Chapter Thirteen

 

Luke sat up in bed—the only courtesy he could muster, given his injured leg. The woman sailing into his chamber was not the maid, Maggie, who brought him his food and herbal ointment and carried off his soiled bandages. Nor was she Merry, whose face he yearned to see, whose presence he’d requested a hundred times only to be given lame excuses as to why she couldn’t come.

Still, there was no mistaking the resemblance of this woman to the one who tormented his thoughts, waking and sleeping. Lady Clarisse stood a hand taller than Merry, her hair a friendlier shade of honey-red. It was simply braided with blue ribbons woven through the long plaits. Wearing a gown of blue silk and with her head adorned by a circlet of gold, she looked as he imagined a queen might—the complete opposite of how her younger sister had appeared during most of the time he’d known her, in boy’s grimy clothing.

Barely glancing at him, she moved toward the shutters and slammed them closed against the changing din. Did he imagine it, or did her action cause a slight increase in the roaring outside the window? She turned to face him, standing very straight and taking his measure with her frank amber eyes.

Perhaps she was a queen, indeed, for it was as if a great crowd had gathered to hear royalty speak. He’d been meaning to ask what the constant drone was about.

“Good day,” he murmured, suddenly conscious of his tattered gray tunic. Thank the good Lord he was wearing his braies, which he’d made sure to don even while abed to avoid upsetting the skittish Maggie.

The Slayer’s lovely wife did not deign to make a reply. Instead, she offered him a thorough inspection before meeting his gaze with a disdainful flash in her critical eyes.

Ill prepared for battle with this formidable woman, Luke struggled to stand.

“Don’t bother,” She waved him back down. You’ll rip your stitches open and bleed to death, and that will serve none of us well.”

He eased back onto the bed, wondering at her tone, which suggested his death would inconvenience her.

“You look well,” she added, her gaze touching briefly on his thigh though his bandage was hidden by his clothing, before coming to rest again on his face. “My sister has saved your life. I hope you’re aware of that fact.”

“I presume you to be lady of this castle,” he said, doing his best to hinge their conversation on a friendlier frame. “And an excellent chatelaine, by everything I’ve experienced from inside this chamber.”

She inclined her head. “Indeed, I am Clarisse, Merry’s sister,” she confirmed. “I don’t suppose you would remember me. You were only half alive when she brought you here. Merry never left your side the first week. I was certain you would die.” Did she sound disappointed that he hadn’t?

Luke clung desperately to courtesy. “I thank you for your care,” he said carefully. “Not only yours and your sister’s, but your servants’, too.”

His cordiality finally had the effect he wanted. She heaved a troubled sigh, her shoulders falling. “Merry said you were a kind man,” she admitted. “I was beginning to have my doubts.”

His stomach clenched with worry. “My lady?”

“You must have said something quite harsh to upset her,” she finished, arching a tawny eyebrow at him.

Heat stole up the column of Luke’s neck. “Upset her?” he repeated.

“Aye. She has locked herself in her chamber for days, refusing to come out, scarcely eating. I am left to wonder what you said to her, and why you would distress the woman who tended you so dutifully.”

The lady might as well have thrown an egg at his face. There was no hiding his faint blush from her catlike eyes. She took a step or two in his direction, causing him to draw back warily against the pillows.

“You may be the Phoenix, Lord Luke,” she informed him in a voice as hard as the links of his battle mail, “but as far as I’m concerned, you are merely a man—a man as mortal and as subject to desires as the rest of mankind. My sister maintains that you are honorable. ’Tis my suggestion then that you do the honorable thing and offer for her hand.”

Immediate protests leaped to his lips, but she put up a hand forestalling them. “Until I hear that you have done so,” she added, “I will hold you personally accountable for my sister’s health.”

Concern for Merry followed on the heels of his affront. “Is she . . . unwell?”

Clarisse’s eyes narrowed. “Are you asking if she’s with child?”

He blanched. How could Clarisse know that they’d made the two-backed beast? “Nay, I . . .” he drifted off. What could he say? This was not going well. In her mind, clearly, he was a cad who’d taken advantage of her sister and then had said something to cause Merry to suffer.

“She scarcely eats at all,” the lady continued. “She has no will to live. ’Tis as if she gave up her life to save yours.”

Alarm rose in him. He swallowed against a suddenly dry mouth. “Lady, I beseech you to send her to my chamber,” he said. “I have asked to see her, but she never appears. I am not yet able to walk, else I’d knock at her door myself.”

