Lady Of Fire (26 page)

“Alessandra’s dowry.”

Surprised that Lucien did not intend to keep any of her mother’s possessions for himself, Alessandra sought his gaze. “What of your share?” she asked.

“I have my reward.” His cool eyes swept her face. “I am home.”

Realizing he was about to leave her with strangers, she stepped near and gripped his arm. “Pray, Lucien,” she whispered, “do not forget me.”

She was certain his eyes softened. “How could I?” he murmured, then gently pulled her hand from him and turned away.

Lucien was at the door when James called to him. He looked over his shoulder.

“You will find much changed at Falstaff,” James said. “Accept it and let us continue on in peace.”

Lucien stood unmoving, as if trying to unravel the mystery of James’s words, then he was gone.

Alessandra felt as if her heart were withering. Reminding herself of her vow to behave as a woman, not a child, she quelled the impulse to run after Lucien and assured herself she would see him again—even if she must go to him.

A knight approached James. “My lord, when he discovers Falstaff is but a shadow of its former self, he will be back.”

“I am counting on it.”

Disturbed by the exchange, Alessandra touched her father’s arm. “Of what does your man speak?”

He turned to her and folded her in arms that might have been comforting had he not denied her the answer she sought. “Welcome, Daughter,” he said. “Welcome to Corburry.”

Whether they thought him apparition or flesh and blood, it did not matter. What mattered was that the Lion of Falstaff was home.

None opposed him when he rode into their midst—not the guard at the gatehouse, the men-at-arms within the walled fortress, or the few knights straggling about the great hall. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, they let him pass.

Intent on the one who had yet to notice his arrival, Lucien ignored the gasps and whispers of disbelief as he strode toward the high table.

Vincent, who had not a responsible bone in his body—who must have been the one who had refused to pay the ransom—did not look up. He was too intent on the woman perched upon his knee.

Suppressing the desire to upend the table, Lucien slammed his palms to its top and leaned forward.

Vincent shot up from his chair, tumbling the wench to the floor. “Almighty! You are alive!”

“Disappointed?” Lucien snarled.

Vincent took a step back. His gaze darted left and right, but he would get no aid from his knights. Lucien’s return had robbed him of his rule over them.

“Of course I am not disappointed,” Vincent said. “I am surprised, that is all.”

“I am sure.”

“Lucien!” a woman cried.

He turned to the lone figure across the hall.

His mother stood wide-eyed, the glow upon her face evidencing she had come from the kitchens. “My prayers are answered,” she said and dropped to her knees.

Lucien shot Vincent a warning look, then strode to Lady Dorothea and raised her to her feet.

Tears flowing, body trembling, she searched his face. “You have come home. My boy has come home.”

In spite of France, slavery that had feasted on the pieces of soul it had stripped from him, James Breville, and Vincent de Gautier, Lucien felt himself soften. “’Twas a promise not to be broken, Mother.”

She fell into his arms and, holding tight to him, sobbed into his tunic.

In spite of the questions to which he did not have answers, and the eyes that fell heavy upon them, Lucien let her cry.

Finally, she grew still and, between sharp, replenishing breaths, said, “Your father is dead.”

“I have been told. What I wish to know is how he died.”

“His heart grew old before my own. Now he is lost to me.” Her voice cracked, and Lucien feared she would fall to crying again, but the appearance of a beautiful child distracted her.

The curly-headed girl, perhaps six years of age, tugged on Dorothea’s skirt. “Mama.”

Lucien’s mother wiped a hand across her eyes and stepped out of her son’s arms.
 
“Ah, Giselle, have you come to welcome your brother home?”

The little girl shifted her blue-eyed gaze to Lucien. “He is not my brother.”

Dorothea bent near. “Aye, ’tis Lucien come home from France, little one. Give him a kiss, hmm?”

Giselle crossed her arms over her chest. “He is not Lucien.” She narrowed her gaze upon the crescent-shaped scar. “My big brother had a nice face.”

Dorothea glanced at Lucien and, as if only then noticing the scar, frowned.
 
But she quickly recovered. “’Tis Lucien, indeed. He is a warrior, and when warriors go into battle, sometimes they are injured. Now be a good girl and give him a proper welcome.”

