The Longing (27 page)

“Aye,” she said, “I thought, mayhap, ’twas what you wanted, but I am acquainted with men’s needs, just as I am aware of the remorse you feel. This night, when I said I could ask no more of you than what you are doing for Judas, did you not question if I could, indeed, ask more?”

He did not answer.

“And then you sought to kiss me, to give me—one who was once besotted—more than what was asked of you.” Again, her throat tightened and, determined she would not cry again, she breathed deep. “Whether or not you realize it, Everard, you kissed me to ease your conscience. And I do not want that.”

“Susanna—”

She pulled her hands free of his. “I know where your heart belongs. Though, perhaps, here in the dark, you can tell yourself I am her when your arms are around me, there are too many hours of daylight in which you will see that I am simply Susanna. And I do not wish to be simply anything to anyone. Methinks there would be more ache in that than in being nothing.”

She pushed herself to standing and, as the cool night air tossed her hair and chemise about, said, “Providing you continue to apprise me of how Judas fares, you need not worry I shall venture into your solar again. Henceforth, no matter how discontented I am with the length and breadth of my confinement, I shall strive for contentment.”

She started to turn away and paused. She did not want to use his remorse for gain, but if she did not ask one thing of him, she feared she would fail at even the striving for contentment. “I hope you will not take measures to prevent me from coming to the roof at night, for it makes the days tolerable and I…” She shrugged. “I can breathe here.”

“I will grant you that,” he said solemnly.

She inclined her head, then crossed to the door and began her descent of the ladder.

When she was gone, Everard turned his gaze to the cloud-swept heavens and dragged his resistant thoughts back over what had passed between Susanna and him.

He had been deeply affected when she had tried to ease his conscience by assuring him she did not yet know a man as fully as a woman on her wedding night would know her husband. Though relieved to learn she had not had to sacrifice her virtue, he had sensed despair, as if she were resigned to a lonely life without husband and children. But then, it was realistic, for her betrothal had been broken and eleven years had passed that placed her beyond the usual marriageable age, especially for one who did not possess a dowry capable of securing a desirable marriage contract.

And he was responsible, the acknowledgment of which had surely caused him to imply she could ask more of him than helping Judas lay hold of Cheverel. But what had he been offering? And why had he denied that atonement was the reason for the kiss when it had to have been that?

Had to have been? It was not guilt that nearly made you taste her mouth several days past. Recall that you yet believed jealousy had caused her to run to Alan de Balliol.

Desire, then? Only a man’s needs as she herself had concluded? He did not think so, and yet what else—?

He shook his head. Questioning his motivations, words, and behavior was becoming too much of a habit. He knew who he was, what he wanted, why he wanted it, what he did not want, why he did not want it. And yet Susanna de Balliol wreaked havoc on his ordered world.

“For this, women are not allowed at Wulfen,” he muttered and gained his feet.

As he did so, he heard the soft jangle of the necklace as it landed upon the rooftop. Realizing that, as Susanna had emptied her sorrow within his arms, she must have dropped the pendant between them, he bent to retrieve it. It was then he remembered what else had been forgotten while he held her.

He searched his gaze over the rooftop, but though he expected the ruby’s appetite for light to quickly reveal its location, he caught no sparkle. All he found was the pale cloth in which Susanna had wrapped it. Strangely, though he knew he ought to be alarmed that the symbol of his love for Judith was missing, he felt something different. Relief?

Whatever it was, it was distant from what he had felt upon discovering Susanna had left the gem in his solar. That Judith had kept it upon her person while she carried Alan de Balliol’s child, while the two of them had moved toward reconciliation…

It had bothered him to learn that, and he had regretted that he had not allowed her to return the ruby the day of her wedding as she had surely foreseen it was best to do. Had he known it would ever be between her husband and her, a constant reminder of a love lost, would he have accepted it?

He feared not, for that foolish young man had not wanted to be forgotten.

