Chapter Nine

 

Adelle threaded her needle with the dexterity of a much younger woman. Seeing her companion occupied, Merry crossed the great hall to one of the few windows and peered out. She and the baroness had enjoyed a late breakfast and would pass the day in idleness, giving Merry a chance to recuperate.

A cool breeze touched her bruised face as she strained on tiptoe to see over the inner bailey wall to the eastern tower. A shaft of yearning went through her as she espied Luke perched atop the scaffolding, slinging his bludgeon at the battered wall. He had donned a blue tunic in deference to the autumn-like weather. It flapped in the breeze, conforming to the shape of his powerful body as he slung the bludgeon in fluid movements. She willed him to look in her direction, but his back remained to her.

“’Tis so pleasant having a young person here,” Adelle remarked, unaware of Merry’s churning uncertainty. The previous night’s events had changed something in Luke’s attitude toward her. What that was and how that would affect her future, she knew not.

Still, she chastised herself for dressing the part of a lady then behaving so rashly—she had, no doubt, lost the Phoenix’s respect forever. He must view her as only as a source of exasperation. Moreover, what a pitiful comparison she must make to his royal betrothed. Even worse, if he did not already, then soon, Luke would look back on that night and conclude Merry was to blame for Cullin unleashing his brutality on her, that it was her fault he’d had to slaughter one of his own men.

Abandoning the window, she returned toward the chair she had vacated and took up her embroidery ring again. This was not the first time the baroness had brought up the pleasure of her company. Merry stitched a couple of threads, looked over at her companion, and asked as gently as possible, “How long have Ewan and Selwin been gone?”

The answer was silence. Yet the embroidery in Adelle’s hand began to tremble. She fought to keep her expression serene, but it crumpled abruptly, causing Merry to toss her stitching aside and drop to her knees before the older woman.

“Forgive me,” she begged. “I should not have asked. ’Tis none of my concern.”

Adelle patted her hand and marshaled her visible grief with difficulty. “They left twelve years and six moons ago,” she admitted. The words sounded rusty, as though she had kept count only in her head and never out loud.

Merry bit back an exclamation. Oh, dear.

“Ian and I pretend that we shall see them again, but we know the truth.” Her chin wobbled as she raised her gaze to the cobwebs that dripped from the rafters. Then she looked at Merry one more time and tears began to streak down her pale face.

Surprising herself, Merry put her arms around the baroness. She had suspected Selwin and Ewan had been gone a long time, and Adelle’s grief loomed large, filling her heart with an ache for their loss.

How selfish she had been for wallowing in her own straights, for not recognizing Lady Iversly’s suffering earlier. Not only were her only sons likely dead, but she was forced to watch portions of her home fall to ruin while her husband lay stricken on death’s doorstep.

Tears of empathy pricked Merry’s eyes. Sweet mercy, after years of thinking herself incapable of crying, she’d turned into a virtual fountain. Through a tight throat, she murmured assurances. Though what right had she to say ’twould all end well? How could that be when the lady had naught to anticipate but the destruction of her home, the demise of her husband.

It was impossibly unfair!

Merry drew back, simmering with the need to make amends, as the baroness dabbed at her face with a kerchief and sought to regain her composure.

“You must speak to him.” Merry’s voice quavered with indignation.

Adelle dabbed at her eyes. “Speak with whom, my dear?”

“The Phoenix,” Merry insisted, growing more determined by the second. “He hasn’t guessed your sons’ plight. I’m certain if he knew, he would cease this terrible destruction and leave you in peace.”

The baroness put a hand on either side of Merry’s face. “’Twould do no good, child,” she said sadly. “I know what kind of man he is. My Ian is the same way. He does what he believes is his duty. He will do as the king commands.”

Certain of Luke’s compassion, Merry shook her head. “Nay,” she protested, “he will do what is right. You must tell him. You must beg him to—”

Adelle silenced her with a look. “I will not beg anything of him,” she retorted, squaring her shoulders.

Merry’s eyes widened. “Then let me tell him,” she suggested, more humbly.

