Heather Graham (42 page)

“Aye, my love.”

She lowered her eyes, afraid for him to see the depths of her disappointment. London. Prince Edward and his troops would be in London. What of the peasant girl, Terese, always so willing to serve her husband? Her pride would not allow her to ask.

“So I am not to be trusted in London?” she inquired bitterly. “One would think the King of England would have enough men in London that I would not be such a danger. Edward said that I am not to come?”

Adrien stood, still staring out at the water. “Nay, my lady. I have said that you’re not to come.”

And he turned and walked away.

E
VENING WAS COMING—WITH
it, a fierce chill in the north.

Danielle drew her knees to her chest, feeling the breeze by the loch. She didn’t hate this place; she loved it. Loved it more, possibly, than any place she’d been before. Something about the colors of the land was especially beautiful to her. She loved the rock that jutted from the ground, the sweeping hills and plains, the crystal beauty of the loch as it stretched away into the sunset. She even liked the sound of the wolves howling at night. She just didn’t like Adrien leaving her. She was the French wife who had betrayed him and the king. She’d provided a continental title and property, a rich income from that property, and now, she was about to give him an heir. And he was leaving again.

She put her palms to her cheeks and felt how her flesh burned. She stood, staring out at the water. He would never believe in her again, not while the house of Valois ruled France.

The lock seemed incredibly tempting. She waded out into it again, glad of the cold water that seemed to sluice right through her. She walked deeper, and when she could, she began to swim, desperate to ease her rage and frustration, jealousy and fear. She plunged beneath the surface, freezing, shaking, yet feeling a strange freedom and elation in the act.

“Danielle!”

She surfaced to realize that she had come a long way from shore. Adrien, minus his boots, sword, and scabbard, was thrashing into the water, then coming after her, swimming hard. Alarmed by the sound of his voice, she swam toward the shore, only to be caught up by him and dragged back to the embankment.

“What is it—?”

“Have you gone daft, lost your senses, lass?” he demanded angrily.

She stood before him, seriously shaking then, for she was out of the water and goosebumps had arisen all over her skin.

“I was swimming, Adrien, nothing more. Am I not free to swim?”

“You were swimming?” he repeated, golden eyes narrowed.

“I went swimming. I’m not to go to London. Am I not to go into the water? You forgot to tell me there would be no swimming!”

She was startled when he suddenly clasped her to him, his fingers threading into the hair as he cradled her against his chest. “Swimming. My lady, it’s cold. And that water is far colder than any you knew in France. You’ll catch your death.”

He carried her into the manor house and to their bedroom, where he stood her before the fire, peeled her wet gown from her, and wrapped her in a warm wool blanket. He cast off his own damp tunic and breeches, then lifted her, and sat with her in a chair before the fire, just holding her. “You can’t risk illness,” he said, smoothing back her hair.

“Because of the bairn,” she murmured, using the Scottish inflection. “I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, or the baby.”

He didn’t say anything. She leaned against his chest, fighting the temptation to cry. She was going to miss this. She knew his chest so well. The muscle structure, the scars, everything about him. She stroked a finger down his cheek, seeing the way the fire reflected in his eyes. “Adrien … it was long ago now, but I can remember when my mother died—she was so fervent! She insisted that I acknowledge the king. She had been hurt so in war … and maybe she felt that in surrendering Aville, she had betrayed her own people. I made a vow to her. I carried it out.”

He nodded. “You made vows to me.”

“I didn’t break them.”

“That, my love, is certainly debatable.”

“But,” she said, “there is argument for my side, at least.”

He smiled, and stroked her hair. “There will always be argument with you.” He sighed after a moment. “It was all very strange … I knew your mother, you know.”

“Of course, I know. You caused Aville to fall. There’s a great deal I might continue to hold against you.”

He ignored the taunt. “She might have been a Valois and Edward’s enemy, but she liked the king. Honestly. I don’t know why she would tell you to fight foolishly against him.”

“Adrien?”

“What?”

She looked up at his face, his beloved face, and stroked his chin, wondering how she had ever hated him. “I love you,” she whispered.