Everard pushed a hand up over his head, felt the rasp Susanna’s fingers had felt, remembered that soon thereafter she had ended their kiss—as if Judith had slipped between them. And she had, much like the ruby had come between Alan de Balliol and her.

Leaving the gem to its fate, he strode forward and, shortly, halted outside Susanna’s chamber. Though he told himself his excuse for entering was only an excuse, he pushed the door inward and stepped into darkness.

In the absence of the sound of her breathing, he guessed she held her breath. “Fear not,” he said, “I but return your necklace.”

“I thank you,” she whispered.

He crossed to the chess table and set the pendant and chain in the center of the board, then returned to the doorway and looked over his shoulder at the shadowed bed. “I will make it better for you, Susanna,” he said. “This I vow.”

He stepped into the corridor and closed the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

She stared at the clothes. It could not portend well. Could it?

Loosening her tongue from the roof of her mouth, Susanna raised her gaze to Sir Rowan who held the bundle out to her. “Why?”

He smiled lightly. “Do not be anxious, Lass. This is a good thing.”

“I do not know how that can be—why Lord Wulfrith would wish me to dress as a man. Did he say where he is taking me?”

“As told, for a ride. You have been too long indoors.”

Merely a ride? Or the pretense of one in order to quietly remove her from Wulfen—and Judas? Not that she believed Everard would set her outside the walls to fend for herself, but that did not mean he had not decided to send her elsewhere, perhaps to his mother or one of his sisters as he had assured her last eve he would do if Judas’s claim to Cheverel was denied.

Sir Rowan stepped forward, set the clothes on the mattress, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “My lady, you will have fresh air, the sun upon your face, and companionship that, I am sure, is more compelling than mine. And mayhap you will even have occasion to see your nephew ere you return here.”

Judas. To see him among his peers and witness for herself that he flourished…

“You are certain I will return?”

“A ride, Lord Wulfrith said, not a journey that requires you to take your belongings with you. He but wishes you to don these garments so you may more easily pass unnoticed through the castle.”

It sounded true. And when Everard had returned her necklace, he had promised he would make things better for her. Had he meant this? That she would be allowed to leave her room? To mount a horse merely for the pleasure of it?

Feeling an uncertain thrill, she glanced at the bundle. “Very well. Lord Wulfrith will come for me?”

“Nay, I am to take you to him in the stables.”

“I will not be long.”

He withdrew and closed the door.

A quarter hour later, dressed in chausses, tunic, and boots, and having worked her hair into a single braid that fell down her back beneath the short mantle draped over her shoulders, Susanna stood at the center of the room.

It did not feel right to be dressed as a man, especially in chausses that settled too closely upon her legs, denying her the modesty and femininity afforded by skirts. In contrast, the tunic was loose, providing none of the support of a fitted bodice. As for the boots, they were thick and heavy, affording no grace with which to appear as if one glided across the floor as she had been taught a lady must do.

Loath to show herself to Sir Rowan, she tugged at the tunic and smoothed the chausses. As she was not beautiful like Judith, she required the trappings of a lady—bliaut, chemise, slippers, veil—to set her well apart from men. Now, not only did she lack those things, but she would be meeting Everard without benefit of the dark as there had been last eve.

A knock sounded. “My lady?”

She blew a breath up her face, stepped forward, and opened the door. “I am ready.” She averted her gaze so she would not see his dismay over her appearance.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose ’tis better than to flaunt that a lady remains within Wulfen’s walls.”

She looked up. “What say you?”

“Methinks it unlikely you will pass for a boy, even with the hood over your head.”

She glanced down her front. “I feel like a boy.”

“Feeling like and looking like are different, Lass.” He turned to the wall sconce and retrieved the torch.

Wondering what he saw that she did not, Susanna followed him down the steps.

She could not know if Everard had told Sir Rowan of her middle-of-the-night wanderings, for the knight made no mention of it as they negotiated the hidden passageway, and he spoke only to tell her to heed her footing.

