Chapter Nine
On the seventh day of Yuletide my love gave to me.
his heart...the most important and precious gift of all.
Lesslyn felt so warm. All her life she had huddled and shivered ’neath the covers during winter nights. No more. Grantham’s body put off a heat that would keep her snug, even in the deepest of winter. Her husband rested peacefully, his body molded to her back and his arm lay over her hip. His hand was curved to her belly.
She was drowsy and could drift back into a cocoon of delicious heat, but she wanted a moment of quiet to relish this new-found life. She cast her mind back to the simple ceremony. Since Hellborne had no chapel, and the storm had stopped all travel, they spake their vows before fireside in the Great Hall, the whole of the Keep witnessing Lord Grantham de Verre taking Lesslyn, baroness of Sancerre, as lady wife. The wedding feast was merged with the Yuletide celebration, and all had a grand time.
Grantham was so handsome, as he had held the wedding cup for her to take a drink. She did not think there was a man in all the kingdom that could compare! She smiled a cat’s smile of contentment, as she curled her fingers over his hand. And he was hers! No longer would she pine for a life shared. She was Lady de Verre, who might—or might not—be a countess one day. His countess.
Grantham shifted. Leaning to her, he kissed her ear. “I think my other arm is numb from sleeping on it. Sharing a bed will take a bit of getting used to. But let me show you something I discovered during the night.”
Lesslyn started to roll to him, but his hand tightened, snugging her in place. “I thought I was the one making discoveries.”
His body rumbled with a low chuckle. “Aye, I had the pleasure of leading you to such mysteries. This one pales beside those—and more to come—but it helps keep my arm from growing numb.” He slid his harm under the curve formed by her hip and waist. “It is a perfect fit, eh?”
“’Tis most strange…a day ago I was a nothing...a shadow wraith—now I am a married woman,” she mused.
He echoed, “Shadow wraith—pray tell what is that?”
“A figment of my mind. Elspeth was always reminding me I was brown—brown hair, brown eyes, brown clothing—that I blended into the shadows, almost becoming one of them,” she explained.
He raised up on his elbow to place a kiss on her upper arm. “You are no such thing. You are the baroness of Sancerre. For that matter, you are the baroness of Hellsgate. Precious Elspeth be naught but the daughter of a usurper.”
Pulling the cover up, she turned in his embrace so she could watch his face. She found she could do that for hours on end. “I was but a baby when my father died. Of course, I had no memory of him. Only that knife my mother gave to me, saying it was his. She rarely spoke of him or their marriage. I had a sense she was saddened to talk of him, but also fearful the baron—Roye—misliked that she kept his memory alive for me. As a child I grew up, accepting, without too many questions. When one intruded on her personal grief, I stopped the asking. Then, she died when I was nearly seven. What will the king do now?”
He sighed. “’Tis a muddle. I suppose your step-father will have to go before Edward and stand accused of assuming the title and control of your lands. Edward could dismiss the offences. But you never know with his quicksilver moods.”
“He is an old man now, walks with canes. He spake the last time he took Elspeth to court that he wouldst never live to put eyes on London again.” Lesslyn pondered what would happen to Elspeth’s father. “I suppose it was best for my sister that she was off to Italy before this was uncovered.”
Grantham nodded. “There are mysteries to unriddle. Do not fret, dear wife. We shall face what comes together. I promise I will not rest until we have all the answers to why Roye de Sancerre assumed the title, and wed your mother.”
Lesslyn wanted the questions answered, but was aware that time’s passage would make getting answers very hard. “We might never know those things.”
He ran his hand down her arm. “What I know is that I love waking up with my wife named Lesslyn beside me in bed.” Grantham tugged the fur aside slowly until her hip was exposed to the cool air. His first finger began tracing invisible marks on her skin.
She shivered, from the cold, but also from his touch. “You are making me chilled.”
He leaned to her and bit down on her earlobe gently. “I promise to warm you, wife.”
“What are you doing?”
“I am giving you a first lesson in letters.” His tongue traced the swirl of her ear, raising more bumps to crawl over her skin. “Now, you must pay heed. I use my finger as the quill, your skin the parchment.” He made his play marks upon her skin. “Know you the letter I just made?”
Being playful, she asked, “What do I get if I can answer correctly?”
“For every letter you are right, you shall win a kiss. And for each letter you are wrong, I shall collect a kiss of my choosing.”
She laughed. “It seems we both win, even if we lose.”
“Ah, the object of the game. Now, tell me what letter I made.”
She sighed, “I fear you have to collect your kiss, for I do not know.”
“’Tis an I.” He kissed the side of her neck, and then drew another symbol.”
She smiled. “That one I know. L—that is the first letter of my name.”
“True. But this time, I am spelling out something else. So where do you want your kiss, baroness?”
She thought for a moment. “Upon my breast. I do like it when you kiss me there.”
“Ah, yes...I gathered that. But if I humbly obey your request, then our lesson of letters will be forgotten,” he warned.
Lesslyn brought her leg to rub along his. “Wouldst that be so bad?”
He made a face of dismay. “Oh, very well. If you insist—” Grantham slid the wolf fur down, until her breasts were exposed to the cool morning air. “Trouble arises. You did not say which breast, so I am forced to kiss them both—”
A scream split the silence of the Keep, followed by the sound of voices growing louder. Evidently, someone was raising a fuss, with others joining in—and all were headed their way. Grantham quickly flipped the fur throw over them, as there was pounding on the door.
The wooden door flew open, and Elspeth sailed in, shrieking at the top of her lungs. “You cannot marry her! Stop this now!”
Grantham tucked the fur against his backside, then glanced to Lesslyn. “Elspeth?”
Lesslyn nodded in dismay.
