Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01] (37 page)

"Nearly all. I lost... the most important part of the dream. My wife. My home... possibly now, my son."

She watched him, waiting.

He looked keenly at her. "There. I have told you."

"If you have more to say, I will wait," she said. "I think I would wait here forever... if you needed that of me."

He almost smiled. She saw it in his eyes. "For a high-tempered woman, you are exceeding patient."

"I have learned to be patient. Patience," she said, "wears out stone."

He laughed then, an airy huff, and pushed his fingers through his hair. "Sit, then," he said, touching her shoulder, turning her. "Sit, and I will tell you more of my dreams."

Chapter 23

While Alainna chose a fine-edged chisel and resumed carving, Sebastien pulled up another stool and set it beside hers. He watched her delineate the palisade surrounding the tower with careful, lightly driven strokes. He leaned forward, listening to the thudding rhythm of the mallet, impressed by her precise movements and the deftness with which she brought out the image.

"You never cease to work, even on your wedding night," he commented, "such as it is."

"Not even then," she said. The candlelight flowed over her, turning her smooth skin and gleaming hair to warm amber. "Tell me, Sebastien," she said, and blew at the fine dust that collected on the limestone.

He let out a long breath. "Very well."

She smiled and picked up a small piece of gritty stone to rub at a rough edge in the design.

"About six years ago, when I was twenty-five and as yet unwed, and in knight service to the duke of Brittany, I married the daughter of a French count. She was young, and a pious and studious girl, more suited to the contemplative life than most. Her parents would not permit her to dedicate her life to God. She would have been better off if she had," he added bitterly. "She died in childbed, after two years of marriage. She was just nineteen."

Alainna folded her brow in wordless sympathy, her silence encouraging. He wanted to tell her more. She set down the sandstone that she had used to smooth the limestone, and he picked it up, its mass still warm from her hand, and turned it idly in his hand.

"We lived in her dowry castle in the Loire valley, which she was to inherit from her father. Now our son will inherit it."

"The castle belongs to you now, does it not?"

"Not to me. Her father had that specified in our nuptial contract. It was to go to her eldest child, to be held by her father. If there was no child, it was to return to her father. Her family did not approve of me. I was not worthy, in their eyes, to marry her."

"Then how did you come to marry her?"

"I won her in a tournament," he answered.

She blinked at him. "You won her?"

"Her father was drinking heavily one Twelfth Night, and announced to the company gathered at a feast hosted by the duke of Brittany that whoever won the joust the next day could have his youngest for a bride. I won. Her father was displeased by that, a bastard orphan, but he honored his word."

"Was she pleased?" Alainna asked.

He shrugged. "She seemed so."

"What was her name? Was she beautiful, and kind, and... deserving of you?"

He smiled at her eager questions, at her curiosity and the loyalty in her remark. He smiled, too, at the memories, poignant rather than hurtful as they once had been. "Her name was Heloise," he said. "She was lovely. Dark-haired and brown-eyed and a little plump, which she disliked—but it was part of her charm, part of her softness and warmth. She spent much of her time with books and in conversation with her priest, and she would have done well in a convent. But she was happier to wed me than her father's choice for her."

She held out her hand for the sandstone, and Sebastien leaned forward. "Where?" he asked. "Here?" He pointed to a rough edge, and she nodded. He rubbed at it with the stone, as she had done, and both leaned forward to blow the dust away.

"Did you love her?" she asked softly, and gave the chisel a few gentle taps with the mallet.

He hesitated. "I did. She was kind and pleasant. She brought me what I wanted most."

"A son."

"A son, and a home. I had never truly had a home before that, a family, a castle and estate. The years with her were the best of my life, in some ways."

She tapped the mallet again, a frown creasing her smooth, pale brow. "You were happy with her."

"I was happy, but she was not content. I was not a good husband to her."

Her eyes widened. "You would be the best of husbands," she said quickly, then lowered her eyelids. "No doubt you were content to be with her."

He looked away, still angry with himself, although years had passed. He had never spoken of the guilt he felt about Heloise's unhappiness. Somehow, though, admitting his feelings to Alainna seemed no more difficult than admitting them to himself.

"My ambition was very strong then," he told her. "I had a great hunger to win tournaments, to gain wealth and property, to have my name known and respected among lords and kings. And I did that. I achieved much in the few years before I married Heloise, and in the years afterward. But I did not know then what harm I did to her."

"I cannot believe that you would ever do her harm. You loved her." Her voice was subdued. She set down her tools and picked up a cloth to rub the surface of the stone, cleaning dust out of the carved crevices.

"I thought Heloise was content. We lived in a castle on a pretty bend of the river. She loved her garden, and her manuscripts—I brought her a new one each time I returned from a journey. Later she took great joy in little Conan. She had all that she could want." He looked away. "She told me, once, that she did not have me."

Alainna stilled her hands. "You were not there often, were you." He heard the understanding in her voice. "She was lonely. She loved you." Her whisper was passionate.

"I was away more than I was with her. I was not there when Conan was born, although I came as soon as I could. And I was not with her when she went to childbed again. Heloise and our daughter, born too soon, both died before I returned."

