A Kiss in the Night (9 page)

John carried it directly beneath a lamp and stared down, then across to Linness. His gaze bounced back and forth between the two maybe four rimes before his gaze narrowed and he commented, "I've seen cottar brats draw more convincing portraits in the dirt."

Sudden fear struck Clair as the magnitude of the moment began to dawn on her "The Baroness Saint de Beaumaris was very upset by the whole. Alas! The poor painter had already departed by then and there was little we could do."

The way Lord Morgan stared! Linness half wondered if he would call her up for her trick and have his guard escort her to the block. His bright amber gaze stayed upon her, lifting only as he drained his cup and returning at once as he approached the bed. He stood over the bed, staring down at her until she looked away. She held perfectly still as it happened.

He reached a callused hand to her bosom, where it lingered, sliding over her cold skin until she gasped. Then he drew the gold chain from her neck and stared down at Paxton's ring. A slow smile curved on his lips. "So you wear my betrothal ring against your heart, milady." He laughed, "I am pleased. Very pleased."

Thoughts raced hard and fast through her head as she tried to make sense of his words. He slowly dropped the precious ring, his fingers sliding down her bodice to drop it back against a heart that hammered furiously.

He thought Paxton's ring was his betrothal ring. How could this be? For the love of Mary, what made Morgan think 'twas his ring?

Her frightened gray eyes darted anxiously over the darkening room as Lord Morgan and his steward withdrew to let her rest, the young page following, too. Only Clair remained, waiting a safe few seconds to speak, while the other servant was introducing herself and telling her how happy she was that she was alive.

Linness hardly heard her as she stared off into the fire that blazed and crackled. With sick horror, she saw that Paxton must have been the Lady Belinda's slayer. She tried to imagine his strong arm raised to slay a woman. She could not. It was not possible, she told herself over and over.

Her sight would have warned her…

It must have been his warring men!

Her tender feelings instantly seized upon this explanation. It was his warring men and not his hand that killed a defenseless lady! Then these butchers had given the ring to Paxton, who in turn had given it to her. Perhaps not even knowing the evil deed from whence it had come. She had to think so, or she'd lose the blessed light that surrounded her unborn child.

The necklace speared her with a tingling warmth. She lifted it up, staring at the jeweled charm.

"Does milady Belinda care for a late supper?"

Linness looked up and smiled at the servant. This heavenly phenomenon sent from Mary, this miracle, was complete. She was Lady Belinda, betrothed to Lord Morgan Gaillard of Chamberlain. Nothing could change that now. Nothing and no one. "Yes, I would." Boldly, with nary a doubt left, she said, "And please call me Linness. I prefer it to my Christian name."

The woman curtsied with a pleased smile and hurriedly rushed from the room. The door closed. She met Clair's bright blue eyes as the woman said, "So 'tis Lady Linness, is it? And who were ye before today?"

"Linness of Sauvage, a humble seer of the past and the future of common folks."

Clair drew back with her shock. ''A fortune-teller?!"

"Aye. And my sight tells me you are Clair of Montegrel, serving woman to the deceased Lady Belinda and her mother before her. You have buried one ... no, two husbands, I see. You are more clever than the next ten people, though few have noticed this. You have a large heart, are quick to laugh, and yes, like me, you are guided by your intuition. 'Twas what saved me. You looked into my soul and you could not condemn me."

Clair's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Ah, I wager ye say such to everyone. Or nearly such."

A bright twinkle came to Linness's eyes and her smile seemed to light up the room. "Oh no, Clair of Montegrel." Linness laughed, all the tension of the day released with sudden animation as she explained, "When I am telling a fortune and my sight fails me, which often happens, this is what I say, ‘You, sir, or Madame, have had a life mixed with tragedy and blessings.' They always gasp at the wonder of my powers. I say, 'I see you have many complaints about the trials of your day…' They proceed to list these complaints to me. Then I say, 'You do not count the joy and merriment in your life often enough. Right now I see you laughing and with your arms around... who is it? I can only see it is a good person, someone you love?' They tell me a name, again amazed by how well I have seen into their life. Lastly I add, 'I see that you have lost someone very dear to you ' They nod, of course, and say aye, my mother or my firstborn or my sister. Then I say she is calling to me from heaven, and asking me to ease the burden of your sorrows, for they are in bliss and know someday you will be joining them."

Her thin brows arched mischievously over her silver eyes. "And then, as they are bowing, as pleased as a well-fed pig, I add the very last."

"Oh? And what might that be?"

"Five ducats, please."

Clair threw her red head back and the two women laughed merrily before they reached for each other's arms. A warm friendship sprang between them, born first of necessity, but one that each sensed, even then, would grow with mutual love and regard. The feelings grew that first night as Linness began the telling of her remarkable, wholly unbelievable tale.

* * * *

The heated exchange began as soon as they shut the door on the lady's room. John, steps behind Morgan, said, "This changes everything. I will send out a scout to track down Paxton and tell him to return at once—"

Morgan reached the bottom step and, without turning around, he continued down the corridor to the great hall, his loud voice booming with these words, "You will do no such thing."

"What?" demanded John as he hurried to catch up to him.

"You heard me," he answered.

John rushed in front of him, wanting to see his nephew's face. The torchlight blazed behind Morgan, casting him in darkness and shadows, and yet John could see the determination set in the hard line of his lips. "But the lady is alive!"

"No thanks to my dear brother."

"Wait, Morgan. You banished Paxton because you assumed he had caused the Lady Belinda's death! Now we find, through miracle or fate, she is not only quite well but, by God's grace, she is safe within our very walls. He is absolved of this crime—"

"Is he?" His voice lowered dangerously. “Is it not still true that his famous appetite for whoring took him away from battle?"