The woman tapped an impatient toe and tilted her head thoughtfully. He could see Merry’s intelligence in her sister’s demeanor. “I’ll do my best,” Clarisse answered not without pessimism. “Though I must tell you that I have pleaded with her to come to the main hall to eat, and I have sat talking with her until my voice is hoarse, yet she barely speaks in return, and nothing seems to lift her spirits.”

Her hands went to her slim hips as she surveyed him again, making him feel as if he weren’t wearing braies or a shirt or indeed anything at all.

“I warn you, Lord Luke, if you have in any way dishonored her, though she tells me otherwise, then you must make amends at once. Or I shall ask my husband to pay you a visit.”

With a meaningful look, she whirled about, perfuming the air with lavender as she swept from the chamber.

Luke thumped back against his pillows. He hadn’t even had the chance to ask about the crowd outside. The purpose of Lady Clarisse’s visit had overshadowed everything. God’s bones! Merry was avoiding him for shame. Yet she had nothing to be ashamed of. ’Twas he who should feel shame for reveling in her tender ministrations and for not marshalling the strength to stop her.

Aye, it was his weakness that had caused her so much embarrassment that she dared not venture from her room. If only he could speak to her, he would make her see the fault was all his.

Merry’s distress worried him, aye, but Clarisse’s conclusions troubled him more. How had she arrived at the conclusion that he’d dishonored her sister? Merry would not have told her, he was certain. Was it feminine intuition that made Clarisse so sure?

However she had come to guess, her demand that he take her sister as his wife was ludicrous! Even a lady from the country surely understood that the king would be the one to choose Luke’s bride. Yet if Henry hadn’t already, then . . .

He shook his head, toying a moment with what it would be like if he did marry Merry du Boise. He pictured her at Arundel, dressed in the latest courtly fashions, with an amethyst girdle about her slender hips. She would amaze the servants by refusing a headdress outdoors and digging on her knees in the gardens. The children who lived under the castle’s protection, orphaned by either wars or disease, would adore her, for she was exactly the type to run amok with them and get into mischief.

There’d be even better mischief to enjoy in the lord and lady’s chamber. He felt himself smile at the notion of endless hours exploring her delectable person.

What would his grandfather think of this red-haired healer? Luke realized he had no idea. Lord William wasn’t one to play the field of politics; he did as he pleased. As for Luke’s choice in a wife, his grandfather had shown neither a fondness nor a dislike for Amalie on the two occasions they’d met. Merely politeness.

Recalling Amalie, Luke released his fantasy instantly. True, he’d found the thought of Merry as his wife far less disturbing than he’d imagined he might, but she was not the king’s cousin. The insult if Luke broke off his betrothal would do tremendous damage to his prospects. Maybe irreparable. Out of spite, the king could as easily wrest Arundel from Luke’s family and bequeath it to someone else upon Lord William’s demise.

Losing Arundel was unthinkable. His grandfather’s castle was the only true home he’d ever known. From the moment he’d first laid eyes upon its magical silhouette, he’d fallen in love with Arundel. All his years of service in Matilda’s court, his perseverance, had been for the castle he so valued. He’d fought for King Henry’s father in Rouen. He’d saved Henry’s life and pledged him eternal fealty. In return, the king showered him with honor and burdened him with countless fruitless tasks, such as razing adulterines. In the end, his service would be well worth every year, as long as Arundel stayed in the d’Aubigny family and remained his home.

Certes, his life was not his own. Of late, he’d begun to realize that Henry foisted the most distasteful objectives onto Luke, sending him off to the farthest reaches of Norman rule when he wanted more than anything to be at his grandfather’s side. Why? Because the king knew that if anyone could get something done and done well, it was Luke.

A wave of longing rolled through him to return to Arundel and to his grandfather’s side. His distinguished, articulate grandsire, a man he respected above all, would not live much longer. Once a tall and imposing figure, Lord William d’Aubigny had scorned King Stephen in support of Matilda and still managed to hold on to his lands through years of civil strife. He never scurried to obey his liege lord.

If Luke sought to pattern his life after his grandfather’s, then he was a poor replica, indeed.

He hung his head, keenly aware of his shortcomings. Unlike his grandfather, he didn’t always follow his conscience. Instead, he executed the commands of his king, clinging to duty and loyalty in place of what was moral, sometimes instead of what made sense. Was he no more than a mercenary?

He drew a sharp breath at the thought.

