Sharon Schulze (23 page)

And at least, unlike the others who’d gone into Winterbrooke, she was free.

Padrig had the more difficult task on this journey, especially now that they’d left the road for this narrow goat path that wended through hillside and valley. ’Twas a beautiful place, rugged and untouched, but it was also very rough ground to climb over. He’d quite the task, to keep Arian moving without tumbling them all over a steep embankment. As long as he didn’t injure himself or the horse, he assured her, they’d be at l’Eau Clair in time for supper.

At least this time, they’d make it inside the keep.

She was glad they’d not made it inside the last time, however, though she could not help but feel great guilt over having escaped the others’ fate.

Other than her physical discomfort, and her unceasing worry for Rafe, Dickon and everyone trapped inside Winterbrooke, it had been a surprisingly wonderful day, for she’d had the chance to share the time with Padrig.

He was an interesting man, inherently kind and unfailingly good-natured, with a sometimes playful, sometimes biting sense of humor. All those aspects of him came into play as they shared their hopes and dreams.

As they considered the possibility they might be permitted to have a life together.

They
would
be together, she vowed. She did not know how or where, but the dreamer inside her had given way to a determined woman, a woman with a goal.

A realistic goal, unlike the vague girlish dreams she’d so recently abandoned.

There would be no nunnery for her, that was a certainty. She shook her head in disbelief. How she’d ever believed she could find her future there was beyond her ken.

These last few days had begun to show her the real Alys Delamare. In reality, the most detailed character she’d ever created—a true work of fiction—was the Lady Alys who had ridden away from l’Eau Clair.

Her time with Padrig had revealed to her her true self, a woman with flaws aplenty, but with a capacity for love—and for passion, she thought, smiling down at the man who inspired that passion—she’d never before realized was an integral part of her nature.

She stared out over the wild countryside, her heart light with hope for the future, but her spirit heavy as she considered the struggles ahead of them to gain the life they sought.

The inevitable conflict with her father, and perhaps Lord Henry as well, as she took control of her own fate.

The battle to see Padrig keep what he had, not to lose everything because of her.

Arian stopped suddenly, starling Alys from her reverie. Alys shifted in the saddle and began to slip sideways, but she caught hold of the mare’s mane and righted herself without jarring her right arm too badly.

“What is it?” she asked Padrig. He’d wrapped the reins round a stunted tree and was walking toward a
sharp drop-off at the edge of the steep hillside. Suddenly he turned and ran back to her, grinning.

“Padrig, what is it?” she demanded. He shook his head and didn’t answer. Instead he reached up and swept her easily from the saddle into his arms. Settling her more comfortably within his hold, he strode back to the overhang.

She couldn’t help but glance down at the sheer drop-off below. Fighting the urge to squeeze her eyes shut, she wrapped her arms tighter about his neck. “Now will you tell me?”

“Look,” he said, turning slightly so that she had an unimpeded view of the valley and the rolling hills beyond. “Do you see that bit of red there, to the left?”

It took a moment to find the slash of crimson in the vast sea of greenery spread out before them, but finally she spied it, not too far in the distance.

“’Tis the banner atop the keep at l’Eau Clair,” he said, his voice alight with excitement. He hefted her higher in his arms and kissed her. “Didn’t I tell you,
’m asgre?
We’ll be there in time for supper!”

W
ith Alys seated sideways before him, Padrig rode Arian at a brisk trot along the road leading to l’Eau Clair Keep. The village ahead lay quiet in the late-afternoon sun, but there was a group of lads playing in the fields alongside the road who caught sight of them. Recognizing Padrig, they raced over to greet him and began a noisy clamor as soon as they saw the dried blood spattered over his armor and Alys’s dress.

Padrig slowed Arian to a walk, but didn’t pause to answer their shouted questions. Several of the boys raced ahead of them to the keep, shrieking news of their arrival the entire way.

He shook his head and nudged Arian into a slow trot. “Lord Rannulf will think the Welsh have arrived at his gates,” he said, his lips quirked in a smile.

Alys glanced up at him and returned his smile, her expression more serene than he’d seen it in days. “’Tis only one Welshman and his lady,” she said. “How much of a danger can we be?”

He bent to nuzzle the soft, sensitive spot behind her
ear, savoring the warm scent of her. “You, milady,” he murmured, “are more dangerous than any adversary this Welshman has ever faced.”

Straightening in the saddle, he urged Arian beneath the portcullis and into the bailey, where a crowd had already begun to gather. They pressed close, their numbers and their noise making Arian sidle nervously.

Padrig, concentrating on calming the mare, realized the throng had abruptly gone quiet. He glanced toward the stairs leading from the great hall and saw Lady Gillian, Lord Rannulf hot on her heels, hurrying down to the bailey.

Padrig gave Alys’s hand a squeeze, then dismounted as the crowd parted to let their lord and lady through. Once they’d stopped before him, he bowed politely. “My lord. Lady Gillian.”

“What happened?” Lord Rannulf demanded, waving his hand to encompass Padrig, Alys and the mare.