“’Twill serve no purpose,” the baroness answered, pressing her lips together.

“Only let me try,” she repeated. “How can it hurt? He might be content with the damage done and leave you in peace.”

The baroness’s answer was to pat her cheek. “You’re a good-hearted girl,” she said.

Merry blinked, scarcely comprehending the compliment. For so many years, no one had called her anything but an evil witch, even a murderer.

“Why don’t you stay with us when the Phoenix flies away?” Adelle asked, revealing the extent of her loneliness.

Touched by the offer, Merry squeezed her hand and smiled at her sadly. “I thank you for your kindness, but I will have to go.” She doubted the baron, with his elderly vassals, could protect her should the Church discover her whereabouts. Only her brother-in-law, the Slayer, had that kind of might.

In the meantime, she would forget her own shame and misery. She would approach Luke about the plight of the baroness. Surely, if he knew the extent of her suffering, he would find it in his heart to have mercy on the woman.

 

Luke rested the heavy end of his bludgeon at his feet and gave in to the impulse at last, glancing toward the keep. Earlier, he had glimpsed Merry peering through a window. Her pull on him dismayed him still, for he could sense her regard without even meeting it. Her simple gaze gave rise to a slew of mixed emotions—relief to know her safe, anger that she’d nearly been raped while under his protection, and something else. Something he refused to analyze too deeply.

Checking on Merry that morning, he’d discovered that Lady Iversly had spent the night in her chamber. A feeling akin to envy had twisted through him as he realized Adelle’s devotion.

Ridiculous! Merry deserved all the tender ministrations she could get.

In truth, he could not have said what he was feeling, his emotions seeming to shift with each beat of his heart. On the one hand, he blamed Merry for causing him to draw his sword on one of his own men, held her responsible for his own punitive violence that had caused his men that morning to regard him as they would a stranger.

Indeed, he had lost their trust for the time being, all because she’d wandered into the garrison in a state of undress.

On the other hand, he had overheard his soldiers blame her, too, and his response had been immediate indignation. As the rumor went, she had bewitched Cullin, inviting him to attack her and to seal his own doom. The ignorant remark had set his blood to seething. As if her strange beauty weren’t enticing enough; they cast her in the role of sorceress. The fear that one of them might yet whisk her away for the reward money haunted him daily.

What, then, was this emotion that left him feeling so irascible, so bereft of his usual control? ’Tis merely concern, he assured himself. Merry was his responsibility. He’d promised Sir Roger he would deliver her safely into the Slayer’s hands, which he’d yet to do, and he wasn’t one to take his promises lightly.

His upper lip curled into a sneer of self-mockery, for he knew ’twas far more than concern that had cast him into such turmoil. The violation Merry had nearly experienced last night left a taste in his mouth so galling he knew an urge to spit.

On the heels of that confession came the baffling revelation that he wanted no man touching Merry . . . but himself.

He staggered back a step or two, nearly toppling off the narrow scaffolding. One more step and he might have plummeted to his death.

Consider that a warning, he thought, wiping sweat from his brow. He had no right to consider Merry his personal property, nor to lust after her when he was betrothed to another.

To do so could only cause harm—harm to Merry, who would certainly expect more of him than a quick possession and a quicker farewell. Harm to himself, also, for he had a feeling he would taste a passion with her that he would not soon forget and never experience with Lady Amalie.

Reasoning this through, he expected his yearning to subside. However, the backbreaking labor had increased his stamina and swelled his muscles, leaving him feeling every inch a male. The need to seek relief between a woman’s legs kept him in a state of semi-arousal.

Perhaps he ought to tup one of the castle’s serving women. He toyed with the possibility of trading coin for a quick roll, but it was a vision of Merry that came to him as he imagined sweet relief, her ripe breasts swaying beneath him. Lying with another woman would only inflame him further. Better to ignore his needs and concentrate on his labors.

