Juliana Garnett (14 page)

Ceara did not reply. She couldn’t. The raw shock of their recent encounter had left her limp, with frayed emotions that threatened to dissolve into a flood of tears. Inexplicably, she wanted to press her face into Luc’s chest and feel him hold her. Inexplicably, he had pulled her to him without being asked, tenderly stroking the hair from her misted face and muttering in French that he had made a damned mistake.

Her urge to weep was entirely expected, she supposed, but a weakness she detested. The evening’s events left her shaken and uncertain of herself, or what she might do.

How could she have lost control with this man? But she had. Once her anger faded, she realized this was exactly what she had wanted from him. Easy enough then, to play the part of a whore, to undress slowly and deliberately, to entice him with her smile and eyes. His body had already betrayed his desire, but she had not expected her body to do likewise.

For she had found herself responding in a way she’d never dreamed. The exquisite sensations of his hands on her body, his mouth on her breasts, and his fingers sliding over the aching center of her had ignited an explosive response that whirled her into mindless oblivion. Until that sharp, stabbing pain had wrung a shocked cry from her, she had forgotten herself that she was still virgin.

After that, the lovely haze of fiery need had melted under Luc’s recriminations as he rolled off her and to one side. Night air quickly cooled steamy skin, and it was Luc who leaned over to throw the covers over them.

Ceara worried the blanket’s tattered edge between her fingers and tried not to look at him, but the urge to peer at him from beneath her lashes was irresistible. They still lay on the narrow cot, bodies pressed against each other, though Luc had his arms thrown back over his head. A magnificent creature, really, with his hard-muscled body and beguiling kisses.
Madness, to think of that now
.… She edged away from him with an agitated mutter, and he put a hand on her shoulder to hold her.

“It is not a difficult question, Ceara. Answer me. With the truth, if you value all that is dear to you.”

She didn’t need further explanation of that ominous threat this time, and shrugged before answering, “Wulfric and I grew up together. He was fostered by my father after his parents were killed in a Danish raid when we were both small children. I thought of him as my brother.”

“I won’t mention the vague laws of the church about consanguinity at this point, but it’s something to consider once you meet with the king. Do you have a natural brother?”

“No. My father always longed for a son, but my mother was … frail. I was all she could give him for an heir, and he would not do as some other man might have done and go to another woman. He loved my mother dearly.…” Her voice trailed into pained silence while she composed herself.

“Am I to believe that you lived together as brother and sister, as adults as well as children?”

“ ’tis the truth.” She cleared her throat. “For years Wulfric and I played together, studied together—there was a monk who stayed a time at Wulfridge, and taught us lessons in Greek and Latin, as well as history.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “As a female, of course my studies were not taken seriously. Wulfric excelled in everything, but he was best at military strategy. He and my father would plot campaigns well into the night, always imaginary, as Wulfric was yet a boy. Yet those imaginary battles were enough that Balfour recognized him as a brilliant strategist. It was that, I think, that endeared him to my father. More than the fact that his inherited lands were vast and adjoined our estate.”

“Ah, so Balfour married you to him and increased his holdings. But why a foster brother? Why not one of his stronger vassals? Wulfric’s lands could not have been that vast.”

She turned and met Luc’s gaze. “I would have none of them, and my father knew that. He despaired of ever making me a suitable match, for you see, it was rumored that I could be rather … difficult.”

“
Je n’en suis pas surpris
.” Some of the tension eased from Luc’s eyes, and the suggestion of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “But obviously you did not object to wedding Wulfric.”

“I was very young, just twelve at the time, and thought only of the way Wulfric and I would always be together. Matters of the flesh did not occur to me, and because Wulfric was older and loved me, he waited. He refused to consummate the marriage. At the time, I thought my age was the only reason.”

Luc frowned slightly. “I take that to mean there was another reason he did not consummate.”

“Yes.” She hesitated. The memory was still painful to her, still made her cheeks hot with remembered anguish and trembling guilt. But she could not tell Luc that, could not tell him how she had disappointed brave Wulfric. Or how she had always
loved him—though not in the way he wished. He’d known it, too well, with sadness in his fine eyes and the wistful curve of his mouth.…
I know you will never love me as I do you, Ceara, but that is all right. Just love me the best you can, and it will be enough
.… But it had not been enough. Not enough to keep him alive.

