Claire Delacroix (17 page)

She marched into the room, reaching to lift my cloak from my shoulders. “You are shrewish this day. Were you plagued by bad dreams?”

“No.”

“But you have been out of your chambers without an escort. Fergus will not be pleased to hear of it.”

“I donned the cloak because I was cold,” I lied, then looked her straight in the eye, fairly daring her to recount this bit of news to Fergus. “I am certain my husband would find such a morsel unworthy of his attention. He has many more compelling matters to attend these days than the temperature of his wife’s flesh.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she tightened her lips as if biting back a retort. She might have said nothing, but her gaze dropped to my robe and she gasped aloud.

I glanced down and saw that the pomegranate juice was still upon my hands. Additionally, there was an arching russet stain across my hip from wiping my hand there.

“I stumbled,” I lied. “It is nothing.”

“Let me wash your wound.”

“Do not trouble yourself. It is nothing, as I said.” I hastened to the pitcher of cold water still upon the floor from my morning wash and poured some of the water out into a bowl. The cursed juice would still not come from my hands.

I recalled belatedly that I had extinguished the brazier when I left this morn. It was cold in the chamber by this point, which probably fed Fiona’s skepticism that I had been here all this time.

The juice and rabbit blood in the wool was difficult to coax from the fibers. I could fairly taste Fiona’s curiosity but I was determined to share no secrets with her.

“Perhaps you should change, my lady, that I might wash your kirtle.”

“I can see to it, Fiona, though I thank you for your offer.” To my relief, the stain slowly loosened from the wool.

“If you stumbled in the solar and managed to injure yourself so badly, I am certain that my lord Fergus would wish to know of it,” she said slyly.

“Just as I am certain he would not wish to be troubled by such meager woes.” I granted her a cool glance. “Was there a reason that you sought me out, Fiona?”

“Of course, of course.” She bowed now, the rare show of respect which roused my own suspicion. “A missive came for you and the messenger insisted that it be delivered with all haste. In fact, he wished to see it into your hands himself, but I forbade such familiarity from a stranger.” She inclined her head, offering a bundle tied with a scarlet ribbon.

It was a package wrought of parchment, a cleverly folded square clearly intended to secure something within the missive itself. It had weight and an ungainly lump in its center. I turned it in my hands, mystified, especially as it was addressed to me.

Lady Evangeline of Inverfyre.

The script was bold and confident, as if the sender had no doubt of his right to pen a missive to me. I had no doubt that this confident stroke of ink had been wrought by a man. The folding roused further suspicions, as did the ribbon and the parchment itself. This was a fine package, one wrought with the uncommon flair of one who had traveled far and wide.

One who was accustomed to ensuring that his packages surrendered their secrets to the recipient’s eyes alone.

The hair upon my nape prickled and I fancied that I could feel the warmth of a certain man’s fingers still upon the parcel.

“Is it a missive from a lover, my lady?” Fiona teased, a gleam in her eye.

“Of course not!” I granted her my most confident smile. “I cannot imagine who would dispatch such a missive to me, or why.”

She eased closer. “Perhaps you should open it, for the answer might lie within.”

I knew that she wanted to know what was within the parcel - in truth, I was surprised that the seal upon it had not already been broken in some supposed accident. It was a testament to the folding of the parchment and the precise knotting of the ribbon that the parcel could not be opened without evidence being left of the deed. I yearned to open it in privacy.

I knew, however, that if I banished Fiona from my presence while I opened this, she would spread a fabricated tale of its contents, a tale that would better suit her than me.

Thus I smiled, and cut the ribbon with my knife. “Indeed, you speak the truth,” I said. I unfolded the parchment before her very eyes and only just snatched the jewel from the air before it fell to the floor.

Fiona gasped, but I simply stared at the marvel cradled in the palm of my hand. My blood ran cold for the second time this morn.

It was a crucifix, wrought of amber stones, each the size of my thumbnail and of almost identical hue. Seven of them formed the vertical axis. The third from the top was the juncture, two more added on either side of it to form the horizontal arms of the cross. The stones were set in silver, a garnet mounted on either side at each place amber met amber. The piece was a marvel, not because I had never seen the like, but because I knew it well.

It had been my mother’s most prized possession.

I would have known it anywhere. There could not be two. This crucifix had been my mother’s dowry from her own parents, a legacy of a long family tradition. As eldest daughter, the ornament had been promised to her and she had pledged in turn to continue the tradition.

I recalled with painful clarity the day that she had draped it over my own neck, letting me touch it as the sunlight danced in the amber.

“This will be your dowry, Evangeline,” my mother had whispered. “When a man claims your heart and your hand, you shall wear this for your wedding day.”

I blinked back unbidden tears and closed my fingers tightly over the ornament. For it had not graced my neck when I wed Fergus. By then, it was long gone. This gem had not been seen in Inverfyre for fifteen years.

My mother’s pride had been stolen, on the same night as my father’s pride, the
Titulus
, rode south in the saddlebag of a guest and his son.

No thief could have planned to steal the lifeblood of my parents so adeptly. The loss of this heirloom had removed the color from my mother’s cheeks, it had shaken her faith in my father’s ability to protect her, it had made her question the divine goodness of the deity to whom she prayed daily.

I released a shaking breath, only then realizing that I was shaking with anger at one man’s audacity.

“What a gift!” cooed Fiona.

“It is no gift to return what was the recipient’s own,” I said fiercely. When she glanced to me in surprise at my fervor, I glared back at her. It was shocking how readily Gawain could coax my blood to boil. “It is a taunt, no more than that.”