When they came out from behind the tapestry into the solar, she was surprised by the sunlight streaming through the upper windows. All that had been in shadow or dimly lit by glowing embers on the two occasions she had ventured here was now clearly seen. The chamber was impressive, and not even the long table set around with chairs and the enormous postered bed where twice Everard had watched her trespass upon him, could diminish its size.

“Cover your head,” Sir Rowan said.

As he set the torch in a sconce near the curtains that separated the solar from the hall, Susanna drew the hood over her hair and pulled it forward to shadow her face.

Passing through the hall presented no difficulty, for there were few about. The inner bailey was the same. However, as evidenced by the din that rose above the walls and grew louder with each step, the outer bailey was a different matter.

Though she kept her head down as she followed Sir Rowan, she felt the curious regard of pages, squires, and knights and was relieved when, at last, they entered the stables.

Everard was within, standing before a silver-gray stallion and a white mare. He was not dressed as fine as he had been for the knighting ceremony, but his tunic and chausses were crisp and clean, and upon his belt was a sword and dagger—the Wulfrith dagger, its hilt still absent the ruby. When would he have the gem reset?

“Lady Susanna,” he said, “I am pleased you accepted my invitation to ride.”

Realizing she had halted just inside the doors, allowing Sir Rowan to advance without her, she raised her gaze to Everard’s. She hated that her face warmed when their eyes met, but no matter what had been behind his kiss, there was no forgetting it. But then, she had not wanted to, had told herself again and again to remember. And she would, even to the detriment of her heart.

“The clothes look to fit,” he said, then added, “somewhat.”

Suppressing the impulse to cross her arms over her chest, she glanced left and right and, seeing no others, pushed the hood off her head despite the inner voice that chastised her for giving in to vanity. “’Tis good to be outside, Lord Wulfrith. I thank you for the consideration.”

He inclined his head, then called over his shoulder, “Judas!”

She gasped, and again when her nephew stepped from a stall to the left, then she was hastening over the earthen floor, grudgingly grateful for the absence of skirts that would have hindered her stride.

Moments later, her arms were filled with her beloved boy.

“Aunt Sanna,” he protested, though not so vigorously she was prevailed upon to release him, and then his arms were around her as well.

“Judas mine,” she whispered into his hair. “I am beyond glad to see you.” She knew Everard might think it unseemly that she was so moved considering her night visits to the hall, but she could not help herself.

Too soon, Judas grew restless and pulled back.

Reluctantly, she allowed him to step out of her arms.

“Though I have been much occupied,” he said, “I have missed you, too.”

Suppressing the temptation to take back the step separating them and cup his face in her hands, she said, “You look well. I do not think I have ever seen so much color in your face.” And the dark smudges beneath his eyes were almost gone.

“Most of my time is spent out of doors.”

“Indeed. You are pleased with your training?”

He pressed his shoulders back. “I am becoming a man.”

She tried to turn the small sob that escaped her into a laugh, but it sounded so pitiful. Feeling her color rise again, she cleared her throat. “Of course you are. And how do you like those with whom you train?”

He shrugged. “Some I do not like, but others are not so bad. Forsooth, I think…”

“Aye?”

He tensed but, before she could grow alarmed, she noticed the corners of his mouth tugged as if he might smile. He leaned near. “I think I have a friend, Aunt Sanna.”

Susanna felt a ray of happiness. “Tell me.”

“He is older and, though I did not like him at all when we first came to Wulfen, we are getting along better.”

Her happiness wilted at the likelihood he spoke of the squire who had taunted him about his name and whom Everard had said now seemed of a mind to befriend him. “What is his name?”

“Squire Charles.”

The same, then. If not that Everard was surely watching and listening, Susanna would warn her nephew to be wary of the young man.

“I did not trust him when he first tried to befriend me,” he continued, “but he has defended me several times since my breathing attack, and on the day past, he told me he had an older sister who also suffered from such attacks.”

She blinked. “Oh?”

“Aye.” His brow furrowed. “She died.”