She stamped her foot. “I will not!”

Dorothea offered Lucien an apologetic smile. “Give her time. She will come ‘round.”

What Lucien longed to do was sweep his little sister into his arms. Before he had departed for France, she had often been underfoot, but he had rarely begrudged her his attention.

During long nights aboard the galley, he had calmed his soul with memories of her guileless giggles and yelps of delight, her innocent remarks and boundless curiosity. She had been a beacon, this miracle child who should not have been conceived, much less survived the arduous birthing by a woman well past childbearing age. But Giselle had, and she had been born to parents who, until then, had only been blessed with boys—five, of whom three had survived to adulthood.

“When you wish to ride on my shoulders again,” Lucien said, “you will let me know, hmm?”

Something flickered in her eyes, and for a moment she looked near upon him, then she tossed her head. “Only my brothers get to be my horse.”

“Well, if ever you wish to see what is up here,” Lucien said, “I suppose you will have to pretend I am your brother.”

Giselle glanced beyond his head, pressed her lips tight.

Dorothea nudged her daughter toward the stairs. “Summon Jervais,” she said.

Giselle raised her eyebrows at Lucien, said, “My
brother,
” and flounced off.

“She will be in your lap by nightfall,” Dorothea said, then looped an arm through her son’s and urged him to where Vincent and the others stood silent and watchful.

Upon the dais, Lucien seated his mother at his side, then dropped into the chair vacated by Vincent. “Leave us,” he ordered the knights and servants.

They withdrew, and in their absence, a gaping silence grew until Dorothea said, “Tell us, Lucien—”

“Nay, Mother, when Jervais is here.”

Dorothea inclined her head, looked to her middle son. “Sit with us, Vincent.”

He fidgeted before taking a seat distant from Lucien.

When the youngest De Gautier son came off the stairs, there was an air of annoyance about him, but the moment his eyes beheld Lucien, he halted. And there he stood and stared until a smile broke upon his face. “How dare I not believe Giselle!” he cried and crossed the hall at a run.

Lucien rose to accept his embrace, and was surprised at the bulk and power his brother’s once slender body had attained. Nicholas had not exaggerated.

When they drew back, Jervais said, “Tis a blessing beyond blessings that you are returned to us,” and made the table his seat.

“Much has changed.” Lucien marked Vincent with a glower. “And I would know all of it, but first I seek an answer.”

Vincent rose. “I know your question, Lucien.” His face was so pale it diluted his good looks.

For their mother’s sake, Lucien presented a calm face. “Of course you know, but they do not, do they?”

Vincent looked to his mother and younger brother. “They thought you dead.”

“We all thought you dead,” Dorothea said. “When you did not return from France, and no word came, it was the only conclusion to be had.”

“But word did come,” Lucien said. “Aye, Vincent?”

Throat bobbing, the younger man stepped forward.

“What speak you of?” Dorothea asked. “Make sense, Lucien.”

“All will be clear shortly, Mother.”

Vincent’s advance on the one he had almost mortally wronged was probably the bravest thing he had ever done, Lucien silently scorned.

Vincent halted before Lucien, and though his gaze wavered, he did not look away. “Lucien is making sense, Mother. I did receive word that he lived. And with it came a ransom demand.”

Dorothea staggered and dropped into her chair. “You never told. You said naught of it!”

Vincent turned pleading eyes upon her. “How could I? The coffers were near empty, nowhere near enough coin to bring him home.”

Lucien jerked. “Not enough coin?”

“After Father died, and when there was no word from you, I thought I was heir. I…thought it all mine.”

“All yours!” Lucien strained to keep his fists at his sides. “What did you do with it?”

Jervais supplied the bitter answer. “He gambled it away. Almost every last bloody coin.”

“I tried to get it back,” Vincent protested. “I tried everything to make your ransom.”

“And for that,” Jervais said, “we are now reduced to near poverty.”

It was as Breville had warned. Much had changed at Falstaff, the loss of Dewmoor Pass the least of its troubles. Lucien looked to his youngest brother. “Explain.”

Where he perched on the table’s edge, Jervais crossed his arms over his chest. “You tell him, Vincent.” He jutted his chin at the one to whom he was no longer subject. “Tell the heir of Falstaff who now holds the greater portion of the De Gautier lands.”