Ceara chose her words carefully. “I always thought Wulfric the most beautiful boy in the world, and he was. When we were children, it did not matter that he was not very tall, but as I grew taller I saw that he did not, and his body became twisted with a wasting disease.” Here she faltered, and unshed tears thickened her voice. “He was so brave. I never heard him complain, even though there were those who scorned him. He never gave them the satisfaction of acknowledging his pain. Ah, he was so fine, with a face like an angel. Eyes the blue-green of jewels and fine hair the color of moonlight … when he died my father said he was just too pure and noble to remain in this world.”

“So he did not die in battle.”

She tried to laugh, but the sound was strangled. “Oh, but he did. It was the Danes … they came in their long ships, gliding up the coast to ravage the countryside. My father was away—trouble with the Scots to the north—and Wulfric insisted upon leading men to protect Wulfridge. He planned a brilliant strategy, dividing our forces and tricking them into chasing our men toward a wooded glen where he waited with more warriors … but it was there that he fell, slain with a sword in his hand as he had always said he wanted. And his plan worked—our men were able to turn back the invaders and save Wulfridge.”

She tried to draw in a deep breath, but her throat ached and she felt as if a huge stone were crushing her chest. Even now, after four long years, grief had the power to undo her. For she knew as surely as if she had held the sword, she had killed him. His inability to consummate their marriage had been his destruction. After that, he had sought death eagerly, sought his redemption
as a valiant warrior. And died for it. If it had not been for her …

As the silence stretched between them, she began to wish she had not confided in this man. After all, he was the enemy, was he not? Why had she blurted out her heart’s ache?

Slowly, Luc said, “Your husband sounds like a noble man, as your father said. Not every man is able to die as he wishes. It was a blessing for him.”

Ceara wished she felt the same. But Wulfric’s death had left so huge a void in her life that it was still impossible for her to see it that way. She was too selfish. That was what Kyna, her old nurse, had said.

“Every day he was in pain, yet you wanted him here only for you,” Kyna scolded. “Did you not care that ’twas an agony for him to rise of a morn, or to dress, or to pretend that he was well so you would be happy? Ah, selfish child, one day you will grow up and realize that real love is not based on how someone else makes you happy, but how happy you make each other.”

“I made Wulfric happy!” she cried, but Kyna scoffed.

“Yea, I always noted how pleased he looked when you insisted he accompany you on long rides, or treks over fen and moor with that dangerous wolf he gave you—yet you never saw it.”

It was appalling to realize Kyna was right, and for weeks after she’d been inconsolable. And then had come the grief, then anger, then blame. In a desperate attempt to seek solace, she had visited an old crone in a hut down by the sea. There, she had sat upon a woven mat of grass and let the winds blow her hair into tangles as she watched the crone throw the Runes. But this time the prophecy stones did not answer her questions about the future—or the past, for the crone was bent more on prophecy than answering her anguished questions.
“The wolf will bring great grief and strife to the land, but after there will come peace for a time, and with it—love. Great love, m’lady, and the lifelong loyalty of a wolf will be yours.…”

Ridiculous prophecy, but uncannily accurate in some ways. William of Normandy had come, ravaging the country like a wolf though most men called him the lion, and grief and strife had come with him. But the time of peace had not arrived, though it had been over three years since William landed near Hastings at Pevensey and slew Harold on Senlac Hill. Long years, years of terror and apprehension, and still no sign of peace. Save for the loyalty of her wolf, the prophecy was empty.

C
EARA TRIED NOT
to look at Luc. He rode at the head of the line, beneath the banner carried by his standard bearer, and she gazed at it resentfully. Already he had created his baronial arms, and a black wolf fluttered on a red field, proclaiming him lord of Wulfridge. A new standard, a new day, a new lord. What would become of her?

It was midafternoon, and the town of York lay just ahead. So much could happen, and though Luc seemed to think William would be merciful once he heard of Sir Simon’s provocation, she had none of his faith.

