Heather Graham (20 page)

For some time he wallowed in the pain of Joanna’s death, but in the end, he forced himself to realize that part of his pain was guilt. He had determined again and again that they would wed, yet he had let the time pass. He had been glad to be her lover, yet he had not been eager to tie himself down. He had cared for her, and deeply. But not deeply enough.

In time, he forgave himself, just as he knew that she would have forgiven him. Indeed, she had understood him better than he had himself, all that time. For many months, he mourned Joanna in abstinence. But even after he had come to peace with himself and taken a number of lovers, he found that no one could still the restlessness within him. And one night, in the warm, cozy cottage of a goldsmith’s widowed daughter, he found himself staring into the fire that burned in her hearth and wondering what he was missing. The fire seemed to leap with a number of colors—blues, reds, and greens—and he frowned. To his amazement, he realized the green of the flame had reminded him of Danielle, of the extraordinary color of her eyes.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought of her before, or even often. He had accepted the king’s commands regarding their betrothal for two reasons, the first being that at that time, it simply hadn’t mattered to whom he had been betrothed, a witch or a warthog, since he could not marry Joanna. And secondly, he had cared for Danielle. He hadn’t quite understood the feeling, but all the time he had longed to switch her, he had admired her as well. In the horror and trauma of the plague, she had behaved with wisdom and compassion, and he could not forget burning with his fever, but knowing that she was by his side. He had agreed on the betrothal to give her something in return—the gift of her homeland. He had known the fierce craving to see his own. He had understood her need.

No matter where he had been, he had kept a tight enough rein on Aville, or so he thought. His main determination had been that she stir up no trouble for Edward, and from every report that reached him, she had been all but angelic, never defying the English rule in Gascon, but managing as well to entertain her Valois kin with great tact and diplomacy. He had written to her a few times, praying that she was well and happy. Her letters, in return, had prayed that he was well and enjoying the north. She was, of course, hoping that he would stay exactly where he was.

Oddly enough, it had been in that darkened room with the goldsmith’s widowed daughter that he had sat up suddenly, mindless of the young woman who half raised herself at his side, curious at what had started him so. It had just been the green flicker of blaze in the flame, the one that reminded him of Danielle’s eyes. He remembered thinking of the day when he’d spoken to her about Lenore, telling her that he had never seen such a beautiful woman …

Unless that might be the woman Danielle was destined to become. He hadn’t told her such a thing, of course. She had been far too aware of her own power as it was, swaying men with the beauty of her smile. She had, in fact, swayed him. Angered him, made him laugh. Her pride had been so tremendous, her stubborn streak long enough to rival the length of any road in England. Yet in certain things, her generosity had been almost as great.

In the goldsmith’s widowed daughter’s bed, Adrien suddenly longed to see Danielle.

“Adrien, me fine laird …”

Hearing the woman’s whisper in the darkness, he had turned and felt her touch, and found his release. The widow was an experienced lover, eager to please him, but he had felt again a sense of restlessness and disappointment. Something was missing. Something he had almost touched once.

Something he yearned to find again.

He thought about that now as he lay upon his rock, and the sheep and the goats—and life—slipped on by. He had been here a long time now. The plague that had killed Joanna had been over for five years. He had regained his strength and agility at combat, and he had spoken the old language, come close to his king, become the MacLachlan, head of his clan. But though Scotland and the border regions remained an area on constant alert, peace and prosperity flowed in these lands now. He could not ignore the fact that he was King Edward’s champion. He had been knighted by King Edward, and upon their return to England after the fall of Calais, Edward had honored him further by bringing him in as one of the twenty-six founding members of the Order of the Garter.

Upon his betrothal to Danielle, he had also received all the titles and wealth the king had promised. He had been created Earl of Glenwood, and he ranked among the wealthiest men in England and Scotland

He owed his service to Edward.

