LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance (12 page)

What a strange life, Joslyn mulled. Glitteringly empty. Would it be the same at Ashlingford?

Longing for Rosemoor, she followed the queen and her attendants from the apartments.

“Let us have music!” King Edward called.

The tedious meal finished, as well as the ceremony whereby Liam had sworn fealty to the king as the new Baron of Thornemede, the minstrels in the galleries positioned their instruments and struck up a merry tune.

The commotion that followed was an opportunity Joslyn could not let pass. She rose from the bench she had occupied these hours and walked stiffly to the doors standing open to the left of the dais.

The man-at-arms who stood guard considered her closely before allowing her to pass.

But a few minutes, she promised herself as she crossed the balcony, then she would return to the hall with its suffocating throng and wearying noise.

Propping her forearms on the railing, she looked out across an expanse of lawn bordered by flowers. The view was lovely and so beautifully serene in contrast to the hall that it made her long for Rosemoor.

Breathing in the breeze that carried upon it the scent of rain, she began to lower her lids.

“You are thinking of slipping away again, my lady?”

Liam. As he had said few words to her throughout dinner, though they had shared a platter of viands, she was surprised he sought her out. And pleased, his brooding at meal when he was not subject to the attentions of the lady on his other side having discouraged her from asking about his ride to the monastery with her father and—above all—how her son fared.

Keeping her back to him, she said, “Would I dare leave the palace again?”

“I think it quite possible.”

Had she a chance of succeeding, but she did not. She looked over her shoulder at where he stood in the doorway, red hair darkened by the gray of waning day. “Sir Liam—” She snorted softly, smiled apologetically. “Rather,
Lord Fawke
, I love my son very much.”

“This I know.”

Against the backdrop of merriment in the hall, silence settled its wings until put to flight by the firm tread of boots that carried Liam to the railing.

His nearness unsettled her, even more so than when he had ignored her at table. But he ignored her no longer, green gaze fast upon her.

“Tell me of your ride to the monastery,” she invited.

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Though ’tis obvious that just as you learned of the beast I am at Maynard’s knee, so did your father, but he made an effort to be civil.”

Thinking it best not to comment on what they had been led to believe about Liam, she said, “My father is a good man.”

“I saw that. Most unfortunate, he is also a gambler and a drinker.”

She contained her startle. “He told you that?”

“He did not. But a good guess, aye?”

Lest her face reveal the effects of his words, she turned it forward and, pretending an interest in the view, said, “How fares my son?”

“Here is another guess”—he ignored her query—“by way of the vices Maynard and your father share, you became acquainted with my brother.”

Stricken by how deftly he circled her marriage, drawing ever near the truth of it, she brought her chin around and said more sharply than intended, “I would know how my son fares.”

The narrowing of his lids evidenced he preferred to pursue that other path, but he inclined his head. “Despite your inability to return this day, he seemed of good disposition—was cheered by his grandfather’s arrival and welcoming of mine.”
 

That last did not surprise considering how in awe Oliver had been of the warrior who had invited himself into her father’s home.

“Of course, Ivo was displeased that I was so well received.”

Neither did that surprise. “I pray he did not say anything untoward in my son’s presence.”

Liam’s eyebrows rose. “Do you pray the same of me, Lady Joslyn?”

She did not. And wondered over it.

When she did not respond, he said, “Ivo was Ivo. But worry not, your father was discreetly forceful when my uncle determined his priest’s vestments entitled him to speak without care for innocent ears.”

For which Humphrey Reynard could be forgiven much. “My father is protective of his grandson.”

“And for it, he has antagonized one who does not take kindly to being called to account for his words and actions.”

Joslyn did not imagine Father Ivo would. Unlike Father Paul and other men of God with whom she was acquainted, Maynard’s uncle was not easy to converse with and, thus, did not inspire her to seek his counsel. The man was too disagreeable, and it made her wonder what hurts and haunts had shaped him. Regardless, there was comfort in knowing Oliver was with her father and in good spirits, and that on the morrow she and her son would be reunited.