At that moment, Vincent could not be said to be handsome. The beauty that had forever eclipsed his brothers was reduced to a vague shadow of manliness.

“Each time I thought I had him,” he bemoaned, “the knave took another piece. I should have stopped, but I thought the next time my luck would run better and all would be restored.”

Now Lucien understood the scarcity of knights when he had entered the hall. Untold numbers of De Gautier vassals now answered to another lord. Though he knew the name of their new liege, he demanded, “Who holds our lands, Vincent?”

“Breville,” he said low.

Lucien’s arms began to shake with the effort to keep them at his sides.

Accept it and let us continue on in peace,
the miscreant had said, knowing full well what awaited Falstaff’s true heir.

Lucien threw himself on Vincent, making the floor their battleground. He heard his mother’s cry, but it was not enough to pull him back up over the edge he had gone over.

By the time he realized Vincent made no attempt to defend himself, as if accepting the beating as his due, he had landed at least a dozen blows. Breathing hard, knuckles stained with his and Vincent’s blood, he thrust upright and looked down at his brother who would surely regret he had not thrown up an arm to protect that beautiful face. It was a mess, and it would look worse once the bruises came into their own.

“Do it!” Vincent demanded, peering up at him through swelling lids. “End it. ’Tis no more than I deserve.”

“It is far better than you deserve,” Lucien barked and wrenched his tunic off over his head.

Behind, he heard Dorothea and Jervais gasp.

“This”—Lucien jabbed the scar on his face—“and this”—he jerked around to present his back to Vincent—“is no more than you deserve.”

Vincent groaned. “Dear God, I did not know!”

“Did not know!” Lucien swung back around.

“I tried not to think about it.”

“Well now you get to think about it, and I hope you ever shall.”

Wiping the back of a hand across his bloody mouth, Vincent raised his head. “After what I have done, you would let me live?”

“You may not have the backbone of a De Gautier,” Lucien rasped, “but you are still my mother’s son.”

Vincent flinched. “I am also our father’s son—and your brother.”

“That you will have to prove.”

Vincent pulled his battered body into a sitting position. “How?”

Lucien left the question unanswered. “What did Breville promise you for marriage to his daughter?”

“How do you know of that?”

“What did he promise you, Vincent? Falstaff?”

“Nay, Lucien! Falstaff and its immediate environs I—you still hold. He offered lasting peace.”

“Naught else? No dowry? No return of the property he stole?”

Slowly, Vincent gained his feet. “It was agreed that with the birth of a child made of Melissant and myself, he would gift all De Gautier properties back to me.”

“And Dewmoor Pass?”

“Holy rood, Lucien! Is it not enough that he will restore the lands? Have not both our families lost too much over that useless pass?”

“It is ours!” Fearing he might attack Vincent again, Lucien swung away. “I will have the lands and the pass back,” he said, looking from his mother’s distressed face to Jervais’s expectant face. “Be it by blood or guile, I will have them back.”

“You speak the same nonsense our father spoke,” Vincent protested. “You would rather spill blood than accept peace through marriage to a Breville.”

Slowly, Lucien came back around. “Certes, it is not the way of one who gambles away his family’s wealth, but it is the way of warriors. That is what
I
am.”

Vincent averted his gaze. “I know what it is to be at peace. Do you?”

Much to their father’s disappointment, Vincent had always been better at words than weapons, and as these had the potential to strike deep, Lucien once more gave him his back.

“What do you intend?” Jervais asked.

In the past, making war on the Brevilles had been the only means of retribution. Now, the loss of vassals and household knights hindered such a solution. Or did it?

Lucien raked a hand through his hair, fervently wished he had brought Alessandra to Falstaff first as she had pleaded. Judging by James’s reaction, she might have played a powerful role in restoring De Gautier lands—a useful pawn, the same as Sabine had made him.

“I must think on it,” he said, and felt fatigue settle deeper into his bones.

Jervais laid a hand on his shoulder. “I stand with you. Together, we will restore the De Gautier name.”

Lucien looked to his other brother. “Have you the stomach for it?” At Vincent’s hesitation, he muttered, “I thought not.”