Christopher sighed and raked his hand through his hair. It had been years since he had given any thought to his rash words. He had been far too busy seeing to the tangle that was his own life. He’d had holdings to see to, a short, disastrous marriage to endure, then months to spend living in his own private hell as he recovered from the sabotage which had cost him so dearly.
Then had come the fateful visit from one of William’s guardsmen. Edward had arrived half a year ago and given Christopher the tale of William’s death—and the sounds of beatings that echoed in the stillness of the night at Warewick.
And of Gillian’s attempts at pretending she wasn’t the recipient of those beatings.
Christopher forced himself to release the arms of his chair, then flexed his fingers. It wasn’t wise to let the tidings affect him so deeply. What went on at Warewick wasn’t anything that didn’t happen frequently in the whole of England. Christopher himself had endured several choice beatings at his father’s hands.
But he had given William his word and William had called him on the bargain. His damnable honor had risen up like fat to the top of soup and he had choked on it. He had fought for air for almost half a year after William’s death before giving in and sending his messenger to Warewick with his offer.
He had known he wouldn’t be refused. As far as he knew there wasn’t another man in the realm who would take Gillian’s dowry, something he had no use for. Her gold could be spent in one trip to market. Braedhalle, her dower estate, was the most pitiful, overworked, barren bit of soil he had ever seen. Add that to her lack of beauty and it was a wonder Warewick hadn’t packed her off to a convent years ago. Nay, not even the Church would have taken her. In their eyes, she had no value at all.
Christopher rose with a curse. As if he cared what anyone thought of the girl! The Church likely had reason for not wanting her. What would they want with a child who possessed neither beauty nor wealth?
He strode across the hall, wanting nothing more than to escape his thoughts. He had done the honorable thing and sent for her. He would wed her and give her the protection of his name. His word was fulfilled and now he could turn his mind to other things.
Without warning, he smacked his shin smartly against the end of a bench and gasped out a curse.
“Who put this here?” he bellowed.
“I beg your pardon, milord,” a timid female voice answered. “I moved it to clean the hearth and forgot to move it back.”
“Don’t forget again,” Christopher snarled and marched across the rushes. He marched carefully, though. His shin smarted worse than his pride, and that was smarting mightily at the moment.
He stepped outside the hall and a chill breeze caught him full in the face. It cleared his head far better than Jason’s brew had. He moved over to the bench that sat near the door to the great hall, probing for it unobtrusively with his uninjured leg. Upon successfully finding it, he lowered himself with a sigh. The wall at his back was cold and the early spring sun a poor warmth; but he didn’t care. He fixed a grim look to his face, one that was guaranteed to insure privacy. And with his precious privacy, he made a list of what he would not do.
He wouldn’t let Gillian disrupt his life. He would bed her a time or two, get her with child, then never speak to her again. That was the only way to assure she didn’t steal his heart, then rend it in twain.
He would also hide his flaw from her. She, like most of his household, would never know just how badly he had been injured.
“My lord?”
Christopher sighed at the interruption. “Aye, Jason.”
“I’ve the missive you dictated to my sire, informing him of your coming nuptials. It requires your signature.”
“Bloody Hell, I’m occupied now.” Saints above, would this farce of a marriage never cease to disturb his peace?
“It will take but a moment, my lord. I’ve everything needful on this board: ink, a quill, and wax. And you wear the proper ring.”
Christopher felt the indentations on the ring he wore. “I knew that, Jason.”
“Of course, my lord. ’Twas merely a tactic to convince you of the ease of the task.”
“I don’t want things that are easy, damn you!”
There was silence.
“A poor choice of words,” Jason said softly. “I only meant that it would be quick and painless, not that it was simple.”
“Aye, I know,” Christopher said, with a deep sigh. “My growls are just growls, lad, and not meant as censure. Here, give me what I need.”
Jason set the small board on Christopher’s lap and put the parchment atop it.