He stared at her a long moment, gold eyes glittering a strange fire, yet giving nothing away. He caught her fingers and kissed them. “Do you?” he asked her softly. “Or are you simply such a beautiful seductress that you will have your way at any cost?”

She closed her eyes, furious that tears stung against her eyelids. She had confessed the truth, and gained nothing but more accusations. She started to shift against him, struggling to rise, but he held her closer. “Danielle, would that what you say is true! I cannot, will not, take you to court now. I want my child born here. I don’t want you traveling anymore, and God knows, I want you far from temptation.”

“I want you far from temptation as well!” she returned, still stiff and anxious to free herself. She might as well press against a brick wall. His arms did not relent.

“And what does that mean?”

“It means that I don’t like a woman’s lot in this world. You locked me in a castle while your mistress followed you off to war! And now you’ll go to London—”

She broke off because he was laughing. She slammed a palm against his shoulder and he caught her wrist. “Sorry, sorry, my love. But could this mean … if I kept a mistress, would you care?”

“I’ll not answer you, and you can stop this game. I tell you that I love you and you call me a liar. Am I to cast myself at your feet with even greater humiliation while you laugh and ride away to join …”

“To join whom?” he demanded, eyes sizzling.

“Edward!” she lied.

He sat back smiling, lifting a strand of her fire-dried hair, twirling it in his fingers. She snatched the lock back, and he smiled again. “I’m truly curious. With whom do you think I’ve dallied?”

“Leave me be, let me up—”

“Oh, my love, there are lots of things I mean to do with you tonight, but leaving you be and letting you up are not among them!”

“Damn you, Adrien—”

“Whom?” he demanded, holding her still, his eyes piercing into her.

“I don’t know! How would I know? The king’s court is full of women—”

“I’ve been at war.”

“Camp followers go to war.”

“Ah … so you accuse me of a whore here or there?”

“Oh! Could we not discuss—”

“Whom specifically?”

“The girl, Terese, who informed me she meant to do your bidding.”

He eased back in the chair, smiling broadly. Once again, she tried to leap up. Once again, she hadn’t a prayer of escaping him.

“I am sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t be enjoying this quite so much, but I’ve spent so much time in pure torture wondering what your next mischief might be.”

He caught her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “I never slept with Terese. She did follow the troops to battle, and I suppose she did let me know that she was available to serve me in any way. And she is a pretty young thing.”

“Adrien—”

“I’ve never betrayed my marriage vows, Danielle. Never. Though there were times I admit that I wondered why I didn’t.”

He stood, lifting her, setting her on her feet, drawing the blanket from her and allowing it to fall on the sheep’s wool rug before the fire. Darkness had fallen, and only the reds and golds of the flickering firelight bathed them both in their nudity. He slid his fingers into the hair at her nape, cradling her head, and kissed her. And when he was done with her lips, he kissed her shoulder blades and breasts. And as she began to tremble, he went down upon his knees, and his hands cupped the roundness of her belly, and he pressed his lips against her flesh, and his cheek against her, as if seeking a movement from his child. Her knees began to give, and she came down before him. His lips locked with hers once again, and kissing her, he eased her down before the flames. The fire seemed to dance upon their flesh. Each spot he caressed came alive, his kisses teased and tortured. Where flame danced, he touched and paused, then consumed her with his eyes, stroked again, kissed again. She began to writhe with wanting him until she could stand no more and she cried out his name. Yet when they were first sated, she felt a strange desperation, and it was she, not he, who began again. She could not make love tenderly enough, passionately enough … desperately enough. She wanted more and more. She wanted to keep him with her somehow, when he would be gone.

Sometime during the night, someone knocked to bring them supper. But they were both too absorbed. If they hungered, it was only for more of one another, for more intimate moments from which to create memories. Sometime, during the long hours before dawn, they slept on the lamb’s wool.

With the dawn breaking, Adrien opened his eyes. She lay curled upon his chest, hair entwined around him, fingers laid delicately upon his flesh. He closed his eyes again, feeling her, and he realized it was going to kill him to leave her.