“I thank you for tidings of my son, Sir Liam. I wished to ask after him while we were at meal, but you were much occupied.”

“So I was.”

The lovely lady on the other side of him. She felt a twinge of something that had no cause to be jealousy—and was not, she told herself. Yet it was with difficulty she held his gaze against the temptation to look to the mouth that had known hers.

But as if he felt her struggle, a glimmer of what she feared was amusement brightened his green eyes.

Fumbling for something to avert his attention, she said, “You are a baron now.”

The glimmer disappeared, the green darkened, and as she berated herself for not fumbling about a bit more, he said gruffly, “That I am.”

Of Thornemede, not Ashlingford. And how she felt for him. With no proof he was legitimate born, ever he would be misbegotten to men of noble birth. While sitting beside him during the king’s award of Thornemede, she had heard murmurs of discontent among the nobility who wished the barony for themselves. Though Liam had shown no reaction, he could not have been oblivious to their resentment.

As if remembering it himself, emotions he had surely held near throughout the long meal tightened his face.

The moment Joslyn stepped close, she knew she once more erred, but she laid a hand on his arm.

Roses. Their scent moved through Liam, and something hard at the center of him began to soften. He struggled to firm it up, telling himself all he felt was fleshly need, but there was something about her.

He looked from the tenderness in her eyes to lips that parted. And bent his head.

“Liam?” she said with uncertainty.

Why uncertain? He focused on her mouth that was only a moment away—that should be forever distant from his.

Almighty, what possesses me?
he silently appealed.
I do not want my brother’s wife. And yet she draws me to her like forbidden fruit—a bite of which could ruin what remains of me.

As it could ruin her.

He drew back and, though more angry with himself than her, said, “There is an answer to your need, Lady, but I am not it.”

In her eyes, confusion flitted, hurt flickered, outrage flared. “I assure you, ’twas not need that made me do so foolish a thing! And were it, I would not turn to one such as you.”

No longer forbidden fruit. Now the serpent. “An Irishman believed to be misbegotten,” he growled. “A man beneath you, fit only for the heel of your slipper.”

She gasped. “You know that is not what I mean.”

“Do I?” When she did not answer, he said, “If not need, what?”

“I…”

“Pity?”

“Nay!”

“Then?”

She made a sound of disgust. “As bitter and angry as you are, it is beyond you to understand.”

What he understood was that either she herself did not know why she sought to return them to the intimacy they had shared in the alley, or she knew too well and was appalled.

“If ’tis beyond me, Lady Joslyn, that is because the only thing in all the world I truly desire—that entwines not only mind and body, but soul—has twice now been given to another.”

Her eyes widened, and though he knew what he spoke sounded a threat against her son, he did not care. “Sweet words. A kiss. A caress.” He shrugged. “All for the moment. Only the moment. Whereas Ashlingford…a lifetime.”

She stepped back.

Refusing to be bothered by the fear once more rising from her, he said, “God willing, that is not beyond
you
to understand—and remember.”

Her eyes brightened as if stars poured into them. But they were only tears. Only…

Cur!
he named himself and turned on his heel. “We will be missed,” he put over his shoulder. But as he neared the balcony’s threshold that was clear of the man-at-arms he had paid to wander elsewhere, the first drops of rain fell and he slapped a hand to the door’s frame to arrest his stride.

He drew a deep breath, and keeping his back to her said, “But for all that, I would have you know that never would I do your son harm. Never.”

Then he returned to the festivities. Throughout the remainder of that ordeal, he looked elsewhere when Joslyn came into view. It was enough to know that if he gazed near upon her and she upon him, whatever had made her draw close and touch him would no longer soften her regard.

Thus, over and again, Liam the man heard Sir Owen of the Wulfriths cite the lesson specific to the temper that had needed to be tamed out of Liam the boy.

Allow not wrath to command your actions, nor your words
.