A bitter taste filled his mouth as he envisioned the Baron and Baroness of Iversly, who now mourned the loss of their outer defenses, as well as the loss of their sons. His conscience decreed that he cease tormenting them. Duty demanded he finish his appointed task. Ought he to have tried to offer counsel to the king instead of blindly following his orders?

If he did not assert himself at some point, Henry would continue to treat him as something less than what he was, what he knew he could be.

Luke rubbed his gritty eyelids. Having had entirely too much time to think these last weeks, he realized Merry had spoken with a grain of salt when she’d called him the puppet of a tyrant.

’Twas exactly what he was—at least at present, though it didn’t necessarily follow that he would always be. He could put an end to the destruction at Iversly, banishing once and for all the heart-wrenching image of the old man at his window. Nay, Luke need not sacrifice his conscience, not to mention common sense, for the sake of duty! He could defy his king on that small score and not worry overly much that Henry would strip him of his authority.

A great weight eased from Luke’s shoulders. He drew a restorative breath. Straightaway, he would send a missive to Iversly with an order to cease their labors and to join him at Helmsley. He could not order them to rebuild, but if they stopped now, Lord Iversly would retain at least one useable tower. As for himself, he could leave for Arundel the instant his men caught up to him. Pray God, he would find his grandfather still alive.

With a tremor of excitement in his fingers, Luke sought the parchment and ink he’d requested earlier to defray his boredom. Lady Merry crossed his mind, and he hesitated. What to do about her situation and Lady Clarisse’s demands?

He was in no way obliged to wed Merry. He’d explained the circumstances of his betrothal to her clearly. She had no expectations along those lines, he was certain. Still, to leave her bereft and humiliated was unlike him. He would explain in writing the situation, blaming his male weakness and the added potency of the herbs she’d given him. Of course, he would apologize profusely. That should bring her out of her depression, he reasoned.

For despite Lady Clarisse’s insistence, he owed Merry nothing beyond an apology.

Then why the strange feeling of tightening across his ribcage? The uneven cadence of his heart?

He balanced the inkwell on the mattress beside him, careful not to stain the sheets. It irritated him to have no answer in his own mind. He never had an answer where Merry was concerned. The woman had caused irreparable upheaval to his life. He almost wished he’d never laid eyes on her.

Ah, but then he would never have known the upper limits of ecstasy. Never have realized how blindly he followed the king’s dictates.

Perhaps he owed her a small debt, after all.

 

Merry resisted the urge to ball up the heavy parchment and hurl it out the open window. However, someone might read it and be privy to her most intimate secrets. She tossed it on her bed instead, gripping the bedpost for support as she gazed down at Luke’s neat script. Even his handwriting was handsome and precise, damn him. There were no spots where the ink had bled into the parchment. No errors. No uncertainties.

 

Lady Merry,

I will be leaving Helmsley as soon as I am able to ride. I thank you for your care of me. Save for an impressive scar, I will be good as new and left without a limp. You are indeed a healer of the finest caliber. My apologies for ever thinking less.

I leave you safe in the care of your family, certain that your sister and her husband will defend you against any who intend you harm.

Moreover, I beg of you, let your conscience be untroubled by what passed between us at Iversly. Whatever it was, it has changed me for the better. As for the unfortunate occurrence here at Helmsley, I offer you my deepest apologies. Under the influence of your healing herbs, and transfixed by your beauty, I took advantage of your generosity. I simply could not summon the will to halt your ministrations.

For my weakness, I beg your forgiveness.

For the unforgettable memories, I offer my humble gratitude.

May you be at peace now, after all you have endured. Should anything come to fruition, as we once discussed, you need only send word to Arundel, and I will take care of my obligations toward you. .

Yours,

Luke d’Aubigny

 

The words on the parchment began to blur, and Merry gripped the bedpost harder as she rode through a spell of dizziness brought on, she suspected, by exceedingly powerful emotion.

He’d begged her forgiveness. ’Twas unnecessary. She had eventually realized that the herbs she’d given him for pain had prevented him from speaking. Falling in love with him had been entirely her own doing. He’d warned her from the first that he could offer her nothing. She was a fool to have hoped for more.

He was leaving. She’d expected his departure all along, yet it crippled her to discover the end so near. She’d hoped he would stay longer, recover more fully. A wound such as his required at least another month of bed rest. Certes, he risked re-injury to mount again so soon.

