Mary Reed McCall (12 page)

Before long, he acknowledged defeat. The bliss of dreamless, easy rest would not be his this night. He opened his eyes and exhaled. Elise made a little sound of contentment and, moving her head where it rested on his arm, she reached up and sleepily gripped his hand, clasping it to her chest as if it were a favored poppet.

Gray froze, barely suppressing a groan at the sensations shooting up from his palm and fingertips, cupped now over the soft warmth of her breast. Against every instinct he tried to pull his hand away, but she only nuzzled closer, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder and pulling his arm to her bosom more tightly. He held still in shocked silence a moment more. Then he tipped his head back with a soft, chuckling groan.

Nay, sleep would not be his this night.

With a murmured prayer for strength, he used his free arm to pull the coverlet secure around them; then he held his wife close, settling in for the long, quiet passing of the hours. He waited in the hush, watching the dark outside the window deepen to midnight, then to sapphire blue. He watched and waited, saw stars burst to life and wink out, fol
lowed the rising moon in all of her splendor until she dipped as slowly again beneath the curve of the horizon. And still he lay, soaking in the calm and peace he found cradling Elise in his arms.

He, Baron Grayson de Camville, man of action, war, and bloodshed, Champion Knight of King Henry III, scourge of every tournament and battlefield in England, lay very quiet and still in those hours before dawn, simply holding his wife and waiting…

Until pink clouds tinged the golden dome of the heavens, signaling the start of the new day.

When Catherine awoke, she felt the sun streaming in on her, warm and comforting. Something lingered in the back of her mind, leaving her strangely content. Without opening her eyes, she stretched until each joint of her arms, legs, fingers and toes rebelled in happy protest. And then she remembered.

Eyes snapping open, she looked around the chamber. By the sun’s strength she guessed it to be well past
terce
, which probably explained why the room was empty but for herself and a small mound of clothing perched on a chair near the fireplace. A jagged scrap of parchment rested atop the garments.

Scrambling from the bed, she padded to the chair. Beneath the note lay a pair of breeches, a shirt and tunic. The message scrawled on the vellum instructed her to don the garments for her weapon’s training this morn. She was to go to the clearing just
beyond the castle wall shortly before
sext
. It was signed simply, “Gray.”

Gray
.

His name echoed through Catherine’s mind, leaving a swirl of warmth in its wake. He’d been so kind, so patient last night. Why hadn’t he pressed his rights with her? She’d never known a man to show such restraint. It had been unusual enough when he’d forgone their joining on the night of their wedding, but this…this exceeded all bounds. He’d denied his own pleasure again, and for her sake. Because she hadn’t been able to stop herself from weeping in his arms.

She sat down hard in the chair, pulling to her chest the garments he’d left for her. She’d felt so confused last night. At first she’d been nervous—aye, and with the same worries she’d borne from her first night here. But before long, Gray’s kisses had made her feel…well she didn’t quite know how to describe it. She’d never felt so before. ’Twas different. All she’d ever known when Geoffrey kissed her was disgust and fear.

But with Gray silky warmth had swept through her, and she’d realized that she wanted more of the feeling. That it felt wonderful. And when he’d stroked his tongue so gently inside her mouth…

Liquid heat settled low in Catherine’s belly at the recollection. Her cheeks felt hot, and she jumped from the chair to pace across the chamber. Lord have mercy on her, but when Gray had kissed her like that, she’d almost forgotten the horrible
reason she’d agreed to wed him. She’d wanted to forget.

’Twas only when he’d brushed his fingers across her cheek that the spell had been broken. She hadn’t lied to him; his gentle touch had sent images of Eduard hammering into her thoughts. The pain and fear of those times had ripped through her in the darkness, unmerciful and harsh. Their onslaught had left her feeling exhausted, empty and aching.

But miraculously, Gray had seemed to understand. He’d comforted her, held her as she slept without complaint or guilt. She’d felt safe in his arms. And he’d asked for nothing in return. Nothing. He was like no man she’d ever known before.

But is he the kind of man you can trust with your secret? A man you can trust with your children’s lives?