That thought in mind, he lifted his gaze to assess his accomplishments. The eastern tower had been nearly leveled, so that only a great pile of rubble littered the wall walk. His men heaved the smaller stones over the side where they tumbled downhill while others broke the bigger blocks into pieces.

Watching their desultory movements, he could see at once they had no heart for this pointless work. With long faces and puckered brows, they labored in silence.

The usual banter and good-natured insults were all lacking.

Two mercenaries, Cullin’s friends, had deserted Iversly in the night, presumably to bury their companion rather than leave him to be savaged and eaten by predators. They had not returned, making this the first time Luke had ever lost men to desertion. The temptation to blame Merry rose up in him once again and then receded.

If anyone were to blame, it was he, himself. Had he not been the one to bring Merry up on the wall? Had he not insisted they go to Iversly rather than south to Helmsley? If he had conveyed her at once to her brother-in-law, certes he’d have fallen days behind schedule, but so what? Likely, he would be delayed in any event. The disquiet of his men and his own inability to focus had put them well behind schedule.

With a need to vent his frustrations, he hefted his bludgeon. Crack! Shards of rock showered his calves as the blunt head glanced ineffectually off the heavy stone. Cursing his poor aim, Luke tried again, this time succeeding in cracking the slab neatly down the center. As he moved to another, a flicker of color caught his eye, drawing toward the main keep.

However, it was not the object of his obsession gazing out at him, but rather the Baron of Iversly, whose custom it had become to stand at his chamber window, observing. The bludgeon in Luke’s hand grew suddenly weighted. He set the head of it down and met the baron’s gaze.

I am only doing my duty! He sought to defend himself across the space between them.

Perhaps it was the proud angle of his shoulders, but Lord Iversly looked more than ever like Luke’s grandfather. Even across the distance between them, his sad stoicism struck pity into Luke’s breast. Strangely, the words of his grandfather, written in a summons over a month hence, returned to him. I am dying, Luke. Yet I will endeavor to hang on until your return.

In disgust, Luke let the handle of his bludgeon fall to the wall walk. Several sets of eyes swiveled in his direction.

“Take a break,” he said, having gotten his men’s attention. He began to stride toward the tower stairs.

“Should we eat, my lord?” his field marshal called, frowning after him from under his shaggy brow.

“Aye, eat,” Luke replied, though the sun was only yet nearing its summit.

He descended the stairs two at a time. Normally, he did not take his midday meal in the great hall, but today he would make an exception.

 

 

“Will you walk with me, my lady?” Luke asked, using the edge of the table linen to wipe his hands, as was the custom. “We have a matter to discuss.”

In spite of Luke’s cool tone, Merry’s pulse quickened. “Aye, we do,” she agreed, gaining a closer look from him, followed by a frown.

Throughout the meal, she’d sought and failed to understand exactly what had changed between them. He remained civil but quiet. The leaping of muscles in his jaw betrayed impatience, and yet his words and actions were solicitous. Obviously, he blamed her for the previous night’s drama, yet sought to remain the courteous commander.

As Luke escorted her from the table, Merry intercepted Adelle’s quick look. The baroness could not disguise her hope that Merry would intercede on her behalf. Merry sent her a slight smile of encouragement. She would do what she could.

Only the fear that she would hear denigration of her character from his lips—the same that had kissed her so sweetly—made her wary of speaking with him. Yet, regardless of how Luke felt toward her at present, Lord and Lady Iversly’s plight came before her own, for they were old with few years of happiness left to them.

Luke was the first to break the silence as he escorted her from the hall and out to the inner bailey. “How fare you today?”

His dauntingly formal tone was mitigated by the concern that softened his aspect as he glanced sidelong at her bruised cheek. Indeed, he’d been looking at it throughout the meal.

“Well enough, thank you.” Her heart began to pound at the urgency of her mission.

Crunching fall grass beneath their feet, he gestured for her to head toward the gate. “Let us walk about the outer bailey,” he suggested, squinting against the vivid brightness of the sun.

“As you wish.” Taking the arm he offered, she wondered at the purpose of such a lengthy walk. Clearly, he had something of import to tell her. She wondered whether to hear him out first or bring up her own concerns.