“My lord,” One of the squires said, whilst he and another were trying to grab Elspeth’s arms, but she kept beating at them with her muff. “we tried to stop her.”
“Grayson de Verre, you cannot marry that woman—why, she is a liar!” Elspeth proclaimed in mock astonishment.
Grantham exhaled his disgust. “She is your sister—baroness of Sancerre, and now also baroness of Hellsgate...and my lady wife. So, I would hold thy tongue if you have come here to hurl insults. Or you might lose it.”
Elspeth finally stopped her caterwauling, long enough to take in the scene before her. Her brow crinkled as if she doubted what she saw. “You are in bed with him? And my...oh my—I do not recall you...looking so...beautiful, my lord.” She blinked several times, and then moved closer to the bed.
Grantham yelled, “John!”
Elspeth launched into her attack again. “My lord, that woman is indeed my sister. My half-sister. I do not know what lies she has told you, but I am the true heir to Sancerre. My father—”
“Your father is a usurper. He stole the fief from Lesslyn’s sire.” He wagged a finger at a shocked Elspeth, and then seemed to look around for his sword. “John! To me!”
Elspeth put a hand to her chest, as though she might fall to the floor. “I know not why she wouldst tell such stories—”
“Not stories. King Edward’s scribe discovered the deceit. John! Blast you! Get in here now!”
The squires again made an attempt to catch Elspeth, but she soundly rapped them on the heads with the white fur muff. As she was struggling with them, a barefooted John came rushing into the chambers, followed by two guards, all looking around for a horde of Viking invaders. What they found was one Elspeth, absurdly beating upon two young lads.
“About time you came.” Grantham roared. “Take that...female out of here!”
John tried to duck as the muff came sailing toward his face. He grabbed hold of Elspeth’s shoulders and was struggling to maintain the grip, as she kept trying to hit him. “What shall I do with her?”
“Toss her into the oubliette, for all I care. Confine her somewhere, whilst Lesslyn and I dress in privacy.” Grantham commanded. “If she keeps screaming like that, stuff a cloth in her mouth. It does not have to be clean, either.”
It took all three men and the two squires to remove the fighting woman, and finally pull the door closed.
Lesslyn and Grantham exchanged looks, and then broke out laughing.
• ♥ •
Hours later, as dark once more prowled the snowy land, Grantham enjoyed the peaceful fireside with his wife. As a start to a marriage it was memorable, to say the least. Elspeth was off in a huff, hotly demanding to return to Sancerre without haste. And frankly, he was pleased to see her gone. He felt sorry for her guard, having to turn around and go out again, but he wished the woman out from under his roof without delay.
“Small wonder Greyson did not want to wed that—Devil’s spawn. Even Hell would not want to claim her,” he railed. He had been in a sour mood after having his first morn with Lesslyn interrupted.
Lesslyn unbraided her hair, and shook it free. “I do not know about Hell, but Hellborne has no need of her. Truly, your brother was lucky not to get himself leg-shackled to Elspeth.”
Warmth flooded Grantham’s blood, as he watched the firelight play across his beautiful wife’s form. “Come here, my lady. I have need of you to sooth my furrowed brow.”
“In a moment, my lord husband.” She went to toss a small log onto the fire. “I wouldst give an apology for my sister disturbing us this morn, but I fear that nonsense should be on her head and hers alone.”
“So, her love for said Aristide died a quick death when tides came that his older brother had forsaken his Templar vows of chastity and poverty. How dare he return—with a wife and son—to claim his rightful place as heir to the Comte di Conti’s holdings? Did she really think she could rush back here, pretend she was the victim of your scheming, and get me—um, Greyson—to marry her instead?”
Lesslyn shrugged. “I fear that is precisely what she hoped. She is so beautiful, how could you deny her? No one rejects Elspeth. Of course, now she has discovered you are not Greyson, and that he remains unmarried, she believes the king’s decree still sees them betrothed.”
Grantham reached out and snagged her hand. “Well, she is away, the priest and the scribe with her. So, who knows? If she does decide to hunt Greyson down, she will have to head north—far north. He is in Scotland, vowing not to come back ’til the spring thaw.”
She fell into his lap with a smile. He had thought her so beautiful, lying in the snow, that first morn. But it was nothing compared to how lovely she was now. There was a glow of happiness which lit her eyes. And it made him satisfied that he was the one to put that expression upon her countenance.
“Are you sure that you are content with this wife? My sister is very beautiful. I have heard bards speak of Helen of Troy, whose beauty launched a thousand ships. Surely, my sister would compare to Helen.”
“Your half-sister.” He placed his hand on her thigh and began ruching the material of the kirtle upward. “If Helen were of the same nature as your sister, those ships were launched fleeing her!”
Lesslyn leaned back against his chest. “What are you doing, husband?”
He nibbled at her ear, then answered, “Returning to our spelling lesson—which was rudely interrupted.” He traced out letters on the soft flesh of her upper leg. “You recall the first letter I made?”
“You said it was an I.”
He grinned and kissed the column of her throat, allowing his left hand to slide up to her breast, cupping the fullness. “You are an apt learner. The second letter was the start of your name.” He traced two more letters.
“That is an E. I will not say why I know that letter.”
He traced three more. “Any guess what these are?”
She shook her head. Her breathing was changing as he fondled her breast. Lesslyn was so responsive. A willing learner in the games of love as well.
“I traced out I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.” He whispered against her temple, “I...love...you, Lesslyn.”
She turned in the embrace to see him full faced. “And do you?” she asked, almost fearful of his answer.
He kissed her, letting loose his full passion. He could feel her tears falling on his face, so he lifted his head to see why she cried. “That I love you makes you cry?”
“Tears of joy, my love...tears of joy.” She arched to bring her mouth to his, kissing him with all her love.