butch and brawny."

"You do. Admit it."

"All right. I do." She kissed his cheek. "It was Daffyd I fell in love with. Daffyd is brave. He has a sense of justice. A sense of humor. He's strong—emo-tionally strong. He has charm. He's also the sexiest thing in or out of chain mail I've ever seen."

He inclined his head graciously. "Thank you, my lady."

"But David Wolfe's much more interesting. And just as difficult. Just as headstrong and sure he's always

right."

"He is not!"

"Is too. Let me finish. It turns out this David Wolfe kid, whose guts I have every reason to hate, grew up into a pretty wonderful man. Seems he has a conscience. Seems he knows how to learn from his mistakes. Has the guts to try to fix things he's screwed up. He doesn't just live with his guilt like most people, he goes off and tries to make things right."

"Interesting assessment," his chocolatey voice rumbled. She noticed he didn't try to deny any of her praise.

"He has an ego, too. But all in all I think the kid turned out all right." She reached up to lightly slap one of the hands resting on her shoulders. "So get off the guilt trip, okay?"

"It's not so easy," he answered seriously. "I've been living with the guilt for a long time."

"You don't have to live with it anymore," she promised, and kissed him, her lips seeking his eager-ly. He responded hungrily, but only briefly. It left her breathless and wanting.

"I love you," he told her, holding her close. "But Jehane—Jane—which one of you do I-love? Is it love?

Or just a guilty conscience trying to make an honest man of me? I've spent the last two days going crazy trying to decide who I am, who you think I am, who you want me to be, who I want me to be. I am so con-fused," he ended on a deep, breathy sigh.

"Ah," she answered, relief making the sound almost a giggle.

He lifted her chin in his fingers. "Don't sound so cheerful, woman," he complained. "I'm baring my soul to you."

"And about time," she commented. "I already told you I'm in love with all of you, you silly man. And you're in love with all of me."

"I am?" His eyebrows disappeared briefly into his bangs. "You have an explanation, I suppose?"

She gave an emphatic nod. "You think I spent the last couple of days doing nothing but tending my embroidery? Of course, I did, actually," she admitted. "Sibelle's taken to running the place. So I got a great deal of thinking done while ruining a lot of stitching."