He was startled, particularly with this thought in mind, to blink, and see Sir George—still straight and tall in the saddle with his gray head bare, staring down at him from atop his great roan destrier. Adrien leapt up, smiling, glad to see the old knight. “Alas! Are the English at war again with the Scots? Do my eyes deceive me? What brings you so far north?”

“You, my rash young lad! Have you buried yourself so deeply among the rocks and the sheep that you have forgotten the world?”

“Mine is a world I rather like!” Adrien assured him. “But come, please, to my home, share my ale—and tell me about the world as you know it!”

Sir George had come with a company of men. Adrien left them among his own men-at-arms to find food and quarters for the night and brought Sir George into his home where they sat to dinner in the richly carved great hall. They talked idly at first; then, when they had finished their food, they sat before the fire, drinking, and George looked around and let out a long, deep sigh. “ ’Tis a fine place here, Adrien. You look young and well and rested. You’ve recovered power and good health, you look stronger than ever. These wild men up here have kept you in good form.”

“Don’t forget, I am one of these wild men, as you call them, and they taught me all about form when I was a boy,” Adrien reminded him.

Sir George smiled, nodding. Then he grew serious. “The king seeks your service, Adrien. He invades Normandy, and is up in arms against the French.”

“When is he not?”

“He wants Aville secured.”

Adrien started and leaned forward, frowning. “Aville
is
secure. Is there some new trouble?”

Sir George lifted his hands. “In Aville? You do have men there, right?”

“Aye. Daylin. Richard Huntington, Giles Reeves, more. They have reported nothing ill.”

“No ill. Aville is a very center of chivalry. Musicians, poets, and artists abound. English knights seek invitations to the countess’s hall—just as do the French—among them, the lady’s own Valois relations.”

“What danger can the girl be?”

“Girl?” Sir George said with amazement, then smiled. “You have been hiding away too long, my good young laird! The Lady Danielle is quite fully grown—well past marriageable age. Men across Europe speak of her beauty. Indeed, knights and nobles from all of France come to her door.”

Adrien was startled by the rush of anger that seized him. “What are you saying? That she schemes with the French?” he demanded curtly.

“Nay, she entertains her kin, as you have allowed her to do, as is courteous and proper. But as King Jean and our own Edward veer toward a serious clash, the situation grows dangerous. It’s time for you to enter my world, Adrien.”

Adrien sat back, disturbed by the feel of fire that rippled through his body. He was anxious to be there in Aville—immediately.

“We will ride with the dawn,” Adrien promised.

“Good. The Prince of Wales gathers his forces to sail for Bordeaux to put down a rebellion. He will be glad to discover that you have entered into the king’s service again. There is just one other matter,” Sir George said hesitantly.

“And that is?”

“There is a rumor that …”

“Pray, go on,” Adrien said, growing aggravated.

“There is one particular young nobleman in the house of Valois who is frequently in your lady’s court. There are those who believe that the two are anxious to find a way to set aside Danielle’s betrothal so that they may be man and wife themselves.”

It seemed as if something had exploded in his head. Sweet Jesu, but he had been a blind idiot. Perhaps it had been just, five years ago, to reward Danielle with her freedom—but to let this much time go by while he wallowed in self-pity had been sheer stupidity. Edward had trusted him. And he had allowed Danielle the freedom to court her French kin, and to become a danger to Edward himself.

“The betrothal will not be set aside!” he swore angrily. He stood, pacing to the fire to stare at the blaze. It snapped—red and gold, blue—and green in its depths. He didn’t quite understand his own anger when he realized it was directed at her. What had he expected from her? She had wanted freedom desperately, she had never claimed to be anything but
French.
He had once brought about the fall of Aville, and she had never forgotten, nor forgiven, that fact. It was not without some logic that she might decide she was in love with a nobleman from the house of Valois.

It was not without logic!

But he had given her the gift of freedom and Aville with one warning—not to betray him or King Edward.

Damnation, but he would kill any man who had so much as thought to touch her!

