Lady Of Fire (24 page)

“My other kisses have not been perfect?”

“Not like that.”

His teasing smile became one of regret. “That is because they have not been as dangerous as our first one, Alessandra, though they could have easily become so.”

She swallowed. “Will this one be dangerous?”

“Were I to kiss you, but I will not, for it is perilous enough being here with you—something I would not dare were I not so battered and weary.”

She could not hide her disappointment.

He sighed. “You know that I feel for you, do you not?”

She caught her breath. Might he admit he loved her as she was certain she loved him? “Something beyond desire,” she said, “but what is it?”

He opened his mouth, closed it.

“Lucien?”

“’Tis enough that I feel. For that, I will only hold you, Alessandra.”

It was honorable. She knew it was. Unless she fooled herself. What if this was his revenge against the Brevilles—making her want him without hope of ever having him?

“Do you toy with me, Lucien?” she asked.

“I do not.” Fatigue was in every syllable. “Though you may not wish it, you are a lady. And a lady is what I intend to give over to old man Breville, not a long-lost daughter whose belly grows large with his enemy’s whelp.”

Fool or not, she believed him.

“Now I must sleep, Alessandra. Will you allow it, or should I move to my cot?”

Assuring herself there were days aplenty to discover what he felt for her, she said, “Stay.” And silently added,
Today. And tomorrow. And always.

Falstaff, England, 1454

“I see it!” Alessandra exclaimed.

Proud and austere, the distant keep of Falstaff rose from a still fog as if floating atop a cloud. Of the walls surrounding it, only intermittent crenellations were visible, and only if one peered closely. Even the village Lucien had spoken of was nowhere to be seen, cloaked in the same curious morning haze.

Since arriving in England, Alessandra had marveled at this new land. Granted, it was chill and damp compared to Algiers, but it had an appeal all its own.

The London of lore, where the ship had anchored, had intrigued her, beckoning her to explore its crowded streets and shops. And she would have if Lucien had not been in such a hurry. To her disappointment, after securing horses and provisions, he had announced it was time to ride north.

Nicholas had accompanied them to the outskirts of the city. Far more genial since discovering he had been granted the wind to reach London ahead of those ships that had departed Tangier before his, he had kissed Alessandra’s hand and waved Lucien and her on their way.

Verdant countryside and wooded forests passed by in a blur. Inns with coarse, English-speaking people had provided a place to bed down for the night. Strange food and drink, to which she had been given an introduction during the weeks aboard ship, was palatable, though more often tested her stomach.

It was an adventure, but it would soon end when Lucien fulfilled the bargain struck with her mother.

She swallowed in an attempt to dislodge her anxiety, wished she could delay the meeting with her father, ached for Lucien to first take her with him to Falstaff.

Looking at him, she saw longing in his eyes as he stared at his home. But as if aware of her regard, he blinked the emotion away and twisted in his saddle to meet her gaze.

“Lucien, I do not think I am ready for Corburry,” she said.

He smiled. “More likely, Corburry is not ready for you.”

He had said it before, and often with wit, but this time the comment was far less amusing. “Perhaps.”

He sidled his mount alongside hers. “We have discussed this many times.”

“So we have, and still I would prefer we pause first at Falstaff. What can it hurt?”

He drew a deep breath. “What awaits me there, I cannot say, but I would not subject you to more discomfort than already you face in becoming acquainted with your own family. Thus, I shall face mine alone.”

Alessandra mustered a brave face. “I understand.”

Lucien crooked a finger beneath her chin. “I do not think you do, but you will see it is for the best.” He brushed his mouth across hers—much too fleetingly for her to respond or know better what he felt for her. Then he released her, pressed his heels to his mount, and led the way to Corburry.

The castle of Corburry was a fortress, one erected of immense stone blocks that bore ample evidence of past conflicts. Most obvious were sizable sections of the gatehouse and curtain walls that had been repaired with stone of differing shades. Less obvious were pocks and chips that, because they had not threatened the integrity of the walls, remained as further testimony of the sieges endured by the occupants.

