Chapter Eight
On the sixth day of Yuletide my love gave to me,
a darkest night, love, and kisses for tears I cried...
Lesslyn thought the day had been so short, but wonderful. The most wonderful day of her whole life.
The snow fell, covering everything with a blanket of white. A fairyland of magic and joy...and love, for she was falling in love with Greyson de Verre. As unlikely as it should seem, she could not hide from the burning spark in her heart, which glowed brighter with each touch of his hand, each time their eyes met.
As her happiness bloomed, there was a nagging suspicion that the lie could not continue. Guilt gnawed at her insides. She was lying to him. How could she continue to deceive the man she was coming to love? There would be no living the rest of her life with this malignant untruth between them. Could he care about her? Enough to withstand the damning words? Or would she destroy this beautiful chance, condemning her hopes for a better life?
They had overseen the gathering of holly and pine boughs, dried thistles and sacred mistletoe from an oak tree to fetch back to the Keep to decorate for Yule. The men selected a large red oak to sacrifice as the Yule tree. They chopped it down, cut away all the limbs, and fashioned it into a huge log to fill the fireplace, which would burn throughout the night.
When they returned, it was to hot mulled wine, and a flurry of activities. The men had brought down a roe deer, and Cook had set about to roast it. Servants scurried around, setting up the Great Hall for the coming celebration. Lesslyn had to admit the green boughs, red berries of the holly, and white ones of mistletoe brightened up the spirit of the Keep.
Greyson materialized at her elbow, and held up a sprig of mistletoe over her head. “I never learnt much of the traditions of Yule, but I do believe you are allowed to claim a kiss from someone under a Druid’s twig. If I recall, you take a berry, toss it into the fire, and you get a kiss in return. You may continue until all the berries are gone.”
She smiled when he brushed a kiss to her lips—before all! Watching them, servants were laughing and poking each other with their elbows. “That sprig has a lot of berries on it,” she pointed out. “I never understood the custom. The name mistletoe comes from two Anglo-Saxon words, which means dung on a stick. Clearly, they little revered it. Strange, what some people consider of small value has great honor and purpose to others.” She bit back the words, like me.
His face darkened with concern. “Are you not happy with this coming union, Elspeth?”
Elspeth! Each time he called her that it was a shard to her heart. She wanted him to speak her name, Lesslyn, to hear him say that he wanted her for his wife. It was growing clear, this farce would never last a fortnight, let alone a lifetime.
“Nay, this day was wonderful, a most joyous time in my life. I see great hope here, a place where I could belong,” she answered fighting not to cry.
His fingers caressed her right cheek. “I see your eyes sparkle with happiness. Then, a dark cloud comes over them. What is it that troubles your mind? Tell me? Do I needs must slay a dragon to win your heart?”
Nay, never. She realized in that instant her heart had been his for the taking from when he had knelt over her in the snow. And it would break if he turned away from her if she told him the truth. She could only keep him by living a lie. And she would do that if she needs must. Howbeit, she not only loved him she respected him. How could she awaken each day knowing she would continue to give him these dangerous untruths?
His gaze moved past her and into the hallway. “Oh, good, the priest is ready for us.”
“Us? She almost strangled. “He means to marry us now?”
He laughed. “I might take offence to such a stricken look upon your face, if I thought about it. Nay, we do not wed until morn. We go to the tally room where he placed the betrothal contracts for us to sign. There is a decree from Edward, and a list of the items that come to me. I shall become overlord of Sancerre, and needs must protect the fief. Come, the priest will inform us all that we forge into our marriage.”
Lesslyn allowed him to take her hand and lead her from the Great Hall. Each step took her closer to being his countess. Each breath saw another lie.
• ♥ •
“The cleric should be here for the signing. Only, he took it into his mind to ride off on some mysterious and urgent mission—a madman in this weather, if I might say—so we needs must carry on without his august presence. You sign here, Lord de Verre. ’Tis saying, you will rule as overlord of Sancerre until the baron’s demise. Then, you shall inherit that title, as well.” Friar Berinon informed him, unrolling a small scroll and holding it in place for Greyson to sign.