The outer ward lay deserted. Merry shaded her eyes as she surveyed the ragged hole where the tower had been. There were no men working.

“What takes you from your labors?” she inquired.

Rather than answer, he continued their slow but steady pace mirroring the outer bailey wall for a quarter of its length. At last he said, “I halted the demolition so I could be sure to meet with you after the meal. I’ve come to a decision.”

Halting her movements, which also stopped his, she turned to face him, hopeful that he’d decided to cease the destruction. “What have you decided?” she asked.

Regarding her from his superior height, he caused a crease to appear between his winging, black eyebrows. “I am taking you to Helmsley on the morrow.”

His reply struck her dumb.

“I ought never to have brought you here to begin with,” Luke continued, in a voice without inflection. “I had no idea one of my men would—” he broke off his sentence, cutting his gaze to the bruise on her cheek. “I hold myself entirely responsible for what happened and what nearly happened, as well.”

Her shock subsided, bitterness welling up to take its place, for she could plainly see the truth through the veil of his self-blame. It was she whom he held responsible for Cullin’s death. He blamed her entirely and could not wait to see the last of her.

She had expected such a blow. Yet she reeled at the suddenness of his decision. To be shuffled off so soon! It left her so little time to mitigate Lord and Lady Iversly’s situation. It left her so little time to be near—

Blinking at the ravaged tower, she stopped her own distraught thoughts and strove to appear unaffected by Luke’s decision. Her devastation made no difference. ’Twas more important that she use what time was left to her to soften his heart.

“Will you return here after I’m delivered?” To her relief, her voice sounded steady though thin.

His scowl deepened. “Of course,” he said. “I must complete the king’s orders.”

She nodded, swallowing the lump that had lodged in her throat. “There’s something you should know about the baron’s sons,” she continued, fighting to keep her tone steady. “Ewan and Selwin have been gone for over twelve years. No one has heard from them in all that time.”

She paused a moment to let the implication take hold in him. “The baron has no heirs,” she finished, fighting to hold his gaze while betraying none of the pain that welled in her.

’Twas no easy task, especially when looking into Luke’s golden brown eyes and when he kept silent. Puzzlement seemed to cross his strikingly handsome face.

“Her sons are dead, her husband is in peril of dying,” Merry continued, “and her home is being laid to waste. Don’t you think it high time you showed some mercy, Luke?” She sought the tiniest softening in his demeanor. “Could you not tell King Henry that you destroyed the illegitimate structures yet leave the rest standing?” she suggested.

“You mean lie,” he interrupted, firmly. “Lie to my king?”

A surge of anger beat back the ache in her chest “’Tisn’t lying,” she insisted, “to withhold some of the truth. Who will suffer for it? How can you say that destroying this fortress is anything but sheer idiocy? The king will need to turn around and strengthen it again. Where is the sense in that?”

“I’ve told you already, it isn’t your place to question Henry’s commands any more than it is mine.” His voice fell to a dangerous note. “I gave His Grace my word, and I have ever been obedient to his command.” The muscles in his shoulders tensed as his gaze rose to the western tower still awaiting destruction.

Merry’s knees trembled at the injustice of the baroness’s situation, as well as her own. Luke’s heartlessness sparked a sudden fury, making her long to hurt him in return.

“You, Luke d’Aubigny, mighty heir to the Earl of Arundel, are nothing but the puppet of a tyrant,” she denounced, fisting her hands at her sides.

Ignoring the look of surprise that crossed his features, she continued, “I have lost all respect for you. Furthermore, I have no intention of going to Helmsley when I am needed here. What about the baron? And what of Philippe?” she raged. “Who will care for his leg?”

His shocked expression became a hardened mask. “Gervaise has it well in hand.”

“Hah! Gervaise doesn’t even know how to bring down a fever! What if the baron should suffer another attack? Who will comfort Lady Iversly if her husband follows her sons to the grave? You?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes glittered with resolve. “The baron is not your responsibility,” he countered, “and neither is the baroness, nor Philippe. However, you are mine. Clearly, I cannot protect you while finishing this obligation.”

