Claire Delacroix (18 page)

“I do not think your mother would be pleased to see you in such circumstance,” he observed. “As men, it is our task to protect ladies from such troubling sights.”

Yves removed his glove and extended his hand cautiously to the little boy. “Perhaps it would be best if we met her in the hall.”

Thomas looked at Yves’ hand, then met the knight’s gaze once more. Yves did not dare to breathe. What if the boy refused him?

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Thomas lowered his fist from his mouth as he considered the knight before him. Thomas rubbed his fist on his tunic, nibbled at his lip, then stepped forward and tentatively put his small hand in Yves’ own.

In winning a measure of this child’s trust, Yves felt relief so great as to be staggering. But he dared give no sign of his response.

He nodded briskly and was careful not to close his hand over Thomas’ lest he frighten the boy. He stood slowly, half-certain that his full height would make Thomas skittish again.

To Yves’ surprise, the boy held fast to his hand as he peered out into the dingy corridor. It was clear Thomas expected nothing good to greet him there.

Apparently reassured to find them alone, he looked to Yves, his expression expectant.

“Shall we go?” Yves asked.

Thomas nodded, though he lingered as close to Yves as a shadow. They stepped out of the cell, but had only gone half
a dozen steps down the lengthy corridor before Thomas stumbled on the uneven cobblestone floor.

Instinctively, Yves scooped up the boy, not knowing what manner of foul matter graced this floor. Too late, he feared that his quick move would betray all he had won.

Thomas stiffened for but a moment, then his tiny fist gripped Yves’ tabard with a confidence that made Yves want to smile. This buoyant feeling could only be due to the satisfaction of a task well completed, he told himself, though it was true he had never felt so jubilant before.

And Gabrielle would undoubtedly be even more pleased. Yves took the stairs three at a time, unable to bring Thomas to Gabrielle’s side quickly enough.

A
ragged cheer broke from the ranks within Perricault’s hall, and Gabrielle turned from the task of restoring order where mayhem had reigned. Her heart stopped at the sight of Yves de Sant-Roux carrying Thomas across the hall.

“Thomas!” she cried, and ran to meet them. Her son reached for her and Gabrielle swung the boy into her arms, delighted to have his weight against her once more. Thomas’ little arms locked around her neck and she hugged him tightly, knowing she could never make up for the time they had lost.

She glanced up in the act of planting a kiss on her son’s temple and found Yves’ amber gaze fixed upon her. His smile was for her alone, and Gabrielle’s heart lurched awkwardly in her chest.

Surely she was only delighted to find her son whole and hale? Though Gabrielle had to admit she was still shaken by the depth of her relief to find that this knight still drew breath. And she could no longer evade the truth. Chevalier Yves de Sant-Roux had not only kept his word to her, but had risked his own health to attack Perricault a second time. This man had acted contrary to all the men Gabrielle had ever known.

She took a deep breath and resolved to give the benefit of the doubt to this knight.

Surely she owed him no less.

“Chevalier, you have more than fulfilled my expectation,” Gabrielle said, knowing that all within the hall attended her words. Yves watched her with a steadfastness she found no less unsettling than she had at their first meeting.

Indeed, her very flesh seemed to be afire.

Gabrielle’s mouth went dry, but she lifted her chin and said the words she knew she was obliged to say. “I made you a pledge and my word is no less meaningful than yours.”

Yet again, Yves’ features were impassive, and Gabrielle wondered if she would ever be able to guess at his thoughts. Surely he found that she had some measure of appeal? She had thought he might kiss her in the corridor outside the solar just an hour past. Could she have erred?

Her pride pricked, Gabrielle turned to Thomas, who looked to the knight with open curiosity. “Thomas,” she said quietly, “I pledged to this knight that I would take him to husband if he was successful in this endeavor. That will make Yves de Sant-Roux your new papa, but if you object, we shall have to find another solution.”

To her surprise, the normally garrulous Thomas did not utter a word in response. The boy eyed the knight, who returned his regard unflinchingly.

“Have you any objections?” she prompted when he said nothing.

Thomas shook his head with unexpected resolve. Gabrielle blinked in astonishment, for Thomas had never been quick to take to strangers, and she had expected that tendency to have worsened given the experience he had just had.

But his agreement could not be mistaken. It could only be a good sign that he had taken to Yves so readily. But why did he not speak? It was most unlike Thomas to be at a loss for words. Gabrielle turned to the knight, her heart hammering with the boldness of her plan.

“The hall is already made ready for nuptials, Chevalier,” she said in what she hoped was her most practical voice. “I
would suggest that we make use of the preparations completed.”

No hint of surprise flickered through those amber eyes. Yves bowed and his fair hair gleamed like gold. Gabrielle was clutched by an unexpected urge to run her fingers through it, though even the thought shocked her with its playful intimacy.