After seating Lesslyn at the corner of the table, Greyson sat down in the chair at the head. His pale eyes ran over the writing, and he then reached for the quill, pushed before him by the baldheaded man. Cold dread bubbling in her stomach, she watched him sign his name with bold, broad strokes. Then, he took off his sigil ring, and affixed the seal of de Verre.
“And this is the betrothal document. Do you wish to read it?” The priest asked of them, unrolling the parchment. “There are numerous provisions due to the...” the little man’s mouth almost grimaced, before continuing, “...ah...circumstances.”
Puzzled by the man’s reaction, she glanced to Greyson to see his expression. Little paying attention, he pulled the document closer to read. Lesslyn stared at the long roll, daunted by the black ink, which seemed to swirl and flow across the surface.
She had wanted to learn to read, but the baron deemed women gaining such skills was a waste of time and coin. There had been no one to show her where to start, and few items of writing to study and try to learn on her own. The steward had taken pity on her curiosity, and taught her to read and write a few words. He, too, was unsure if he approved of a female having such a power, and misliked going against his lord’s wishes. Howbeit, he found it easier for Lesslyn to learn to keep the tally books. Thus, she could read some words—wheat, flour, sage, sheep, cows—items and marks to be able to keep track of the household goods and their costs. Reading simple words on a list was completely different than reading a marriage agreement. She tried to pick out a single one that seemed familiar to her, but she supposed flour, sage and pigs were not part of a bargain for a wife.
Lesslyn looked at the quill and inkwell as if they were a snake. Her hands shook uncontrollably, so she folded them in her lap under the small table.
Finally, Greyson looked to her, questions rising in his eyes. He moved to stand beside her, towering over her where she sat in the chair in the small tally room. “Can you read? ’Tis naught to be ashamed of. Many men cannot. Fewer women. ’Tis why we have scribes, eh, Sir Priest?”
“And rightly so.” Off to the side of the room, pretending he was not warming his backside by the fire, the priest harrumphed his displeasure at females wishing such learnings.
She gave a frown to the small man. “Yes, women have little need of such tools,” she said sarcastically, wondering if he would catch the true meaning of her words.
Greyson laughed, and then pulled the lord’s chair closer to hers and sat again. “That sounds suspiciously as if you mock another’s thought. Am I wrong?”
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “The baron did not approve. I can read a few words and keep the tally book. But I fail to see the number of tallow cups, or how many barrels of wine kept in the cellars on this long page.”
“Can you sign your name?” Greyson asked.
Lesslyn shook her head, toying with the quill. “Nay. The steward went against the baron’s wishes to teach me what little he did.”
Greyson shifted chairs to where he could now push part of the way into her seat. Curling his arm around her, he took her hand. “Here. Let me help you.” He looked to the priest, who was frowning. “That wouldst suffice? If she signs her name with my help. You can see the lady is desirous of the marriage.”
The man sighed in deep resignation. “Yes, yes...as long as she avows she wishes the betrothal, I suppose you may aid her. I rarely see a woman able to put ink to paper and form her name. They usually sign with an X and the priest countersigns as witness for her. But if it be your wish that her name is scribbled by her on the documents, then by all means...carry on.”
Greyson leaned his head to hers and whispered against her hair, “I think the dear friar does not approve of us.”
She watched as Greyson’s fingers guided hers to form an L. She knew that shape because of the tally lists—lard, linen, lead. But then, he moved the tip to the middle of the letter, intending to change it. L for Lesslyn. But he was altering it to a letter for Elspeth’s name.
“Stop!” With a strength she did not know she possessed, she raised his hand.
Both Friar Berinon and Greyson’s heads turned to stare at her. She did not know what to say to them, but she could not allow Elspeth’s name to be affixed to the document. This moment had been at the back of her mind all day. That point where she could no longer swallow the deceit, to trick this kind man into wedding a woman of lesser value.
The friar glared at her in censure. “You have a bride’s panic? Remember, the king commands this. He wills the deed done by Yuletide. He charged me with this task and I dare not fail Edward Plantagenet.”