"Oh, Sebastien," Alainna murmured. She rested her fingers on his wrist, a feather-light touch that he felt to his soul. Silent, he turned his hand to cradle hers. Her fingers were coated with a fine, pale dust that left a powder on his skin.

"She was discontent," he said. "I did not realize it until it was too late. All that mattered to me was achieving my dreams." He paused. "I was wrong—prideful. And what I loved best, what I wanted most in my life, I lost."

Alainna sighed and turned to face him, leaning forward to take his other hand with hers. "Her discontent was not your doing," she said.

"I could have eased her loneliness, and I did not. And now I have done the same to my son without thinking. I left him in the care of others so that I could pursue what I thought he needed, and what I wanted. I was wrong. And I must return to Brittany." He closed his eyes briefly, desperation rising like a dark, heavy wave. "I must."

"I know." Her hands were quiet and smooth in his. "Your son needs you. He does not need a father with a noble title, or huge parcels of land wealth to his name, or even a name with great worth. He needs
you."

He sighed, ran his thumbs over her hands idly as he thought. "When I was a boy," he finally said, "I wanted to be lord of a castle, proud of my name and my demesne, proud of my children and the legacy I would leave them. My dreams became my ambitions. The more I gained, the more I hurt those I loved. Now I must give my son a true home in Brittany, on one of my properties there. I see no other way."

"Can you not?" She reached up and touched the scar that ran through his left eyebrow. Her fingertip smoothed gently along that path and lifted away. "Can you be blind, when your way is so plain?"

He narrowed his eyes. "It is not so plain as you think."

"Here is a home for him, Sebastien," she said, low and certain. "Here is family, and a castle someday—the one you will design. Here is what you want for Conan. And for yourself."

He stood and turned his back to her, hands at his waist, head lowered. Longing overwhelmed him, threatened to sweep away cool reason. He summoned sheer will to resist its force.

"And what is the price, if I do?" he asked gruffly. "My name? All that I am?"

She stood, too, her gown rustling over the stone-littered floor. "Your pride. That is all."

"Pride helped me to achieve what I wanted. Without it, I was naught but a nameless orphan raised by monks. When I came to England, I could have stayed a servant in the stables, but I became a knight. My pride fueled my ambition, and that was founded on my dreams. I cannot stay here and let all of that go. Surely you see that."

"Such pride gives power to dreams," she said. "But it can hinder them as well."

"I do what I must for my son's sake, not mine. But I cannot give up... what is myself."

"I would never ask that of you."

"Then what do you want of me?"

She watched him evenly. "Stay with me."

He gave a bitter laugh. "Leave with me."

She looked away. He knew her answer. He felt the tug and pull of the strong will and the duty that lay in conflict between them. He felt a deeper pull, too, like an undertow, stronger by far than what swept on the surface. The thread of that bond had spun out between them from the first moment he had seen her, and had glimpsed the fire and the purity in her soul.

Those bonds had woven more securely this evening with poetic vows spoken with earnest respect. He knew it was not so easy to walk away from that. How could he have believed that he could? He turned his head, shaking it in dismay.

"Sebastien
Ban,"
she said, "we need you here. This can be your home. Our legacy can be the one you bring your son."

"What of your Celtic warrior?" he asked.

"My kinfolk welcome you. This is what they want, this between us."

"And you?" he asked softly.

She stood in shadows, the reddish flicker of light moving over her face. "I want you to stay," she said quietly. "I did not want that before. Now... now all seems changed."

Her voice and pose were calm, but he sensed the passion and the strength beneath the words.

He paused, frowning, wondering if indeed he could stay here, if there was some way. Then a host of reasons why it could not be crowded into his mind, casting the fragile thought away. "I cannot," he said. "And you cannot come with me. We both feel our duty to others."

"We are alike, we," she said softly.

He nodded. And he suddenly knew now that he wanted to be with her more than he had wanted any goal, any dream. He held himself still, so that he would not whirl and pull her into his arms.

"If we cannot be together, and cannot agree, it may be wisest for us to end this marriage before it has begun," he said finally. "I cannot hurt you, as I hurt Heloise and Conan."

"You would hurt me in another way," she whispered.

He stood stone still, but for his aching, beating heart.

She drew a breath. "I cannot expect you to live here—as a Highland man, in a Highland way. I will not ask you again."

" When I leave," he said, "you and your kin are welcome to stay at the fortress. I will order the castle to be constructed on another site within Kinlochan's boundaries. I will appoint Robert or another to oversee it, and ask the king to keep a garrison of knights here to protect you." His voice echoed in the stone-filled chamber. He felt wooden.

The goals and duties that once had seemed honor-bound and firm no longer seemed right. At some point, his world had shifted, and he felt like a falling man seeking a hold, seeking balance.

She stepped past him, her arm brushing his, and went to the corner, smoothing the plaids on the stone slab. "I am grateful that you will allow my clan to stay." Her voice was cool.

Something broke in him. He moved toward her swiftly, took her arms, and gazed down at her through candlelight and shadows. "Do not be grateful to me," he said vehemently. "I am not the champion you want. I am not the one you deserve, you and your kin. You will find the one you need—for you, for all of them."