“At the bottom, my lord. On your right hand.”
“In the usual place,” Christopher observed dryly.
“You like things to be orderly. I try to humor you as I may.”
Christopher felt a smile tug at his mouth. If there was anyone who could charm him out of his foul mood, it was his squire.
“Such cheek from such a wee lad,” he said. “Perhaps we’ll wrestle after I finish this great, imposing task, and I will repay you for using me as sport.”
“I would relish the challenge, my lord.”
Christopher felt for the edges of the missive, then lifted the quill.
“A bit more to the left,” Jason murmured, so softly that Christopher barely heard him, “and up. Aye, that’s it.”
Christopher signed his name carefully, then lifted the quill. It was taken out of his hand and he heard Jason brush sand across the parchment. It was rolled, then Jason swore.
“Bloody Hell,” he muttered, with the same inflection Christopher always used. “The wax never goes where I want it to.” He was silent for a moment or two more as he worked with the missive. “Here, now, my lord. ’Tis ready.” He took Christopher’s hand and guided it to the parchment. “Hold but for a moment. Aye, well done. With your leave, I’ll deliver this to the messenger, then return for your sport.”
Christopher nodded and waved the lad away, unable to speak. Life was a bitter taste in his mouth. He couldn’t swallow past it, couldn’t spit it out, couldn’t drink to cover it up. As with his affliction, life was something he couldn’t escape.
Saints, what would Gillian think when she learned?
three
GILLIAN HAD BEEN CURIOUS AT FIRST, WHEN SHE COULD see only a speck in the distance that Colin assured her was indeed Blackmour. She had envisioned a humble place, likely smaller than her own home, and rather more primitive. After all, it was rumored to be only a few days’ ride from the Scottish border.
But now, as she sat but a few hundred paces from the outer walls, she realized just how wrong she had been.
Blackmour was enormous. It was a grim fortress that sat so far on the edge of the land that she fancied it ran the tremendous risk of slipping over the cliff and plunging into the sea—though how anything so large could have ever been moved she didn’t know.
The first line of defense was a tall, smooth wall topped with unfriendly arrow slits. She watched the weak sunlight glint off the helmets of the guards who walked the walls, guards whose eyes searched out the landscape for any who might attempt entrance without permission. The drawbridge yawned open as she approached and a heavy portcullis was raised, its steel-tipped spikes hanging threateningly over the pathway through the tunnel.
She reined in her mount and simply stared at what was going to become her home. How would she ever survive a lifetime in this gloomy place? From what she could see of it, the inner wall was no less tall than the outer and it boasted not only arrow slits but fixtures for the dropping of boiling oil onto whatever army dared topple the outer walls. Gillian suspected no foe ever saw the inner walls, much less stood underneath them to be boiled alive.
“Lady Gillian?”
She blinked, startled from her contemplation of her new prison, and looked at Colin. “Aye?”
“We’ll stop again in the inner bailey and you’ll look to your heart’s content. I’ll not linger outside th
e walls.”
Gillian nodded and followed his horse up the final distance to the outer bailey wall. Her eyes adjusted readily to the darkness of the long tunnel under the wall and she suddenly found a strange comfort in knowing that the outer defenses were so thick. If nothing else, Christopher of Blackmour would keep her safe.
But that also meant that if no one could get in, she wouldn’t be able to get out. Merciful saints above!
She only realized she had jerked on her reins when her horse reared.
“Whoa!” Colin exclaimed.
Without warning, he scooped Gillian off her saddle with one arm and set her down sideways behind him.
“Peter, see to her mount. Do not look down, lady. I’ll not have you send us both into the abyss with your screaming.”
Abyss? She looked down to her left and stifled a cry. They were nigh onto crossing the bridge that spanned the short distance from the whole of England and what she could see was the lamentably small island that served as Blackmour’s foundations. She clutched the back of Colin’s cloak as his surefooted mount trotted over the heavy stone bridge. In truth, the span was large and sturdy, but that knowledge didn’t convince her to loosen her grip. The slightest misstep would have plunged them over into the sea.