How many of the attacks were a result of the long-standing dispute between the Brevilles and De Gautiers? Alessandra wondered, then shook off the question. At this moment, more important was how she would be received by her father.

She raised her gaze up the cylindrical keep that rose from the center of the castle. It was there her family resided, and the destiny her mother had forced upon her.

Though dear, sweet Sabine had been certain this was where her daughter belonged, Alessandra wished she was as certain.

“Something is wrong,” Lucien broke into her thoughts. Mouth grimly set, gaze riveted on the castle, he touched his dagger, then his sword.

“What do you mean?”

“I can count on one hand the number of soldiers that walk the walls.”

She tallied the four figures there. “How many should there be?”

His head came around. “Many, Alessandra. James Breville is not a man to take chances.”

“Unlike you,” she said, remembering the chances he had taken to bring her out of Algiers.

He nodded. “Unlike me.”

“Do you think it a ruse?”

“It is certainly not what it should be, for it is not merely a scarcity of men upon the walls that does not suit. We should not have been allowed to draw so close. Only by stealth did my kin and I advance this near without meeting resistance.”

“Perchance the castle folk are in worship ’Tis Sunday, after all.” Purposely, she melded the words
it
and
is
into one, a nuance of the English language she had worked at mastering these past weeks, and which was much easier than masking the accent that marked her as a foreigner. Not that she intended to.

“You still have much to learn,” Lucien muttered.

“Then teach me.”

“Methinks that is better left to your father,” he said and urged his horse down the rise.

Alessandra trailing, they approached the castle in clear view, finally stirring those atop the walls.

“Cover your hair,” Lucien said.

“Why?” Though, initially, she had been uneasy going about in public with face and hair uncovered, she enjoyed the freedom. What she did not enjoy was the English clothing that continued to hinder her movements.

“Do as told,” Lucien said.

She raised the hood of her mantle and tucked her hair out of sight. “Better?”

Without confirming she had done as ordered, he nodded as he stared ahead.

Alessandra sighed. She much preferred the Lucien she had come to know on board ship. The gentleman forgotten, he was once more a warrior—alert, calculating, predatory.

With mounting suspicion and greater caution, Lucien proceeded toward the castle. When would the attack come? he wondered as he followed the movements of those visible to him. And from where?

Though the portcullis was in place, barring entrance to the castle, the drawbridge remained lowered, and no attempt was being made to raise this all-important bastion of defense.

Might peace have come to Corburry? Immediately, he rejected the idea. Two years could not have wrought such change.

He reined in before the drawbridge, withholding his gaze from Alessandra as she drew alongside.

“Who goes?” demanded the bearded man who appeared at the portcullis.

Lucien recognized the one he had encountered in a skirmish when he had been ten and four summers aged. “Do you not recognize that who is responsible for your hobble, Sully?” he called.

Silence.

Lucien smiled a hard smile. He had come close to killing the cur that wet, miserable morn. But he had been unprepared to take his first life. Within the year, that had changed.

“Lucien de Gautier!” exclaimed the man.

“Aye. Now summon your heathen lord.”

Sully grasped the bars and pressed his long face between them. “By the fury of hell, be ye a ghost, man?”

It was as Nicholas had said, that all believed him dead. “I am of flesh, the same as that which your dagger once cleaved. Now rouse old man Breville and tell him I am here.”

Sully’s gaze skittered to the cloaked figure alongside Lucien. “Who be that with ye?”

“Tell your lord I have brought him long-lost kin.”

Sully lowered his gaze down the bit of gown that peeked from beneath Alessandra’s mantle. “Do she have a name?”

“It will be revealed to your lord. Now bring him hither.”

Muttering, Sully turned and limped out of sight.

“You did not tell him,” Alessandra said.

“He will know soon enough.”

Sully returned minutes later. “Lady Breville requests you proceed to the keep.”

“Lady Breville?” Alessandra whispered.

Lucien regretted he had not informed her of her father’s remarriage. “James Breville’s second wife,” he said and saw hurt flicker over her face.