CHAPTER TEN

Joslyn searched the crowd approaching the tower in hopes of catching sight of the one over whom she had lost much sleep. It being the first time she and Oliver were parted overnight, she had been restless on her wonderfully plump pallet, managing only snatches of sleep between the hours of worry. But soon mother and son would be reunited to begin a journey she feared boded ill for both of them.

She looked sidelong at Liam mounted on the horse alongside hers. For the dozenth time, she told herself that to her dying day she would be grateful he had not put his mouth upon hers at the palace—had instead revealed a single-mindedness that had once more made her fear for Oliver. However, though she did not doubt Ashlingford was all to him as he claimed, she was inclined to believe the last words he had spoken before leaving her—that never would he harm her son.

Inclined,
she reminded herself. Where Oliver was concerned, she could not be too careful.

Few words having passed between Liam and her in the quarter hour since they had departed the palace, she accepted they would henceforth avoid each other as much as possible, speak as little as was feasible, and live their lives as separately as was practical.

She returned her attention to the crowd and caught her breath when her gaze found Father Ivo and the knight Liam had left at the monastery to watch over Oliver. The two men were behind a procession of hay wains. And Humphrey Reynard followed, a wonder-struck Oliver in his arms.

Riding on the fore of his grandfather’s saddle, the little boy gaped at the magnificently walled tower.

Joslyn urged her mount forward and was relieved when Liam and his men did not follow and Father Ivo and the knight inclined their heads before continuing on. It would be difficult enough to bid her father farewell without having others hanging over her shoulder.

“Mama, does a giant live there?”

Joslyn had expected the first thing out of her son’s mouth would be accusation that she had not returned on the day past—at least, complaint over how afeared he had been. But it was as if her absence were an everyday occurrence. Had his grandfather’s arrival at the monastery comforted him sufficiently to temper his disquiet, or was this further evidence her baby was no longer a baby?

Though there was ache in that, she was thankful he appeared untouched by her unkept promise. “A giant?” She guided her palfrey alongside her father’s. “’Tis true a mighty man lives there, Oliver, but he is not quite a giant.”

“Nearly, Mama?” he pleaded for her to feed his childish imagination.

Arms aching for him, she reached to accept him from her father. “Very nearly,” she said as he came to her.

“An’ a dragon lives there too?”

She nodded against his golden head. “Most certainly.”

He pulled back, grasped the ties of her mantle, and drew them through his hands. “We go to Ashaford now like A-papa said?”

She smiled. “Aye, ’twill be a grand journey—an adventure. Are you excited?”

His lower jaw began to jut. “A-papa not going with us.”

She looked to her father. “But he will visit soon. Will you not, Father?”

“Of course I shall.” Though his tone was jovial, there was no cheer in his eyes. He would be lonely at Rosemoor. Lonelier than in all the years since his son had left.

Oliver eyed him. “Promise?”

Humphrey reached and tapped his nose. “Promise, my boy.”

Joslyn settled Oliver on the saddle before her. “We must be on our way. ’Tis a long ride to Ashlingford.”

Her father tried to blink away the moisture in his eyes. “I shall miss you, Jossie.”

She put a hand over his. “We shall miss you.”

He abandoned his attempt at a smile and laid his other hand over their two. “I have determined I will find your brother.”

Her heart lifted. Then some good would come of Oliver and her leaving Rosemoor. At last, he would loosen his pride and bring Richard home—providing her brother agreed. Though Humphrey Reynard was not a cruel man, he had begun imbibing heavily after the death of his beloved wife. The first two years, he had often drunk himself into fits of rage, but never had he turned his grieving on his daughter.

It was his son who had been given punishment not his due. Thus, Richard had taken to the road, jolting Humphrey out of his reckless behavior. Though he still drank more than was good for him, not since the night his son left had he so completely lost control.

“I am pleased, Father,” she said past a constricted throat.

“I hope I shall be. Richard is more stubborn than I.”

“You will send news when he is home again?”

“I shall.” He looked beyond her, and she followed his gaze to where Liam and his men had been joined by Father Ivo.

She started to withdraw her hand, but he clasped it tighter.