Her dizziness gave rise to sudden nausea. Thinking fresh air could help, Merry teetered toward the window and stuck her head out, sucking great gulps of autumn air into her lungs. The shouts coming from beyond the gate drew her thoughts away from her present misery to the crowd that had become a horde. Often their chants grew loud enough that she could discern the word “witch.”

Their cries made her skin crawl, made her grow cold, then hot. When the crowd grew too loud, the Slayer ordered his bowmen to disperse them, but they did not stay away for long.

Standing tiptoe to see over the outer wall, Merry discerned the tops of several tents, more than the last time she’d looked. She could only conclude that some had decided to sleep there by night. To think they hated her so much they had put their lives on hold in the hopes of seizing her and handing her over to the Church!

If she’d surrendered herself as she’d nearly done several days earlier, she would likely be dead already, never having discovered the miracle that urged her to rise and welcome a new day She laid a light hand over her abdomen. Luke was leaving. Yet he’d left her a consolation, a reason to go on.

The realization had come upon her only the day before. She’d sat up swiftly and calculated with her fingers. She was a week overdue. Two weeks before that, she and Luke had lain together.

Hope had sung through her veins with the restorative power of chamomile. To carry Luke’s babe was a miracle! ’Twas redemption of the most unlikely kind. She’d rallied from her dark despair, thrown open the windows, and called for food. A short while later, she’d vomited it up again. Nonetheless, she’d gone to bed with a smile on her face.

Yet soon, Luke was leaving. The father of her child was riding away, and likely as not, she’d never see him again. Regarding the undulating hills before her, the color of rich wheat as the cooler weather had come, Merry asked herself if she should tell him. He had promised any child of his would lack for nothing. With her sister’s husband’s help, though, she could give her babe whatever creature comforts might be needed.

Beside, telling Luke would change nothing about her circumstances. He was still betrothed to the king’s cousin. Merry was still a fugitive hunted by the Church. Moreover, when her condition showed, no doubt she would be labeled something else besides a heretic.

Only if something were to happen to her—God forbid—would she send her child to Arundel, certain of Luke’s welcome and care. At present though, she refused to be a burden to him. Nay, never again. She would not ask for what he could not give.

“Good-bye, my Lord Phoenix,” she whispered, imagining him on his horse, riding away. She recalled the passages in his letter: Let your conscience be untroubled by what passed between us. Whatever it was, it has changed me for the better.

Her mouth curved in a sad, ironic smile. It had changed her for the better, too. No longer was she angry with the world, mistrustful, longing for death. Aye, it had touched her deeply—whatever this was that had occurred between them.

 

“On a quest for fresh air, d’Aubigny?”

Startled to hear himself addressed, Luke ceased his painful hobble across the great hall and craned his neck. A moment earlier, the hall had appeared empty. How the giant could have remained hidden until then, in broad daylight, mystified him. His instincts had clearly grown dull in his hours of confinement.

The Slayer must have been reading in one of the carved chairs before the hearth. Its breadth had disguised the giant, who stood before him with a thick tome in his hand, the like of which Luke had rarely seen. Leaving it on the seat, Sir Christian bore down on Luke with a look of friendly determination.

Luke gave thought to the missive presently tucked inside his belt. There wasn’t any reason for his host not to know of Luke’s orders for his army or of his desire to leave. Still, there was a danger in the giant knowing too much. For one thing, he might tell his overbearing wife, who would no doubt re-double her efforts to see Luke and Merry wed.

“I thought a walk in the inner ward might do me good,” Luke explained as Christian neared him. In fact, he was headed to the garrison to hand the missive over to one of the few men who’d accompanied him.

“Excellent,” his host replied. “Then I’ll accompany you.”

Sketching a nod of agreement, Luke used the cane he had found beside his bed to continue his tortuous progress. It both embarrassed and irked him to have a companion remarking the effort required of him to put one foot in front of the other.

“How is your leg healing?”

Sir Christian’s inquiry betrayed superficial consideration. Immediately, Luke guessed he had some topic of conversation in mind.

“I am told I should be dead right now,” Luke clipped, “so I can’t complain.” That did not stop every nerve in his body from screaming in protest, however.

The Slayer gave a grunt of approval. “Merry has a knack, one must agree,” he said. “I should have been blinded years ago but for her assistance.”

So, the subject of their conversation became suddenly clear, causing Luke’s heart to beat a trifle faster.

“Is that so?” Luke murmured, not the least bit surprised that she hadn’t boasted of her accomplishment.