Lesslyn forced back the lump in her throat. “I wouldst speak with the earl—alone.”
“Females, daring to dictate—” The priest seemed ready to deliver a sermon on women and their place in the world.
Greyson abruptly rose to his feet, his eyes flashing daggers at the smaller man. The priest backed up two steps, clearly alarmed. “Go—now!”
The friar seemed torn between obeying Greyson and leaving the documents. “Shall I take them, my lord?”
“Be gone! Leave the papers.” Flinging his arm out, he pointed to the egress.
The bald man harrumphed again and then scurried to the door. Likely, he had never moved so fast in his life. With a parting glare at them both, he quit the room.
Greyson waited to see if he tried to come back, but the door stayed firmly shut. “The odious man has left us, Elspeth. What is wrong?”
“Elspeth is wrong.” Lesslyn hung her head, unable to meet his stare.
“That makes little sense, you know.”
Chewing on her lower lip, she nodded. “Less than you realize.”
He sat down on the table so he could face her. “You wish not to wed me?”
She shook her head. “Nay, I want most in the world to be your wife.”
“Yet, something is preventing you from signing your name?” he prodded.
She stood up, pushing the chair back. “Wouldst you kiss me?”
Taken off guard, he laughed aloud. “You want to be my wife, you refuse to sign the betrothal contract, and yet you beg me to kiss you? Kissing you is no hardship—quite the contrary. Still, I wish to understand what plagues your mind.” He reached out for her, and pulled her between his thighs. They were on eye-to-eye level, and he clearly was not going to let her turn away.
“I will tell you all. But first, I wouldst like a kiss—that is all—something I can treasure in my heart.”
“I will kiss you ten score times over—”
She put two fingers to his lips to silence his declaration. “Just a kiss—as a man wouldst kiss the woman he loves and one who loves him. Then, I will answer all.”
Lesslyn was trying to keep back the tears. She wanted this one shard of time to remember, a precious memento to take out on snowy nights, and think upon how close she came to having her dream.
She stared at his handsome face. The brown hair worn longer than the Norman-style lay in careless waves. His eyes were the color of fog high in the passes on an October morn, so intelligent, so caring. The lines of his face were formed so that she could never tire just looking upon his countenance. He was more than she could ever wish for...and he would never be hers. Not after she pulled back the cover on her box of lies.
Instead of quibbling more, he leaned forward and tilted his head, so he could brush his lips against hers. At the mere touch, her heart slammed against her ribs, bouncing wildly all about inside her. His mouth was warm, and tasted of the mulled wine he had drunk just a short time ago. His lips were soft, moving over hers, molding hers. ’Twas most odd—she was assaulted by so many sensations. Her heart rocked out a rhythm that made it hard to breathe. She grew lightheaded, so dizzy she was not sure her legs could hold her. He did. With his strong arms, his muscles flexed on her back and her waist to draw her closer, as he slid to the edge of the table. Widening his stance, he pulled her flush against him.
The power in his body was shocking. She knew men had more strength than females, but never had she experienced such a warrior’s strength coiled about her. Her blood seemed to boil, as he deepened the kiss. Heat rose off her body. Rose off his. That tantalizing scent which whispered his name and none other filled her mind.
His hand slid to her hips and set her back to arm’s length. “Sweet mercy. I call quit, else we shall have a wedding night before the vows.”
Lesslyn put her fingers to her lips, still reveling in the magic of his kiss.
“So...now you have had your kiss, please tell me what you mean Elspeth is wrong.” His hand slid up to the curve of her right breast and his thumb stroked the outer swell. “She feels very right to me.”
Lesslyn gave him a poignant smile. “You feel right to me, as well. Only, mayhap you will change your mind after listening to me. I am coming to care for you, respect you, so I cannot continue to lie to you. ’Tis one of the biggest wrongs I could ever make in my life. Above all, I owe you the truth.”
“What truth?” His face darkened with concern.
She closed her eyes, trying to summon the strength to set the deed right. “I am not Elspeth.”