He returned his attention to Sully and the unthinkable invitation. Only once, as a youth, had he been inside those walls, and then it had been as a captive. Did the Brevilles think him foolish enough to enter their viper’s nest a second time? And why would they risk it? Even Lady Breville would know better.

“What of Lord James?” Lucien asked.

“Ah…” Sully shuffled his feet in the damp earth. “The lord’ll be along shortly.”

Then he was elsewhere. Perhaps burning off his midday meal by pillaging and plundering De Gautier villages.

“We shall await him here,” Lucien called a moment ahead of a squeal that heralded the ascent of the iron portcullis.

Lucien drew his sword, watched as Sully ducked beneath the gate and traversed the drawbridge.

Wide of shoulders and chest, but painfully short of stature, the man halted ten feet distant from Lucien. Stroking the dagger at his waist, he eyed the sword raised against him. “Come back from the dead, did ye?” The rounding of his cheeks was the only evidence of a bearded smile. “Imagine that.” He shifted his gaze to Lucien’s scarred face. “Ye were never handsome, lad, not like that brother of yours. Pity ye are less so now.”

Alessandra gasped.

Hoping she would hold her tongue, Lucien said, “’Tis most fortunate for you—and me—that how deeply a man buries his sword is not dependent upon his countenance.”

Sully laughed. “Is that what ye proved in France?”

The leather of Lucien’s saddle creaked as he tensed further, but though that last insult was grievous, he controlled himself.

Disappointment glanced across Sully’s face, evidence he had hoped to antagonize his adversary. But before he could renew his efforts, a low rumble sounded across the land.

Lucien looked around. The meadow was empty, but not for much longer.

“See now, my lord Breville has returned from hawking,” Sully announced as a party of riders crested the hill.

Lucien turned his steed toward them.

Heart pounding furiously, Alessandra also urged her horse around. Guessing her father was among those at the fore, she considered the half dozen who rode there. It was futile, though, for they were still too distant for her to match one with the description her mother had occasionally given.

“There,” Lucien said. “Off center, left. He wears the green.”

As the man with a hooded falcon perched on his wrist neared, he became a tall, stately figure whose russet-colored hair had yet to go gray.

Remembering to breathe when Lucien gave her hand a squeeze, she looked up at him from beneath her hood.

“Keep your head down and say nothing,” he said and released her.

On the final approach, all but James Breville slowed. Breaking from the pack, he surged forward.

If he was surprised by the one who awaited him, he did not show it. He guided his mount to a place before his visitors, leaned forward, and peered at the De Gautier come back from the grave.

Staring at the man who had sown her, who had no knowledge of the harvest, Alessandra began to tremble. Here was her father, the one who had loved her mother. Kind, Sabine had insisted, though driven by past generations to hate his neighbor.

In spite of his forty or more years, he appeared to be in good form, and she could only hope the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth had been created by laughter, not anger.

In that moment, she who had once wanted nothing to do with him, yearned to know him. He was all she had—providing he accepted her.

He looked to Alessandra, narrowed his gaze in an attempt to see beyond her hood, then returned his attention to Lucien. Behind, his assembled men muttered in surprise, evidencing they also recognized the one they had thought dead.

As if sensing the tension, the hooded falcon on James’s wrist bristled, causing its glossy feathers to rise.

James calmed the bird with a caressing hand. “I knew it,” he said. “If a Breville could not bring you down, neither could a Frenchman.”

“It is encouraging that not all believed me dead,” Lucien replied.

James shifted his gaze to Lucien’s sword. “You come armed. I take it you demand satisfaction?”

“Two years’ absence cannot have changed things so much that you would expect otherwise.”

“But they have changed.”

Lucien did not answer.

With a jerk of his head, James indicated those behind. “Only you would stand alone against so many.”

“I have done it before.”

“And nearly died for it.”

“Nearly.”

James sighed. “Finally, we are at peace with the De Gautiers, and you return.”

Lucien’s sword wavered. “At peace?”

James blinked, and Alessandra thought it genuine surprise upon his face. “You have not yet been to Falstaff?”