Perhaps he had meant to do so in hopes that she would learn she could not fight him and the English forever. But he knew now that he didn’t want to bring her because he was afraid. He didn’t know what the situation at court was going to be, but King Jean was there, an honored prisoner, and her old friend Simon was there, as well as Paul de Valois, all of whom were being held for ransom. If there was trouble at all in London …

God help them all.

He opened his eyes and allowed himself long moments of staring at her. She was her mother’s daughter, beautiful beyond all measure, bold, thoughtful, caring, intelligent. She had said that she loved him …

He eased her from him, rose, and lifted her, laying her on their bed and covering her with the linen sheets and blanket. She barely stirred, and he smoothed her hair from her face, feeling a tightness within him for the passion they had shared, and a surge of protective tenderness as well. He loved her. He hadn’t told her so yet. There was still something that gnawed painfully at his heart, still the fear. Time would pass. His child would be born. And pray God, there would be more time together, away from the battles of the world.

He dressed quietly, and when he was ready, he came to her again. He kissed her forehead, then her lips, and she slept on, exhausted. And at last, he forced himself to leave.

Adrien first arrived at court just in time to be sent with an army to Wales, to smash a revolt near the border. It wasn’t a happy labor, for he felt a deep kinship with the Welsh. They fought for their identity often, as did the Scots. Edward, however, was making his presence firm; castles, the like of which had never been seen before, had been raised at English strongholds, and more were going up. The building was fascinating to watch, but Adrien was restless. He’d hoped to serve at court and return home. His child was due in late January or February, and he had hoped to be there for the event. As the months passed by, he was anxious as well, for it seemed that—now that he was to become a father—more and more of his friends were ready to tell him some dire story of misadventure, tales of infants born to die too soon, and stories of beautiful wives lost to childbirth.

When he finished fighting in Wales, there were more prisoners to be brought to the tower in London. Christmas passed as he returned to Edward’s court, and he chafed at not being home. Every minute away from his wife became torment, despite the fact that life around Edward was anything but mundane. Each night, the nobles at court attended great banquets to which the English king brought David Bruce, King of Scotland, Jean, King of France, nobles from Scotland, France, and Wales, and his own courtiers. David and Jean were both young rulers and interesting men, and despite the fact that they were prisoners, the occasions were intriguing and pleasant. Adrien was customarily seated near David, by virtue of them both being Scotsmen. They talked passionately about Scottish history, religion, the people, highlanders and lowlanders.

Along with the royal guests, though, came others. Simon, Danielle’s would-be lover, was among the French nobles often brought to banquets, as well as Paul de Valois, kin to Jean—and his wife. King Jean did not irk Adrien, nor, surprisingly, did Paul de Valois. However, Simon de Valois, Comte Montjoie, perhaps by virtue of the fact that Danielle might have thought herself in love with him once, irritated his temper beyond measure.

Simon was popular among his English captors, charming to the ladies of the English court who were not aware—nor did Simon admit—that he had been aligned with Count Armagnac, who had raped and pillaged without remorse. Simon was simply a prisoner of circumstance, in the English tower because he had fallen in love with the betrothed of another man. When he and Adrien met, they were cordial, as their positions and the court demanded. Adrien knew that Simon hated him with a vengeance. He felt the same.

It was rumored that Simon was having an affair with the young wife of an old noble, a situation which occurred frequently enough when girls were married to grandfathers.

The poor young woman was in love with him, a sad situation apparent every time she sat at her place down the long banqueting hall. She was the daughter of an old friend who had been killed years ago fighting the French, and it hurt Adrien to see her in such pain. At such times, he was glad that Danielle wasn’t with him. He wanted her nowhere near Simon, who seemed to watch him frequently as if he calculated some plot. Simon was an eloquent speaker. God only knew in what ways he might twist his situation if he were to speak with Danielle.

Simon lived in tower rooms separate from those of the King of France; King Edward didn’t mind being a charming host to his prisoner, but he’d be damned if he’d have them plotting together while beneath his wing. As to the situation, King Edward was in exceptional humor, being ‘host’ to his two most troublesome enemies. He was as gleeful as a boy. Adrien wanted to go home. Edward promised him he might do so if the Welsh could behave throughout the month.