“Then who are you?” He seemed puzzled, but not overly upset.
“Lesslyn. I am her older half-sister,” she confessed, waiting for his rage to explode.
Instead, he laughed, so loudly the room rang with the sound. He almost stopped laughing for a heartbeat, but then he began again. Finally, he pointed out, “I told you this marriage was made in Hell. And the Devil now laughs with me. So...please...regale me with tales of how you come to be here and—I assume Elspeth is elsewhere with plans of her own?”
“My sister is very beautiful. All eyes move to her when she enters a room. She is smaller of build, with pale blonde hair and vivid blue eyes.”
“And let me guess—she suffers bad eyesight up close?” Greyson asked, his thoughts clearly turning inward and just realizing something.
Lesslyn frowned. “How did you know—”
“Let us say, someone told me she could not see well when near.”
“The world bows at her feet, so I fear she has allowed it to go to her head. Her father has granted Elspeth her every whim. She has dreams of her own, and rebels at being forced to wed someone not of her choosing. She was most distraught at the decree from King Edward.”
Understanding dawned in his grey eyes. “So, she made a pact with you to trade places? You came to Hellborne, whilst she went where...?”
“She wishes to wed Aristide di Conti—second son of the Comte di Conti. He met our party after we left Sancerre.”
“And they are off to Italy, I wouldst assume, whilst you are sent onward to Hellborne. Why you had the Italian guard with you. Elspeth feared going against the command of the king of England, eh, and thus cyphered to fell two pigeons with one arrow? So, how did she convince you to take her place? What did she offer you to save her from a fate worse than death?
“Naught, my lord—other than to come and be your bride.” She reached out with a shaky hand and touched his cheek. “You see, I, too, have dreams of my own. I was weak and stupid enough to think I could find them in deceit. When you have spent most of your life wishing for something forever out of reach, you become imprudent and reckless enough to snatch at what is dangled before you. A bright shining moment of hope.”
“I never thought you should be called Elspeth. It simply did not fit you. Lesslyn.” He spoke the name as if testing its sound. “Aye, Lesslyn names you well. So, Elspeth is off to wed a second-son of an Italian nobleman, whilst you willingly came here to marry the Earl de Verre? This is your dream?”
“I dreamt of having someone to care for, a home...mayhap a child. It little mattered about you being an earl.”
“Why should you not have these things? I do not understand that your father—”
She corrected, “Step-father. My mother married him after my father died. I was but a babe when he passed. I do not know how she came to marry a second time to Elspeth’s father. My step-father was not cruel, but he was uncaring toward me. I think he must have hated my father, for he seemed to take great pleasure in telling me that my sire had left no provisions for me and my future. He said I wouldst never marry, because whilst he had enough coin to dower Elspeth, I need not hope for the same. That no man could accept me as a bride without coin.”
He reached up and took her hand from his face. He linked their fingers. “He must have a shriveled heart, for he lied. You wished to marry me—with or without an earldom. So you took the risk and played a fool’s game. If you want this life so badly, why do you now cry halt?”
One tear slipped from her eye and trickled down her cheek. “I meant what I said: I respect you too much to give you a lie.”
“Oh, what the Devil weaves, when he plans deceit.” He laughed softly, mockingly to himself. “Lesslyn, oh, Lesslyn...the mischief of half-siblings could see one undone if we permit it.”
Lesslyn was not sure what to expect. He might throw her out into the snow and tell her find her way back to Sancerre, though she doubted this man would treat her thusly. It was a mounting puzzle why he wanted questions answered, but his only response was to laugh at what she was telling him. Never would she expect him to view the deceit a thing of mirth.
“I do prefer calling you Lesslyn. I could not envision me speaking Elspeth in the deepest night.” He brought her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss to her knuckles. “But I could see us—before the window in the lord’s chamber—so strong is the vision I wouldst think it a memory—or a foretelling.”