“Methinks she would rather have spat in my eyes, but my wife insisted Merry could make me see again. No doubt I’d have been a sourly cantankerous invalid, and Clarisse couldn’t imagine a life lived by my side.” He laughed good-naturedly. “Anyway, ’tis a shame there is no place close by for Lady Merry to study. She would do well as a practitioner of medicine with mentors to guide her. No doubt Persia is the place for her.”

Luke refused to be drawn into the subject of Merry’s future. Merry could not study medicine and that was that, nor did he think she would like what he knew of the training of a physic—the dissecting of cadavers, the amputating of body parts, the cutting out of tumors. Even if he married her—which he could not—her healing talents were along a different path than any physic he’d ever met.

Their descent down the steps of the forebuilding drew Luke’s attention to the near-impossible task of bending his knee for his wound seemed to burn and tear with every step. Drenched in sweat, he paused on the bottom step and put his back to the wall. Through the open door, he could see the garrison, his destination.

The Slayer paused also, leaning indolently against the opposite wall, his gaze unnerving. If Luke’s instincts served him well, he would speak his mind on some matter any second. If the man’s wife had something to do with that matter, Luke was certain he didn’t wish to hear it.

He pushed abruptly off the wall and hobbled out the door.

Coward, he mocked himself as he started across the inner ward. Then the point of the cane slipped off the edge of a cobblestone, and he stumbled, nearly falling to his knees before catching himself.

The searing in his thigh brought a number of Saracen curses to his lips. Bent double, he started at the feet of Christian de la Croix placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. At the same time, he grew conscious of the same shouting and chanting that had troubled him for days now. He’d convinced himself that a festival was taking place nearby, though he’d thought it odd that no one in the castle was attending. When he’d asked the skittish Maggie, she’d uttered a frightened prayer, crossed herself, and fled the room.

Straightening inch by inch, Luke sought to determine the extent to which he’d re-injured himself. He felt moisture on his hose, indicating his wound bled anew. Perhaps he’d been overly ambitious thinking he could make this trek so soon.

Drawing to his full height, he met the giant’s worried gaze. “Would you convey a message to my men for me?” Pain put a rasp in his voice.

“Certainly.”

Luke reached under his belt and drew out the parchment tube. “You may read it,” he said noting curiosity in the warrior’s expression as he took it from him.

The Slayer unrolled the document, scanned the contents, then rerolled it, looking relieved. “’Tis a goodly notion,” he stated. “The sight of your army will scatter the throng.” He made a vague gesture toward the outer wall. “We might even make it look as if the royal army has come to claim my sister-in-law.”

None of this made sense to Luke. Perhaps it was the intense throbbing in his leg making him slow of thought. He shielded his eyes against the sun’s glare and squinted up at the man. “Claim her?”

The Slayer gestured toward the noise again. “Aye. Surely, you’ve overheard their demands,” he gestured toward the front gate, “though your chamber faces east.”

Luke widened his stance to keep from falling over. “I don’t follow you?”

“The horde outside the walls are demanding I release Merry to them,” Sir Christian spoke deliberately as if Luke were, indeed, dim. “Of course, you wouldn’t remember,” the Slayer added, “but the night you arrived here, it rained so hard that the downpour washed most of the villeins’ crops. At the same time, some of the small holders’ cows drowned. They blamed their misfortunes on the Witch of Mount Grace who, according to rumor, had come to Helmsley. Though I’ve been careful to keep her out of sight, the rumor persists.”

Luke swallowed against the uneasiness swirling inside him. Poor Merry. Would she always be hunted like a wild animal? He sent his companion a considering look.

“You think my soldiers might help disperse the crowd?”

“They should,” said the warrior, “especially if you convey her from here, bound and tied to look like a prisoner.”

This time Luke did take a backward step, bringing on another flash of pain. He held a hand up. “Hold a moment. I said naught of taking Merry with me. I promised your seneschal that I would bring her to Helmsley. Nothing more. You are her family,” he insisted, feeling his temper rise in proportion to his pain. “Therefore, she is your responsibility. Your problem. For God’s sake, do your duty to her!”

“You are one to speak of duty, d’Aubigny,” the giant answered matching Luke’s heat. “You have seduced the lady and put her casually aside.”

Hearing the truth stated so baldly momentarily silenced him. Then Luke recalled that she had seduced him as much as the other way around.

“Is that what Merry told you?” A pulse began to tap at his temples.

“Nay,” Christian said, his tone growing colder. “She’s not said a word against you—neither to me nor to my wife.”

Confusion silenced him once again. “Then by what grounds do you condemn me?” he finally demanded.