Of William she knew only what she had seen along the journey from Wulfridge: Once thriving villages lay in charred ruins, surrounded by black-stubbled fields and the bones of slaughtered cattle lying in massive heaps that bespoke the Norman definition of mercy. Glimpses of the population were few, as any who saw the approach of Norman knights fled for their lives. It grieved and infuriated her that so many had suffered so much.

As if sensing her reaction, Luc kept his distance. It was Giles who received the brunt of her anger, his leering smirks and suggestive comments pushing her to release her pent-up fury.

“Norman swine,” she hissed when he demanded she keep her mount at a pace with the rest, “do not speak to me of haste. Nor more of your apish friend Alain. I have no regard for him, so do not tell me of his affection for me.”

Giles’s jaw set, and behind the metal nose guard of his helm, his gray eyes were flinty. “I told Alain he was mad, but he would have me give you his message. A pity Sir Simon did not slay you instead of the messenger.”

“He had not the courage to do that,” she retorted with narrowed eyes. “Just as you have not mettle enough to deal with a woman, but must run to Sir Luc at every chance. I vow, within the hour you will be whining to him of your ill treatment at my hands, and how I abuse you.”

Giles tightened his hold on one end of the chains about her waist, lifting them with a slight, threatening clink. “If I were Sir Luc, instead of binding you with these chains, I would have you riding in that cage with the wolf, for the two of you are like.”

“You are not half—nay, one quarter—the man Sir Luc is, so do not prate to me of what you would do. No doubt you would be trembling beneath a hawthorn hedge at the very thought of facing Sheba.”

“Sheba.” Scorn dripped from the word. “A noble name for a scruffy, ill-kempt beast. Sir Luc should have slain it at once. It makes the horses nervous.”

“You mean it makes
you
nervous.” Ceara gripped her reins tightly in both hands to keep from slapping Giles with them. Luc had warned her she must not strike the soldier again.

Luc. Sir Luc.
Lord
Luc. Aye, he would be lord of Wulfridge once William granted him the lands as he had promised. And she would have no claim on a stone of it, nor a blade of grass, nor even a clod of dirt. The land that had been in her family since the time of the Romans would belong to an invader. Danes, Scots, and Vikings had been repelled time and again, and now the Normans had succeeded.

Giles nudged his mount close, until he was level with Ceara and his face was just inches from hers. “When you reach the king, he will give you your just reward, I hope. And I will see that Alain receives the message you sent him. You will lose all,
putain
.”

Luc’s stern warning forgotten, Ceara slashed out, catching the man-at-arms hard across his mouth with the straight edge of her palm. The blow caught him by surprise and he reeled backward. As his spurs grazed his mount’s sides, the startled beast sprang forward with a shrill whinny of alarm. Dropping the end of Ceara’s chain, Giles grabbed for his reins and let out a bellow of dismay that spurred his horse even faster. She watched with grim satisfaction as the floundering soldier tried to regain his balance and control of his horse, half on, half off the beast, one rein dragging as the panicked animal fled down the narrow path in a thundering rush of hooves and damp earth.

It was vengeance enough that Giles looked the fool, and she kept her mount at an even pace, watching with feigned innocence when Luc turned in his saddle to see the cause of the commotion behind him. He glanced immediately from Giles to her, the expression on his face relaying his irritation.

Turning his mount, Luc rode past Giles—who by this time had managed to right himself and control his horse—reaching Ceara much too quickly. “What have you done to him this time, or need I ask?”

She shrugged. “The reports of fine Norman horsemanship are greatly exaggerated, I believe. Giles is an excellent example of how one should not believe rumors.”

“You try my patience, Ceara.”

Though his tone was level, it held an edge of controlled anger that left her uneasy. She switched to another tactic. “I most humbly beg your pardon, my lord. I was provoked by Giles to reckless behavior. He called me a whore, and that privilege I reserve for you.”

Behind her words lay a double-edged sword, as she well knew. Luc had declared her inviolate to his men, and for one of them to overstep the boundaries required action. Yet had he not set her up as a whore? Every man in camp must have heard their struggle that night in the tent, heard the cry that would be correctly
interpreted. And worse—by insulting a lady under Luc’s protection, Giles had insulted Luc. What sweet vengeance.