“You never said it was perched out here on nothing,” she ventured, clinging to fistfuls of Colin’s cloak and praying she could keep her tenuous seat atop the horse’s rump.
“A fine aerie for the Dragon of Blackmour, is it not?”
She could have sworn he was laughing, for his voice quavered just the slightest bit. She, however, saw nothing humorous about the Dragon’s choice of nests.
“If one doesn’t care for great tracts of land surrounding one’s home,” she muttered under her breath.
“Nay, lady,” Colin said, “Blackmour suits those of us who live here perfectly. Christopher employs his own guard year-round and his men have grown accustomed to the lack of land about the walls. This isle is far larger than it looks at first glance, so you needn’t fear for places to roam. You’ll see that for yourself soon enough and no doubt find it to your liking.
“Of course,”—he cleared his throat suddenly and made a few gruff noises—“I couldn’t care less if you like it or not. And I’ll surely not have any time to show it to you. You’ll see it or not by yourself.”
Gillian pretended not to notice the slip in Colin’s ruthlessness. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Though he’d complained loudly about every stop he had called for her sake, he had called them often and ignored her protests that she was managing well enough with his brisk pace. It was difficult to believe that a man of Colin of Berkhamshire’s reputation could possess any sort of kindness, but she couldn’t deny what she had seen. A pity her future husband was a sorcerer and would possess no kindness whatsoever. No warlock did. All the gentler emotions were burned out of them in the course of their mastery of the darker arts.
She forced thoughts of Lord Christopher’s evil habits out of her mind as they rode out into the inner bailey. It did no good to think on what he was, for it would only increase her fear. She already had enough of that, and to spare.
She stared at the lists on her left. Mailed men currently trained with their weapons of war. The men trained very hard—likely in fear of incurring Blackmour’s wrath. She would have trained just as hard in their place.
The lists gave way to a smaller wall that surrounded the inner courtyard. Smaller was, of course, an understatement. Indeed, all of Blackmour seemed to make a mockery of her home, a place she had considered quite large and fine.
Tucked into one corner of this smaller courtyard was the great hall. A chapel huddled a ways away from it, along with a garrison hall and, further still, the stables. A modest garden sat between the great hall and the chapel. A pity she would never know the peace of sitting amidst the herbs and dreaming.
Colin dismounted at the steps to the great hall, then held up his hands for her. She was deposited on her feet and commanded to enter the hall.
Gillian paused at the threshold, wondering if it were too late to turn and bolt.
She turned away, and her nose made immediate contact with Colin’s broad chest. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her back around to face the gaping hole of the hall doorway.
“Courage, my lady.”
If she’d had courage, she would have drawn Colin’s sword and run him through, then escaped on his horse.
But she was a coward.
So she crossed the threshold.
• • •
CHRISTOPHER CONCENTRATED ON COUNTING THE FINAL steps down to the great hall. He seldom miscounted and usually descended them with a confident air. Now he crept along like a bastard son of the lowliest tanner, afraid of even his own shadow. Ten-and-six, ten-and-seven, ten-and-eight. He inched the toe of his boot forward and encountered nothing but solid ground. He cursed under his breath. What had ever possessed him to offer for her? He was a fool!
He hadn’t been waiting in the hall when she had arrived, though he’d been kept abreast of the happenings. Jason had been run ragged trying to see to Gillian’s comfort and appease Christopher’s demands for tidings at the same time. But the lad was young; he would bear up well enough under the strain.
The one person Christopher hadn’t talked to was Colin and he was furious about it. He had sent Jason down with explicit instructions that Colin present himself with all due haste. Colin had sent word back that he couldn’t possibly leave Gillian alone and if Christopher wanted to talk to him, he could bloody well haul his stubborn arse below to do it. There were times Christopher wondered why in hell’s name he had ever saved Colin’s sorry neck in the battle of Coyners. He was even sorrier that Colin was his brother-in-law and not his vassal. It made ordering him about nigh onto impossible.