Lady Gillian had already approached the horse and stood staring up at Alys. “Alys Delamare?” She reached out to Alys and took her hand. “Dear God, child, look at you. Are you hurt?”

“No, milady,” Alys said. “’Tis not Padrig’s blood, either.”

Lady Gillian turned on Padrig. “I don’t know what happened to you, nor who is responsible for it. But you get her off that horse and into the keep
at once!
We’ll talk inside.”

“Aye, milady,” Padrig said, already moving past Lady Gillian and lifting Alys from the saddle. He knew that tone of old. Despite his age and responsibilities, there were still times she spoke to him as though he were fourteen and newly come to her keep.

And he still jumped to obey her, as he always would.

Alys, her face gone so pale that every scratch and bruise that marred her skin stood out, slid into his arms and looped one hand behind his neck to hold on. She didn’t look frightened, he was glad to note. Perhaps her pallor was from exhaustion, or perhaps ’twas Lady Gillian’s commanding presence overwhelming her.

“Carry her to my solar,” Lady Gillian directed before turning away to order that food and hot water be brought there, as well.

Lord Rannulf threw his hands in the air and took a step toward the stairs. “My work here is done, I see.” He stopped and turned to Padrig. “You and I will talk directly, Sir Padrig, as soon as my lady is through with you.”

Padrig nodded. “Of course, milord.” He watched Lord Rannulf stride away, wishing he could follow him now, tell him everything and get it over with.

But clearly, he’d been dismissed for the moment. Padrig glanced up at the sky, already beginning to grow vibrant with the colors of sunset, and fought down his impatience. Though he might wish to leave for Winterbrooke at once, he knew they’d not be able to leave l’Eau Clair till morn, for there wasn’t enough of a moon to light their way.

They headed across the bailey and started up the stairs. Alys laid her head on Padrig’s shoulder, apparently not bothered by his disgustingly filthy hauberk. “I can walk, you know,” she whispered, her breath making her hair move against his neck, the innocent motion sending a chill down his spine. “You should put me down.”

“Nay, ’twill do me no harm to carry you,” he whispered back. He grinned. “I like to do it. Besides, would you have me face her displeasure?” He cast a brief
glance down at Lady Gillian, following several steps behind them up the stairs. “You know what she’s like when we don’t do what she asks.”

Alys grimaced. “Aye. She has the ability to make me feel guilty without a single harsh word passing her lips.” She turned her head to watch Lady Gillian, as well. “I don’t know how she does it, but it’s very effective.”

They passed through the great hall, where the servants were clearing away the tables and benches. “We missed supper,” she hissed.

“We were close,” he pointed out. “I’m sure Lady Gillian will feed us anyway.”

A hand closed about Padrig’s wrist, startling him. Lady Gillian kept hold of him and drew him to a stop. “What are you two whispering about?” she asked meditatively, her green eyes sharp as she looked from one to the other.

“Nothing, milady,” Padrig said, feeling as though everything he’d thought and done these last few days was written on his face for her to read. Dear God, he hoped not! “Alys was just saying how nice ’twill be to eat decent food again.”

“Indeed.” Her gaze still closely fixed upon them, Lady Gillian tightened her hold on his arm, then released him. “Bring
Lady
Alys along to my solar and you shall both eat as much as you’d like.” She slipped ahead of them, then paused to add, “I’m sure Lord Rannulf will wish to join us right away so you can talk.” She preceded them into the chamber and went to pour wine from the ewer always kept by the hearth.

“So she can listen, she means,” Alys said quietly to Padrig before they entered the room.

“She might as well listen.” He carried Alys to a low
bench and settled her upon it. “She’ll just ask him about it all later, anyway.” Leaning close, he chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’d do any different,” he teased, “for I won’t believe you.”

“I
was
trained in Lady Gillian’s household,” Alys pointed out with a smile.

Two maids entered carrying trays of food and drink, followed closely by Lord Rannulf. He took two goblets from his wife, presenting one to Alys with a courtly bow, then handing the other to Padrig. “Sit, man,” he ordered. “You look about ready to fall over.”

Padrig waited for Lady Gillian to sink gracefully into a cushioned chair by the fire before, suppressing a sigh, he eased down onto the bench beside Alys.

The maids lit the branches of candles placed round the room and set up a small table in front of the bench, placing the food within easy reach before leaving at a nod from their mistress.

“Now, Padrig, tell me what happened,” Lord Rannulf ordered. “And I mean
everything.
”

Lady Gillian shook her head and chided her husband for his impatience, but truthfully, Padrig just wanted to tell it all to Lord Rannulf, make plans to set things right by returning to Winterbrooke Manor, and discover what his own fate might be.

At least Lord Rannulf let them eat while Padrig related the tale, though he interrupted often with questions for both Padrig and Alys. Alys proved a useful ally, perceptive and direct in her observations.

Lady Gillian sat and observed as was her wont, occasionally offering an opinion or exclaiming over something Padrig or Alys said.

Padrig felt drained dry by the time Lord Rannulf was
through grilling them. His overlord was well versed in the realities inherent to living in the Marches and dealing with the constant Welsh incursions. He knew what questions to ask, his comments insightful.