“But who…?”

Even my words shook, falling in tremors from my lips. “A thief and a scoundrel sent this to me, upon that you can rely.”

“But what of the missive itself?”

In my dismay, I had forgotten that there might be a message inscribed on the parchment as well. I unfurled it hastily, my eyes narrowing as I read the text.

Never let it be said that I failed to understand

the secret desire of a lady’s heart.

The shameless cur!

“Where is the messenger who brought this missive?” I crumbled the message in my fist, then stood as tall and frosty as a queen. I was outraged that I should be mocked like this, but I knew without sudden certainty that Gawain would have entrusted this errand to none.

Why else would the messenger have asked to deliver the missive himself? No, he had brought it himself, so confident was he that his deed would escape repercussion, so certain was he that he could outwit any soul who confronted him.

I intended to prove his lofty assessment of himself wrong.

Again.

“He takes a respite at the board.”

“Bring him to me.” I turned to change my garb, dismissing Fiona with a gesture, then thought better of it when she inhaled in disapproval.

“My lady, it would be most improper!”

I almost laughed. There was little improper that Gawain and I could do together that we had not already done, though Fiona knew nothing of that. Her objection, though, made me think better of my course. Knowing Gawain, he might have seized an opportunity to collect the
Titulus
, and this time, I had not been prepared for his presence.

I pivoted, giving her the appearance of a concession, and forced a thin smile. “How kind of you to remind me of such details. Truly, I forgot myself in my annoyance.”

“You know this piece?” Fiona eased closer, her expression revealing her lust for gossip.

“Clearly.” I strode past her, savoring her dissatisfaction with my reply. Her gaze flicked over me, her curiosity roused by my heated response.

I reminded myself of the cool decorum I should exhibit, but could not make enough haste to the hall even so. As irked as I was, I had to admit that something crackled to life within me at Gawain’s proximity. I felt vibrant as I had not of late. My thoughts were as clear as a spring lake, my reflexes alert, my body taut.

Indeed, I felt like a woman awakened from a long slumber, refreshed, invigorated, and prepared to whatever challenge this unpredictable man might cast my way.

* * *

If I had thought Gawain might don a disguise to visit the very abode he had robbed once successfully and once less so, I had called the matter wrong. Similarly, if I had expected him to cower in the shadows, I would have been disappointed. He sat, nay, he lounged, in Inverfyre’s hall, his back against the far wall, his gaze locked upon the stairs to the solar.

He dressed with the flair of one accustomed to fine garb: his tabard was of emerald silk and I had no doubt that the hue had been deliberately chosen to match the hue of his eyes. His chausses were black, his boots blacker still and even from a distance I could discern the fine quality of foreign leather.

His cloak was a marvel, wrought long and full, cut from wool so dark that it seemed he had the midnight sky thrown across his shoulders. The shade made his hair gleam brightest gold in contrast and showing his tanned skin to advantage. The cloak was lined with miniver, silken silvery pelts that looked thick and soft.

Gawain was as magnificent a man as I recalled. His shoulders were broad, his legs long, his languid ease not disguising his strength and vigor. His hands were elegant, long-fingered and tanned, and he held a cup of ale with easy grace. His golden hair gleamed in the light of the hall, a smile teased his firm lips, his eyes twinkled with barely contained amusement as he watched those around him.

Lust lit in my innards like a flame, startling me with its intensity. Three months of coupling dutifully with an old man had seemed an eternity. Three months of feeling heat kindle deep within me at just the memory of what we had done, three months of savoring the fading scent of Gawain’s flesh upon my linens had left me starving for more of his touch.

There is something glorious about a man with confidence, a man who can sit in the midst of his enemy’s lair with the ease of one with no concerns, a man indeed who has the audacity to invite himself fearlessly into the very core of that lair. It was not because Gawain was a fool - on the contrary, it was because he had a scheme, and doubtless a brilliantly conceived one.

Something had required that he be gone for three months. I was ridiculously pleased that he had returned to match wits with me - then annoyed with myself for forgetting the provocation of his taunting me with my mother’s own jewel.

Gawain paused in that moment, in the act of lifting a cup of ale to his lips, and his gaze found mine. We both froze. It seemed to me that a cord drew taut between us and the hall grew warmer from the heat of our locked gazes.

There was a glimmer in his eyes, one that resonated of the same vigor I felt in his presence, and the realization that we held this awareness in common brought a flush to my cheeks. My mouth went dry as I greedily sought changes in his appearance.

His hair had grown slightly, so slightly that none but a lover might note it, none but a lover might desire to brush it back from his collar. He had found sun wherever he had been, for his skin was more golden a hue that it had been when last we met.

Sicily was my immediate thought. Was it possible in so short a time? I thought of the fruits he had spoken of, of sweet juice on hot tongues, and licked my lips without any intent of doing so.

He arched a fair brow and sipped casually of his ale, his gaze still holding mine. He seemed to read my thoughts, unsurprised by my response to his presence and perhaps even bemused by it. I felt my pulse flicker in my throat. When he smiled, his expression was so knowing that I feared that even the slowest of wit in this hall would guess what had passed between us.

Then I was mortified that I could so forget my place. I was the Lady of Inverfyre. I was an heiress and a noblewoman and no ruffian from Sicily’s shores would make me lower myself to the conduct of a common whore! I forced myself to recall Gawain’s transgressions and added to his crimes that of embarrassing me before all the vassals in my hall.

Heart thumping, I marched down the stairs and crossed the hall with decisive strides. Even in this, I betrayed myself, more than one whisper beginning at my high color and my haste.