Now, hours later, Christopher stood unwillingly at the bottom of his stairs, wondering why he found himself in this pitiful state.
He listened to the sounds in the great hall, trying to divine where everyone was. There was the usual racket from the kitchen: pots being washed, servants gossiping, kitchen lads being slapped and scolded for stealing treats. He heard the scrape of wood against stone as the trestles were dragged across the floor to the wall. A man laughed and others joined him. He heard Colin’s booming curses, but he did not hear a woman’s voice.
Yet he knew she was there. The hall smelled different. The faintest scent of roses drifted toward him.
“Gillian,” he barked.
The splat of wine and the ping of a silver goblet hitting the stone floor told him he hadn’t been mistaken. He could have sworn he heard her teeth begin to chatter.
“Come here,” he commanded.
He heard Jason murmur soothingly and heard a chair graze the stone. He held out his hand, waiting for her to come put hers in it. Her shuffling step stopped; then cold fingers came to rest on his palm.
She was terrified. He could feel it in the chill of her skin and the way her hand trembled against his.
“Jason, she should be sitting closer to the fire,” Christopher rumbled. “Her lips are blue.”
That was a flash of inspiration. Her hands were freezing; her lips would surely be blue.
“Forgive me, my lord.”
Her voice was whispery soft and tinged with terror. Christopher dropped her hand immediately and felt for the wall behind him. The saints help him, he was going to do something absurd, like haul her into his arms to comfort her. He backed up until his heels hit the bottom step.
“We’ll wed at noon, five days hence. Do not make me wait when the time comes. I am not a patient man.”
With that, he turned and walked back up the steps, concentrating on nothing but their number. He sighed as he reached the top, then went stumbling forward before he realized he had miscounted. He caught himself heavily with one leg, the impact shooting pains up through his foot to his hip.
“Bloody Hell,” he muttered under his breath. He straightened
, hoping no one had seen him, and continued on his way to his chamber.
Once there, he closed the door and made his way to the hearth. The lit candle was exactly where it always was and he started a fire quickly with the peat and kindling. He wrapped up in a fur and sat down with a deep sigh. The chill dampness of the ocean rarely bothered him, but tonight was different. The chill was in his heart. A few days ago, he’d complained loudly about what little Gillian had to offer him. Now he began to realize just how little he had to offer her.
A wet nose nudged his hand and Christopher sighed again as he scratched his favorite hound behind the ears.
“Women,” Christopher muttered. “Wolf, my friend, keep yourself away from them. They’ll cause you naught but grief.”
Wolf growled softly and licked Christopher’s hand. Christopher ruffled the hound’s fur as he turned his face back to the warmth of the fire. There was much to be done in preparation for the ceremony. He knew he wouldn’t be so fortunate as to have Warewick decide not to appear at his daughter’s wedding. Nay, the man would come to gloat, if nothing else. After all, he was gaining a tie to Blackmour and all that went with it. A tenuous tie, to be sure. If Warewick thought to form any kind of friendly alliance, he was deluding himself.
Wolf lifted his head suddenly. Christopher stiffened along with him at the sound of a soft footfall behind him. He hadn’t heard the door open. Thinking deeply behind an unbolted chamber door was never wise.
Wolf growled low in his throat, which narrowed down drastically who the caller could be. Wolf accepted few people: Jason, Colin and Christopher’s captain, Ranulf. Anyone else was considered a threat and treated accordingly.
“Who is it?” Christopher asked, not turning his head.
“Janet, my lord. Master Jason thought you might be wanting something to eat.”
“Put it on the table.” He waited until he heard the sound of a wooden trencher being set down and the girl’s footsteps retreating before he rose and bolted his bedchamber door.