Though he was not surprised to learn of the situation at Winterbrooke, he was outraged about it. He got up and left them briefly, shouting for a messenger to ride out at once with a missive apprising Lord Roger Delamare of the situation.

When he returned, they heard him outside the solar, giving orders for an armed troop to be ready to ride out at dawn.

That eased Padrig’s mind, though he hadn’t really doubted Lord Rannulf would go back for his men. It had been several days now since the attack. Each additional day that passed could be a matter of life or death for the injured.

To Padrig’s surprise, Lord Rannulf had been willing to do all his questioning with both his own lady and Alys present. Padrig wasn’t certain what to make of that fact. He’d hoped for a private conversation with Lord Rannulf, an opportunity to plead Alys’s case.

And his own, should he still be standing once Lord Rannulf heard everything he had to say.

They’d not yet brought up Alys’s situation. Padrig, uncertain how to do so, glanced at Alys to judge how she fared now that she’d eaten and had a moment to rest. He’d done his best to avoid looking her way. ’Twas necessary to be alert conversing with Lord Rannulf. Padrig had feared Alys’s presence alone would distract him, never mind that he wasn’t sure he could so much as look at her without revealing what he felt for her.

She appeared well, rather pale of face and colorfully
bruised in places, but she looked completely comfortable in the FitzCliffords’ company.

’Twas a bit of a surprise, for that hadn’t been the case in the past, from what he’d observed of her before they’d left l’Eau Clair.

Perhaps their recent experiences had shown her the strength she’d not realized she possessed.

Lord Rannulf got up, fetched the ewer and replenished their wine. Lady Gillian settled back in her chair, her hands gripping the carved arms, and smiled. “So, my dears. Having disposed of that business for now, shall we now get to the meat of the matter?” She accepted a goblet of wine from her husband, who moved to stand behind her chair. Taking a sip, she gazed at Alys over the rim of the cup. “Have you anything you’d like to tell me, Alys?”

Alys met Lady Gillian’s measuring gaze with a similar look of her own. In the past she’d never have dared to do so, but those days were long gone. “Milady?”

“The Alys Delamare sitting before me is not the same young woman who left this place less than a week ago.”

Impressed, Alys smiled. “You are correct, Lady Gillian.”

Lord Rannulf laid his hand on his wife’s shoulder. When she glanced up at him, he sent her a questioning look, one eyebrow raised. “My love, are you certain you want us—” he pointed to Padrig and then himself “—to stay for this conversation?”

“Padrig must definitely remain. You may leave if you wish, but I imagine we’ll have need of your counsel before long.”

He returned to his own chair and settled back in it as if preparing to watch a joust.

“I believe, Husband, that Lady Alys left here a kitten and returned a she-wolf.”

Alys felt her face heat, the sensation made worse when she noticed Padrig watching her, his lips curled in a curious smile. “If by that you mean I’ve grown a backbone and the will to use it, Lady Gillian, you are correct again.” Edgy, feeling as though Lady Gillian was toying with her, yet not willing to be rude by mentioning it, Alys rose stiffly to her feet and began to pace the width of the chamber.

She could feel their gazes upon her, a weight hanging over her head and about to fall. She hadn’t the patience to play this game.

So she would not. Drawing a deep breath, she paused in the middle of the room and faced Lady Gillian and Lord Rannulf. “What would you have me tell you, milady?” she asked, her tone more calm than she felt inside. “Do you want to know what changed? Or if Padrig is responsible?” She felt her body start to tremble, and fisted her hands at her sides in a futile attempt at composure. “I’ll not tell you, for ’tis no one’s business but our own.” She stepped to the window and gazed unseeing at the colorful sunset. “’Tis true I’m not the person I was a short time ago. That girl would never have had the mettle to fight for herself, or for anyone else.” Turning, she faced them again. “But this woman asks for your help, for myself and for Padrig. I ask you for sanctuary from my father. I—”

Noise and movement at the front of the bailey captured her attention. She leaned out the window and saw a troop of men carrying bright torches massed before the gates, a familiar banner set atop a high pole flickering in and out of sight in the wavering light.

Her stomach roiled as she glanced over her shoulder, her frantic gaze settling upon Padrig. “Dear God in heaven, ’tis my father.”

Padrig rose and crossed to the window, cursing as he peered down and saw the gates swing open. Turning, he caught Alys by the shoulders. “’Tis all right, sweeting,” he said to her, his voice low, urgent. “I’ll not let them take you from here, I promise you.”

His words gave her hope, the strength to gently take his hands from her shoulders and step out of his comforting hold.

She turned to the others, standing by the second window. “Milord, my lady.” She took a deep breath and continued, “I humbly ask you for sanctuary from my father, and from any prospective husband he might have brought with him.”

Lady Gillian held out her hand. “Alys, we’ll protect you from any threat, you know that.” She caught Alys’s hand in hers and held it tightly. “But from your own father?”

Alys eased her hand from the comfort of Lady’s Gillian’s grasp, straightened her spine and met the other woman’s sympathetic gaze. “This is not about some childish spat, milady. I ask you for my very life.”