The question taunted her. She put down the clothes and swallowed the nausea that rose in her throat. Dare she consider that possibility now, with Eduard gone from Ravenslock and Gray sure to be alone with her all during her weapon’s training?

Nay. ’Twas too soon to decide. She’d known him but two weeks.

Many men were capable of going to great lengths to hide their true and often foul natures. What if Gray was a man of that ilk? Aye, he’d been kind to her, but he was still a fierce warlord—the king’s best champion, a man capable of great brutality on the field. What if he secretly harbored a darkness that exceeded even Eduard’s hate? ’Twas possible, she knew. Many men had proved their baseness to her time and again.

She didn’t need to decide right away. There was still time. Eduard wouldn’t return to Ravenslock for another month at least, and perhaps once she knew more about Gray, ’twould be easier to know what to do. Until then, she’d trust nothing and no one.

She busied herself with getting ready for the day, trying to calm her mind. Except for old Heldred, the village weaver, who was the nearest thing to a friend that Catherine had known during her years at Faegerliegh Keep, there’d been no one to confide in, no one to believe in but herself, for as long as she could remember. And for now, at least, she resolved to be content to keep it so.

Pulling the shirt and tunic over her head, she sat and began to roll the unfamiliar breeches up over her knees. Compared to her usual layers of smock and kirtle, the fitted garments felt peculiar. But she managed to lace them up and take a few paces across the chamber.

She lifted her leg, kicking and swinging it back and forth. ’Twas an odd sensation. She supposed such free movement was necessary for learning to handle a sword, but she wasn’t sure that she liked it. The tightness of the breeches left her feeling almost…well, almost naked.

Catherine stood up straight and ran her hand down her leg, smoothing her palm over the fabric. Strange or not, ’twas part of her life now. Her training would commence today. And with it, she’d cross another new threshold.

Raising her arms, she combed her fingers through her unruly hair and began to plait it, thank
ing Jesu that time, at least, was still hers to command. For a little while, anyway. As for the rest? She’d leave it to God to help direct her to the path she should take in saving her children from Eduard’s evil…

And in coming to some lasting decision about the unusual, powerful man she was bound to, body and soul.

Gray almost sank to his knees when his wife came striding into the clearing beyond the castle’s outer wall just before noon. She’d done exactly as his message requested, he noted, his mouth going bone dry. He reached for his water-skin, making a mental note to take care that no one else saw her like this. Adding to the allure of her form-fitting garments, she’d pulled her hair into a single braid that hung down her back. It swung in provocative rhythm over the curve of her buttocks, enticing all sorts of thoughts into his imagination.

Swallowing hard, he cursed himself for his bright ideas. That they’d need to prolong consummating their union indefinitely had become more than apparent last night, when she’d dissolved into tears in their bed. He’d resolved himself to wait, planning to be patient and give her time to adjust. To let the destructive memories of Eduard fade a little.

But now, seeing her dressed in the garments he’d left for her, he suspected that maintaining his physical distance from her was going to be even more difficult than he’d anticipated.

He shifted the sword he’d chosen for her use
from his right hand to his left before balancing it against a tree stump. He’d trained more than his share of squires in the arts of war, but none of them had possessed a voluptuous shape and legs as long and graceful as a doe’s. His wife’s breeches encased every subtle curve, right to where his sight was halted by her tunic at the tops of her thighs.

Gray swallowed again, dragging his gaze from that spot and subduing the heated image that sprang into his mind, suddenly, of those long legs wrapped around his waist in the throes of passion. He looked in desperation to her face, seeing the uncertainty clear in her eyes. Her heightened color told him that she experienced uneasiness about her unorthodox clothing as well, though he doubted that her thoughts traveled the same, heated paths as his.

He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should begin.” Gesturing toward the sword, Gray indicated that she should take it up. He’d chosen it as one that would be best suited for her training, since it was light, and its hilt flowed in leaner lines, making it a better fit for a woman’s smaller hand.

As she approached, he added, “Once you’re used to the feel of the sword in your grip, we’ll master some of the common strokes and then practice the training skills used daily by the men.”