“Whatsoever my lady desires,” Yves agreed smoothly.

Gabrielle heard the cook’s wife sigh with delight—she was a large woman and her heartfelt sighs were hard to miss—and felt her cheeks heat in self-consciousness.

“And may I be the first to raise my voice in congratulations,” declared Quinn de Sayerne, whom Gabrielle had not noted among the company until that very moment.

Only now she saw that his eyes were of the same uncommon amber shade as Yves’, though the men shared little other in their appearance beyond their height. He clapped Yves companionably on the shoulder, and to Gabrielle’s surprise, that knight tolerated the friendly gesture with a rare smile.

Did they know each other?

“That stag and peacock we brought will have greater usefulness than expected,” Quinn continued, then stepped forward and bowed low over Gabrielle’s hand. “I will be most delighted to raise a glass to the return of our neighbors,” he said.

“How does your wife fare?” Gabrielle asked, recalling her manners rather late.

Quinn smiled. “Well enough, though too close to the arrival of a fourth child to travel, much to her chagrin. She will also be pleased to hear that all has gone well this day, though disappointed, no doubt, to have missed a wedding.”

“Which will not take place if we continue to chatter,” Yves said amiably. He lifted a still-silent Thomas from Gabrielle’s arms and set the boy upon his feet, tucking Gabrielle’s hand into his elbow with a proprietariness that stole her breath away.

When he looked down into her eyes, Gabrielle was certain there was not enough air to be had in the entire hall. “Shall we?” he murmured, that familiar quirk of his firm lips making her heart beat a staccato rhythm.

“Of course,” Gabrielle agreed, hoping against hope that she sounded as cavalier as he.

The chapel of Perricault was as glorious to Yves’ eyes as the cathedral in the town outside the count’s own court. To be sure, it was smaller, but the stained glass painted the sunlight a thousand rich hues and the gold laid upon the altar gleamed like a treasure just unearthed. The altar cloth was of linen, its hem embellished in heavy lace that he guessed had been wrought by the fingers of the ladies of the house.

They halted outside the doors as was traditional, and the priest came to greet them there. Yves’ spirits soared in a most uncharacteristic fashion that he put down to the unusual circumstances.

After all, he had never wed before and the vow he was about to make to this woman—and she to him—was no small thing.

He turned to face Gabrielle before the open doors of the chapel. Her pupils were large and dark, her cheeks rosy, her gaze bright and full of the intellect he admired so deeply. She was to be his wife, he thought, and a lump rose in his throat.

“Now let him come who is to give away the bride,” intoned the priest.

No one stepped forward. A slight rustle stirred the gathering of staff and knights who had followed them to the chapel. Gabrielle and Yves exchanged a glance.

“Have you sire or brother here?” Yves whispered, but Gabrielle shook her head.

“My sire is dead and I had no brother.”

Yves looked to the priest, neither apparently having a quick solution to this difficulty. Surely such a detail could not bring matters to a halt?

To Yves’ relief, Quinn stepped forward and took Gabrielle’s hand in his own. She looked up at him in obvious confusion, but Quinn merely smiled.

“As brother of the groom, I suppose I shall have to suffice.”

Gabrielle’s frown deepened and she turned to Yves for an explanation, but the priest continued on as soon as he saw that the matter was resolved.

“And let him take her by the right hand,” he declared in a booming voice. Quinn did so. “And let him give her to the man as his lawful wife, with her hand covered if she is a maid, with her hand uncovered if she is a widow.”

Quinn dutifully passed her hand into the care of Yves. Yves admired anew the slender grace of her fingers, a delicacy that denied their strength.

The lady’s hands were as good an indication of her character as anything else about her, for she was simultaneously finely wrought and as strong as the best Toledo steel.

His bride.

Yves slid his mother’s ring from his own finger and slipped it onto the index finger of Gabrielle’s hand, wishing it was wrought of the finest gold instead of mere silver.

“In the name of the Father—” he moved it to her second finger “—and of the Son—” he moved it to her third finger “—and of the Holy Spirit.” Yves slipped the ring into place, then captured her hands within his own once more. He dared to look into her eyes and found a tenderness shining there that nearly stole his voice away.

“With this ring I thee wed,” he pledged. “With this silver I thee honor and with this dowry I thee endow.”

And when Lady Gabrielle smiled for him alone, Yves saw that the shadows were indeed banished from her lovely eyes. Knowing that she granted the credit for that to him was enough to fairly burst his heart.

The priest chose that moment to trace a cross on each of their foreheads with holy water, blessing both the couple and
their union. He urged the assembly into the chapel to celebrate the Mass.