“So!” said Sir George, pleased. “If you are quite resolved to the marriage, perhaps we should send ahead—”

“No, Sir George, I think not. I am not a man anxious for much ceremony, nor am I interested in offering the lady—or her kin—warning that I am on my way. We have long been betrothed. A marriage service on the night of my arrival will suffice. As I wish to leave very early, Sir George, I will bid you good night now.”

He turned and left his friend in the hall, his temper simmering at fever pitch as he climbed the stairs to his chamber on the second floor. He entered into it, strode to the window, threw it open, and felt the brisk night wind on his face. Damn her! So time had gone by. Still! He had warned her not to betray him in Aville! By God, he had warned her!

It was time to take what was his.

It was an unbelievably beautiful day in early fall. The sun shone brilliantly, creating a vivid reflection on the water in the garden pond. Danielle sat upon a carved stone chair, idly drawing patterns in the water, laughing with delight as Simon de Valois, Comte Montejoie, strummed lightly upon the strings of a lute and tried valiantly to sing a love song. His voice was too deep, too hoarse for the tender ballad, and after a moment he laughed and then began to sing her a more bawdy song, one to which his voice seemed infinitely more suited.

It was nice out here today. She was certain that Edward’s English and Gascon knights who resided in her home were still near—watching from the archer’s slits inside the tower walls, probably—but she felt as if she had achieved a little bit of privacy, and such moments were sweet.

Not that she had ever cowered beneath any of the watchful eyes that always seemed to be upon her. She had ridden out where and when she pleased, and she had made every move she chose to make honestly and boldly.

Nothing that she had done made her in the least uneasy.

The world around her did.

There was trouble in the north. The Count of Armagnac was stirring up rebellion in lands Edward claimed as his own. The count was acting with the blessing of King Jean, who was determined to expel English dominance from all of France. Danielle was uneasily aware that her peaceful years here were coming to an end. The men in her own fortress would scurry to their different sides.

And she would be caught in the middle.

Not in the middle, she thought unhappily, for she had made a vow to her dying mother, and a death vow was sacred.

She had been back at Aville a long time now. She had grown here, matured here. She
ruled
here now, and she did so very well. She was proud to remember Lenore’s ways, and make every effort to be as just. Life had a wonderful, familiar pattern to it. Mondays were for accounting, Tuesdays she oversaw the training of men within the castle walls, Wednesdays she supervised the making of soap and candles and other necessities. Thursdays she held court for all complaints among her people, Fridays, she greeted travellers, encouraging the arrival of priests and pilgrims, jugglers, dancers, musicians, and all artisans. Saturdays she received a report on the supplies in the fortress and the county, and on Sunday, the Sabbath, she attended Mass in the chapel and ordered the people to observe God’s day of rest. There were fairs in between, holy days. And there were times when the people forgot for just a few hours how Christian they had become, and lifted maypoles, or danced around bonfires.

When she had first come home, she had dreaded the possibility that Adrien would arrive any day and seize control from her. But as the time had passed by, she had realized with a peculiarly heavy heart that—except for a terse message upon occasion—he had forgotten her. But then, of course, she had been very careful to see that there was no reason for him to find concern with Aville. The three guardians he had sent to watch out for her were absolutely charming—Daylin, she thought with a small smile, had become very loyal to her. Richard Huntington was just a year or so older than Daylin, with bright blue eyes, a body like an ox, and a willingness to be charmed. Giles Reeves was a stern old Scotsman, straight as an arrow, bald as a buzzard, and wary—but always ready to listen to reason. From the beginning, she had taken care to ask them about everything she wanted to do. She had just made sure that she managed to get the answers she desired. As Doctor Coutin remained with her and tensions seldom eased in the area where land could be instantly disputed between the English king and the French king—or the Pretender, as Edward insisted on calling Jean—she could usually explain things in such a manner that she managed to have her way. She was the countess; she didn’t accept commands, but allowed advice. Throughout Aville, people obeyed her and sought to please her, and she often thought that in the wretched tug-of-war between the kings that had devastated so much of the countryside, she must always try to keep her people from harm. She was responsible for their welfare.