John did not point out that Morgan's appetite was every bit as prodigious as Paxton's, more even, for Paxton tended to be extremely selective about his women, whereas Morgan, inexplicably, seemed only to require that the creature be of a low kind. The insult he could not bear, though, was the false hood that Paxton left the battle before it was through.

Through gritted teeth John said, "The battle was over, I say. And you know well Paxton would never leave his men to battle without him! Why, his battle skill is sung across the country. Even the king has called him to service for the Italian campaign. And thus you well know, Morgan!"

"Bravery," he scoffed. "Even if that is true and the battle over and every last rebel knight slain, my brave brother"—he drawled the word with scorn, granting John no measure—"then rode away from the search for my wife. My wife. Even if she is alive now, she might have died, and for no more reason than his prodigious lust! And you want me to forgive him? Nay." He shook his head. "I will not. Never, I say."

John followed Morgan into the great hall, desperate to make Morgan see reason. His personal affection aside, Paxton did not deserve banishment from all that he loved, all that they all loved. Gaillard. Paxton of all men did not deserve it.

Besides, they needed Paxton.

Morgan had always needed Paxton. If for nothing else than Paxton's superior skills with the harvesting of Gaillard's precious grapes. In these last few years his burgeoning knowledge had become invaluable. The first part of Paxton's life had been spent learning the warring arts, but the last years had been spent learning the art of wine making. And learn, he had. For Paxton foresaw the peace the king would bring to France at last, that soon the measure of a man would be what he could make of his land.

For three long years Paxton learned everything there was to know about wine making. He had consulted wineries across France and the Holy Roman Empire, forced Morgan to send scouts abroad in an effort to gather the newest methods and means of wine making, and all the while he read every word written on the subject. In the last few years he implemented the modern method for the cultivation of the soil and planting at Gaillard, brought innovative responses to the annual disasters, learned how to maximize the benefits of a heavy rainfall, built a better wine press, convinced Morgan to purchase the stronger English oak barrels, and most of all, selected the harvest date. Paxton had demonstrated uncanny luck in choosing the harvest date—an all-important day that made a sweet, potent wine or a bitter or tart one, a day that determined wealth or poverty.

Morgan's wealth or poverty.

The whole of the township's wealth had been built and maintained by Paxton's careful administration. He could probably still maintain this in Paxton's absence for a year or two, but he was well aware of his age. He could not work so hard forever. Besides, Gaillard would not grow without Paxton's skillful overseeing.

Morgan could never pick a fortuitous harvest date.

The older man sank onto the velvet-lined bench. The complexities of Morgan's and Paxton's love and hatred could fill a book as thick as the Scriptures. Their father had died when the boys were still in swaddling clothes and he always felt it might have been different had that great man lived. Their father might have been able to balance the scales that fate had tipped dramatically in Morgan's favor. For some reason Morgan had owned their good mother's regard. Since the day the twins had been born, she had showered all her motherly love and affection on Morgan. Occasionally she tossed leftover crumbs in Paxton's direction, but it was not enough. Everyone saw that it was not enough.

And everyone, including himself, had tried to make up for it. So in a curious way, Paxton had always had the love of the people. Morgan had everything else. And everything else was all of Gaillard.

As firstborn, Morgan inherited the richest land of the region, its ancient chateau, the wealth of its vineyards. Paxton had nothing more than his knighthood, and the position he had earned as wine steward. Yet, from their boyhood, it seemed the less Paxton got, the harder he worked. The hard work made him into the most skilled warrior in all of Southern France, perhaps beyond, and now a great master of wine making, a man, unlike his brother, of rare shining character, noble ideas, intelligence, and wit. Paxton was a man whom other men turned to in need, whether that need be a greater crop yield or an easy laugh. Paxton could always see the solution to problems long before others even saw the problem. So Paxton had outshined Morgan. Therein lay their troubles.

Not that Morgan was a bad man; he wasn't

He just wasn't as good.

"Morgan." John broke the silence, drawing his nephew's gaze to him. "Despite everything that has happened between you and Paxton, he is your brother. I cannot help but believe that beneath it all you still love him, that you always will."

Morgan did not deny it. He turned to the fire in the hearth, and for a long moment, the comment kept him silent. At last he confessed in a softened tone, "Love? Ah, perhaps, Uncle. Perhaps. Yet these brotherly sentiments for Paxton have always come with such a sharp sting." He shook his head "Grand as it is, Gaillard is not big enough for the both of us. It's never been big enough for the both of us—I do not care how much he has mastered our family's vineyard." His amber eyes found his uncle as he added, "Has it occurred to you that I have done my brother a favor by banishing him from his home? Aye! He has spent his whole life fighting for something he cannot have. And I have finally set him free."

Passionately he continued, "Gaillard is mine by right of my birth. And it will be passed to my sons—by God's grace, that lady will give me a son." The thought pleased him and he suddenly laughed, "And while it would give me enormous pleasure to see my brother look upon my wife and watch his eyes blaze with envy, I do, in fact, keep enough brotherly affection to want to spare him that final straw."

As they stood by the table, Morgan picked up a carafe and splashed wine into his cup, raising it with a toast. "To you, my dear Paxton, wherever fate may lead you. May you find fortune and happiness, may you live long and well. And by God's grace, may I never hear your name again. . ."

Yet he did hear his brother's name on the eve of his wedding day two weeks later, and from the most unexpected source. After his lady's slain knights had been found and carted in coffins to be buried in the Gaillard graveyard, Belinda—who liked to be called simply Linness—had begged for time to prepare a new wardrobe Though it was hell waiting for the ceremony, he had relented. The wait was almost over and the idea put him in a fine mood as he made his way up the stairs and to his empty chambers. He waved away Franz, his squire, and began to undress himself.

She watched from the darkened alcove.