He placed her hand that he had been holding on his shoulder, and then took hold of her hips again, pulling her to him. Lesslyn was too stunned to resist. She did not want to resist. He gently kissed her eyes, her cheeks, the tears that had fallen. She blinked, fighting the jumble of emotions crashing in on her. The feelings had a sharp edge, sending her along the perilous quest betwixt hope and despair. Not knowing what this man wanted, she realized she would give it to him a hundred times over if he only asked.
His mouth brushed the hair covering her ear. “I could see that so vividly last night, when I watched you bathing. My hands skimming over your curves.” His left hand slid up her waist, then up to the top of her sleeve. He kissed the side of her neck, sending bumps to crawl under her skin. His fingers pushed aside the material, past the seam, until his hand could slide into the bodice of her gown.
His fingers moved softly to caress her bare breast. “You wouldst permit me to do this if we were married?” A smile spread across his much too sensual mouth. She could feel it.
Lesslyn was so startled by all the sensations storming through her body, vibrations she had no idea could be conjured within her, that it never occurred to her to stop him. “Yes...”
He removed his hand and pulled her to him, crushing her body against his unyielding one. “You wouldst allow me to do more, Lesslyn? If I marry you wouldst you allow me to touch you where I want...kiss you where I wish...as often as I will?”
“Yes, Greyson...”
He nuzzled her hair at the side of her face. “And wouldst you call me Grantham as I caress you? When I am one with you?”
Grantham? Lesslyn blinked several times, trying to shake the potent spell he wove over her. She leaned back to judge what played behind those pale grey eyes. She was missing something, but her besotted mind could not fix upon the rub.
“Yes.”
“Very well, I shall take you to wife.” He pronounced with a smugness that made her want to slap the arrogant grin off his face.
Stepping back, she fisted her hands on her hips. “So, that is all it takes for a woman to convince you to marry them?”
He reached out and tapped the tip of her nose with his finger. “Nay, ’tis what it takes for you to sway me.”
She was confused, befuddled with her emotions and his mummery. “What about Sancerre? You will not inherit the barony.”
He shrugged. “Matters little. You see, my brother did not want your shrew sister as a wife, any more than she wanted him.”
“Brother?”
“Half-brother, actually.”
“And he wouldst be Greyson? Thus, you are Grantham?” Things were coming into focus to her mind. “You are not earl here?”
“I am lord of Hellborne. Greyson made me his heir a fortnight ago. Upon his death—unless he marries at some point in the future and sires a son—I shall become the earl,” he explained. “He also gave me the small holding of Hellsgate. He really did not wish to marry with your sister.”
She took a moment to absorb the details. “So...Greyson made you his heir and gave you another holding to marry Elspeth. Only, Elspeth sent me in her stead. If he is angered by this deception, will he not take away the things he gave you as payment to wed her? Then, you wouldst get neither holding, and nor will you possess a claim to Sancerre. By marrying me, shall you not lose all?”
“Greyson is an honorable man. He knows by raising me to heir of Hellborne, Edward can rest assured the vast holding is tied to him, remaining loyal, which was the main point of his command.” Grantham smiled. “He also gave me a thousand pounds gold in the bargain. I do not want you to think I hid part of this marriage from you.”
“Truly? That much? I have never seen such a sum, but it sounds a lot. Baron Sancerre always said he could not afford coin enough to give me away.” She began laughing for the whole situation seemed so comical. “In a roundabout way, I suppose your brother paid my Bride’s Price.”
“I think I drove a weak bargain. In truth, Greyson was so eager to escape marriage to your sister that he wouldst have paid thrice that.” He took her hand, and got down on one knee. “So, shall you accept this fourth born son, who might one day be Earl of Hellborne? Who wishes you and only you for his wife?”
Her hand trembled. She might be sad or upset that Greyson de Verre had so wished not to marry her—well, Elspeth—that he willingly paid a small fortune, or even be distressed that her sister had devised her part of the deceit. Only, had neither of them taken those steps, then Grantham would not be on his knee before her. Life had traveled in circular paths for them both, due to their siblings’ machinations, propelling them to this point—and to each other.