She nodded, lips tight, as she reached out to grasp the hilt. “’Tis heavy,” she murmured, almost to herself, as she balanced the handle’s weight in her palm, though still without lifting it.

“Aye, but a light blade compared to many. ’Tis
the size used most oft by a squire, though I warrant it feels more ponderous to you than it would to a well-muscled lad of sixteen. You’ll grow accustomed to it as the training brings strength to your arms.”

She glanced to Gray, hesitant.

“Go ahead,” he tried to reassure her. “’Twill take time, but you’ll learn to handle the blade. You must become one with your weapon before you can use it effectively. And you must learn to respect its power.” He nodded again. “Lift it up, that I may judge how best to proceed with your training.”

Feeling awkward and silly, Catherine hefted the sword with both hands, gripping it by the metal hilt.
By the Saints, but it was heavier than she guessed
! Somehow, she managed to lift it waist high. Staggering for balance, she tensed her arms, fighting to keep the blade aloft even as the tip began to veer earthward; she lurched forward as it slammed home, its point digging into the soft ground near her feet.

Her breath came out in a rush, and she felt more than saw Gray frown from his position behind her. But when she turned to catch his expression, he altered it to one of concentration and continued to watch her, arms crossed in front of his chest.

Heat flooded her face, and she looked back at her metal opponent. This was proving to be more difficult than she’d imagined. But Gray had told her that she was suited to this kind of training, even though she was female. She recalled the rush of pleasure
she’d felt at his words. It had been the only time in her life that she could remember feeling anything but shame about her unnatural size.

Catherine narrowed her eyes, glaring at the deadly weapon dangling from her grip. Gritting her teeth, she dragged it upward again, straining and holding her breath until she managed to balance it at chest height. It wobbled there for a moment or two, and she threw Gray a small grin of triumph. But then suddenly the blade shifted in her hand.

It crashed to earth again, and an exasperated cry burst from her. Defeat balled in her throat, and she gouged the dirt with the sword’s tip, wanting to fling the cursed weapon away as far as she could. Only the knowledge that her puny show of strength would undoubtedly embarrass her further stayed her hand.

Just as she was trying to muster enough energy to attempt hoisting it again, she realized that Gray had moved in behind her. Surprise blossomed to shock when she felt him press against her back to enfold her in his arms.

When he slid his hands down from her shoulders, placing them over hers where they gripped the hilt, jolts of sensation surged through her. Her eyes drifted shut of their own accord. She felt his palms, warm and hard, caressing her hands; she sensed his strength behind her, supporting her, protecting her, guiding her. And then he whispered in her ear…

“Save your anger for your enemies, wife. It serves no purpose to direct it at your weapon.”

Catherine’s eyes flew open, and she twisted to look at him, her mood sparking to ire again at the thinly veiled amusement in his damnably green gaze.

“Aye, well, my enemies will have a fine laugh at my fumbling, my lord. I’ll nary find means to lift this weapon, and they’ll lop my head off for me.”

She felt his entire body tighten—all but for his hands, which stroked the tops of hers more gently round the hilt. The warmth of his breath wafted soft against her cheek. “Nay, lady. By the time I finish with you, I warrant you’ll be able to keep even me at bay. ’Twill take hard work to get there, but we will make it happen together, I promise you.”

Together
. That word sent a strange thrill of longing coursing through Catherine, until it settled deep in her heart. But she had little time to nurture the feeling; he lifted her arms, her hands still gripped by his to her sword. Then he took a few practice strokes, and she felt the swish of the blade, reveled in the tantalizing play of his chest muscles along her back.

“Spread your legs wider.”

His soft command made a warm blossom of heat unfurl in her belly, and she was appalled for one sinking moment when she thought that he’d heard the catch in her breathing. He paused before continuing with the movements of their arms, but other than that he didn’t seem to have noticed. Yet it was all she could do to concentrate on the strokes and arcs he guided her through in the next minutes.

She couldn’t seem to focus. All she could feel was the warmth of his body behind hers, his arms cir
cling her with their strength, the powerful muscles of his legs pressed into the backs of her thighs from his own wide stance…the delicious sensation of his breath tickling her ear on each exhalation.