“She is with child,” the warrior replied.

The four words knocked the breath from Luke’s lungs. He felt his jaw drop.

“I find no pleasure in beating a man who is wounded,” Christian added. “Yet Clarisse will expect me to pound you into the cobbles if you fail to redress the wrong you’ve done to her sister.”

Stunned, Luke could only stare back at the man glaring down at him. Merry was with child? Then their exquisite night at Iversly had borne fruit after all, despite his belated attempts to prevent that from happening.

“Are you certain?”

Sir Christian’s eyes narrowed to slits. “My wife is rarely wrong.”

Memories of Merry’s warm skin assailed Luke. Memories of their relentless passion had him closing his eyes momentarily. A part of him thought it entirely fitting that a child should be conceived from such intensity.

A child! His son or daughter! It seemed a sudden boon, a blessing from heaven!

A particularly loud shouting of “witch” carried to Luke’s ears from the other side of the wall, and he opened his eyes to behold the Slayer’s grim, forbidding glare.

Nay, it wasn’t a blessing! It was terrible. The result of poor discipline and lack of control. He’d known the risk, yet he hadn’t been able to help himself, pumping his seed deep inside her—not only once but over and over again.

By Christ! He couldn’t marry a woman against the king’s wishes! He couldn’t! Worse yet, how could he marry a woman excommunicated from the Church? What priest would possibly marry them? Even if he found one, how would he keep Arundel in the family after slighting the king?

“Listen.” The Slayer shifted menacingly on his feet capturing Luke’s full attention. “If you convey her from here with your army, the people will think the law has come to intervene. They’ll go back to their farms and forget her. Even the reward seekers may be fooled. Who will have heard of Merry in the South of England? She may well be safe from persecution there.”

Luke shook his head. How could Merry’s kin do this to her?

“She’ll be persecuted in other ways,” he countered speaking through his teeth. “Henry will not be pleased. I’m betrothed to his cousin, damn it!” He allowed the Slayer to see his outrage.

The giant’s lips quirked into a dauntless sneer. “If you die here,” he pointed out quietly “’twill appear to all that you died of infection.” His eyes glinted.

Anger gave way to a grudging smile. Luke couldn’t help but appreciate Christian’s honesty. If only the king’s courtiers were as forthright as the Slayer. In Henry’s court, one never knew for certain which friend would turn foe to protect his own interests.

He forced himself to consider Christian’s proposition. On the one hand, Luke had labored since adolescence to ensure his rightful footing at Arundel. Defying the king by breaking his betrothal contract was certain to put his inheritance in jeopardy. As an earl, his grandfather and all the other earls were merely tenants-in-chief, owing their land directly to the king. Keeping one’s head down ensured the passing of the property from father to son to grandson.

Instead, he was very deliberately raising his head, quite high enough to be lopped off, even if only metaphorically. God! He hoped only metaphorically! One never knew, for by defying Henry, he was poking a snake that could twist and turn and strike erratically.

On the other hand, he would have Merry, with her warm, soft body pressed to his. No need to discover whether Amalie was as cold between the sheets as she was in public. He already knew all he needed to know about Merry, with her generous spirit and her quick wit and even her fiery nature—some would say a nuisance but also endearing and alluring as hell.

Yet what of the babe? If Luke defied the Slayer and somehow escaped Helmsley, could he really condemn his unborn child to the vast unknown? ’Twas a simple thing to overcome illegitimacy if your father claimed you as the fruit of his loins. If not, and if the babe’s mother were caught, tried a second time, and condemned once more to death—and her protector was hundreds of miles away . . . Nay, he could not even imagine such an occurrence.

Ah. So, there it was. Letting his heart and conscience be his guide, he made up his mind. God grant him the strength to stand up to both king and Church.

“Well?” pressed the Slayer, curling his hand into a fist.

Luke glanced at the giant’s knuckles and knew an urge to laugh at his absurd circumstances. He would remember this moment forever as a turning point. Mayhap some would call him a lunatic, but there was no going back. From there on forward, he would be bound to his illogical decision.

Yet he felt suddenly much lighter. The sky had never looked so blue. The scent of apple pastries wafted sweetly from the kitchen. At last, he could do what he’d chafed to do since receiving word of his grandfather’s illness—go home to Arundel. Not home alone, however. He would be bringing home a bride.

No matter what happened, even the excruciating loss of Arundel and the dangerous termination of the king’s favor, he would gain much with this union—a lifetime of passion and a babe to cherish.