“Please say yes, or I shall be forced to lock you in the lord’s chambers and spend the winter making you change your mind,” he teased. When she hesitated, thinking, he got up from his knee. “Sorry, the floor is too hard for me to stay like that while you work that beautiful mind. Why do you hesitate?”
“Ena,” she replied, still considering.
His brows lifted, “Ena? I am down on the floor, groveling for your marriage consent, and you are thinking of your maid?”
“Yes. I think it wouldst be nice if we gave Ena and John a hundred pounds of my dower as a wedding gift. What say you?”
“Done! So that is a yes from you, Lesslyn?”
She gave a nod. “Oh, aye, wed with you I shall, Grantham de Verre. Though I come to you with little more than the clothes on my back, it seems you got a bride worth a small fortune. I must remember to thank your brother when we see him next.”
Grantham took her into his embrace. “A kiss to seal the Yuletide bargain? Sorry, I did not bring the mistletoe.”
Just as his lips touched hers, the door flung open, and the priest and another man came rushing in, both wearing worried expressions. The second man was younger, taller, and with thick black hair cut in the Norman style.
“Lord Grantham! Lord Grantham! Do not sign the betrothal agreement! Please do not sign that parchment. This must stop! ’Tis wrong!” Friar Berinon was nearly breathless from the protestations. He finally turned to her with a sneer and said, “That is the truth—he is not Greyson de Verre, but his youngest brother. I never held it was right to do that. You will not be wedding an earl. So there—you can just take your worthless tail back to Sancerre and try your tricks on someone less careful.”
Grantham stepped half before her, the warrior in him at ready to defend his lady. Her heart fluttered at the fine fit of a man he was. She took hold of his left arm and leaned to it.
“You overstep the bounds, Friar Berinon. Do not cast language of insult at my lady. She already knows about me not being Greyson, and accepts that. It makes no difference.” Grantham informed him.
“No doubt she is willing.” In spite of the warning from Grantham, the little man leaned slightly to make eye contact with Lesslyn, shooting her a dark glare. “I know you.” Then, he whipped around and barked at the cleric, “Tell him. Tell him who she is. Or more to the point of the matter—who she is not.”
Grantham started to speak, “I al—”
“My lord,” The scribe started unrolling small parchments, “I prepared the contracts for Lord Greyson, naming you as heir and baron of Hellsgate. Whilst I was working on the betrothal agreement, one of the other scribes happened to hear it was for the daughter of Baron Sancerre.”
“You tell us what we already know.” Grantham glowered at the two men. “Get on with it. You are delaying my wedding.”
The younger man nearly quailed before Grantham’s ominous expression, his hands shaking as he laid out documents. “The other scribe raised some valid questions about the legitimacy of Sancerre. Let me say—the claim of Roye de Sancerre to be baron does not stand. It would have been around the time King Henry died, and Edward took the throne. I suppose in the confusion with the funeral, and then coronation, no one noticed until now. The man, a cousin of some sort, seems to have assumed the title upon marriage to Marjorie de Sancerre.”
“My mother,” Lesslyn whispered, wondering where this might be leading.
The scribe spared her a nervous glance. “Yes, your lady mother. She was originally wed to Reynold de Sancerre, baron of that holding, the charter going back to King Edward’s father, granted after the battle of Lewes. Upon Sir Reynold’s death, Lady Marjorie wed Roye de Sancerre, and he took up the title without Edward approving the marriage. Somehow it never came to notice, likely because the surnames were the same. Roye de Sancerre rarely came to court—understandably, considering his deceit. He remained away from court for so long. Roye de Sancerre is not baron there—no matter what he calls himself. So you cannot proceed with the wedding. He cannot—simply cannot—offer the barony as part of her dower since it is not his. His daughter Elspeth is not the heir to Sancerre.”
Grantham looked to Lesslyn, with a question in his eyes. She shook her head to the sides, saying she knew nothing of this revelation. “Then who is heir?” he asked.
“Mayhap I should have said heiress. Her name—” he glanced down at the parchment, “is Lesslyn de Sancerre, daughter of Reynold de Sancerre.”
Grantham threw back his head in laughter.