Minstrels within, garbed in green and gold, raised their voices in song as the priest crossed the threshold, and censers of sweet incense were swung before the party. The tall candles on the altar were lit, their flames vying with the sunlight to illuminate the space. Quinn’s men and the people of Perricault jammed into the tiny jewel of a chapel, their faces wreathed in delighted smiles.

Yves led Gabrielle down the aisle, marveling that such a woman would be his wife, even if in name alone.

She leaned closer to him, her voice an excited whisper. “The ring! It is so lovely. I never noted it on your hand before.”

“It was my mother’s own,” Yves confided in an undertone. “Quinn had kept it for me.”

“Then he
is
your brother.”

Yves looked down into her curious eyes and smiled despite himself. “And one I would never have known, had it not been for my pledge to you.”

“I do not understand.”

“Sayerne was my home estate, Jerome de Sayerne my sire,” Yves explained hastily, taking the liberty of brushing a playful fingertip across the lady’s nose. “And you shall have all of the tale some other time, my lady. Simply know now that I thank you with all my heart for bringing Quinn and me face-to-face.”

Gabrielle smothered a delighted smile, her fingers toying with the ring’s unfamiliar weight. “Do not fear,” she whispered. “I shall take good care of your mother’s ring.”

“I know,” Yves managed to murmur just before they halted at the altar. The priest pivoted and lifted the Eucharist high above them, even as Yves marveled at the truth of that.

He
knew
his sole token of his dame was in good care. The priest’s words flowed over him unheard for a moment, as Yves considered the import of that.

He trusted this woman as he had never trusted another before. Already the change she made in a place was tangible at Perricault, despite the recent nature of Philip’s dispatch. It was evident as much in the faces of the people around them as the mood of the place itself.

Gabrielle made a home wherever she was, here just as at the camp in the woods, and she did so effortlessly. And she had invited him to stay here, in the first home Yves had ever known.

He could only hope that time granted him the opportunity to show the lady the fullness of his appreciation.

This wedding was a far cry from the solemnly formal nuptials Gabrielle had celebrated once before. As soon as she and Yves left the chapel, she was hugged and kissed by people from every side—many of them strangers, but all delighted with the outcome of affairs. She lost her footing more than once, despite Yves’ resolute hold on her elbow, and found herself laughing at the situation.

Laughter echoed all around her as the entire assembly lurched down the corridors and back to the main hall. Even Yves’ amber gaze twinkled in a most uncharacteristic fashion. And back in the hall, the very cellars of Perricault seemed to have been emptied for the event—and perhaps those of Trevaine, as well—for there was ale and wine flowing in quantity and in short order.

Toasts were called and salutes drunk; songs were sung and dances enjoyed by one and all, without regard to rank or association. The minstrels made a merry noise; the jongleurs outdid each other with their tumbling and their mimes. Gaston sat transfixed by their tales, his obligatory duties to Yves completely forgotten.

Yves shook his head, smiled and took the remission in stride.

Thomas’ eyes shone with excitement, though still he said nothing. He fairly bounced on the bench beside Gabrielle,
periodically clutching her sleeve to silently point out one jongleur or another.

Yves was nearly as quiet as her son, the warmth of his thigh brushing periodically against hers and making her tingle from head to toe. When she spoke to him, he inclined his head toward her, his warm gaze and slow smile giving Gabrielle the feeling that she was the only woman in the world.

Was she repeating her dame’s folly by wedding such a handsome man? The wine and the revelry combined to convince Gabrielle not to care. All was right in her world, and that for the first time in a long while, if not the first time ever.

She would savor the moment while she could.

Just when Gabrielle thought she could neither laugh nor drink anymore, a fanfare sounded and Perricault’s cook promenaded with his helpers from the kitchens, proudly bearing a stag. The assembly, being mostly men, raised their voices in a robust cheer and hailed the arrival of such quantities of food with a toast and a ribald song that made Gabrielle laugh aloud.

Then they clanged their goblets on the tables and bellowed as one.

“A kiss!” they roared. “A kiss between the bride and groom!”

Gabrielle’s face fell, her laughter silenced, and an awkward lump rose in her throat.

“Surely it is not such a dreadful thought,” Yves teased, his tone light but his eyes filled with concern.

“Of course not.” Gabrielle managed a pert smile, knowing the wine swimming in her veins would make it difficult for her to deny Yves’ appeal. Could she manage to keep from responding to his touch?

Did she even want to? The traitorous thought was more appealing than Gabrielle felt it should have been. She was too clever to fall prey to a man’s selfish games!

But Yves de Sant-Roux did not act like her father. As reluctant
as she might be to admit it, this knight had done nothing to feed her suspicions.

She had trusted Michel. Perhaps Gabrielle could similarly trust Yves. She looked to the knight in question, only to find his amber gaze steady upon her.