“I will not go to Helmsley!” She stamped a foot, kicking up dust. “There is naught for me there but a lifetime of exile!”

“There is nothing for you here,” he corrected.

A significant silence followed his remark.

You are here, Merry’s heart cried out. Pride prevented her from speaking the words for she had no claim on him. Furthermore, ’twas clear he did not return her feelings of affection.

“I promised to take you to Helmsley,” he continued, spacing his words carefully. “What difference does a matter of weeks make?”

What difference, indeed? She studied him, then, committing his face to memory, wanting to carry it with her into her bleak future. Her fingers itched to touch his inky black hair, to discover if it felt as silky as it looked. His kindness, as well as Philippe’s, had eased her fear of male brutality, despite Cullin’s attack.

Luke alone, though, had made her want something more—something it was apparently not her destiny to feel.

Everything had changed since the night before, just as she’d suspected. She’d become far more than a nuisance with the death of Cullin and the loss of two other men. Yes, she was a burdensome duty, and he did not crave even a few more weeks in her company but rather to complete his duty immediately.

“For mercy’s sake, don’t look at me like that.”

His gruff words had her blinking through the tears that filmed her eyes. Was that regret lacing his voice? Or annoyance?

“Merry,” he ground out.

In the next instant, his hands cradled each side of her face. She gasped, both astonished by his touch and relieved by the gentle way in which he cupped her cheeks.

“You must understand that I do this for your sake.” Where his voice had been cold before, it now resonated with feeling. “I cannot keep you safe here, not from the Church, not from my men and maybe not even . . .” He caught himself and visibly swallowed. “You will be safer at Helmsley with your sister’s family to protect you. You see that, don’t you?”

The lump in her throat expanded. To be deposited at the Slayer’s home early, never to see Luke again—she found the thought intolerable!

For the sake of Lady Iversly, she found her voice. “I beg you to consider Lady Iversly’s situation before my own.”

 

 

Astonished by Merry’s words, Luke wiped an errant tear from her cheek, his thumb seeming to move across it of its own accord, his tongue too tangled with confusion to give utterance.

She had done it again, he realized. She’d confounded his determination to remain aloof, first by calling his duty into question, meddling in affairs that were none of her concern. Her insistence on the subject infuriated him, for he was not a man to leave a task unfinished.

Annoyance transformed into reluctant admiration, however, as she boldly championed the baroness, putting aside her own uncertain future and demanding Luke consider Lady Iversly’s plight. She had done the same for Philippe, he realized. Before that, she’d defied the prioress to defend her fellow nuns.

If he hadn’t fully realized it before, Merry du Boise was a crusader for the discouraged and the helpless. The mightiness of her spirit, encapsulated in such a diminutive yet alluring form, left him awe-struck. To trample that spirit, to be the cause of her distress, filled him with remorse.

He sought some way to mitigate his cruelty.

“I’ve no wish to hurt the baroness,” he told her. “This is something that has to be done. I must fulfill King Henry’s wishes.”

“For righteousness’ sake, you could defy him,” she earnestly suggested.

“You’re a mad, little angel.” The words escaped him before he could catch them back. Thank God none of his men were near to overhear him. Yet, at the same time, he experienced a strange exhilaration at giving voice to his thoughts.

Her forehead furrowed with confusion.

“I’ve never known a woman to speak her mind so plainly,” he explained.

Rolling her eyes, she offered him her wry smile. “’Tisn’t an attribute that has served me well,” she admitted.

The twist of her lips beguiled him. God’s blood, but he found her irresistible, from her strong-minded opposition to her fearless championing of the needy!

His thumbs strayed over the velvety softness of her cheeks. “You are not a witch,” he insisted. “Still, I fear in a way you have bewitched me,” he confessed, recognizing a dangerous desire to slide his hands into the satin fall of her hair, even as her lovely eyes widened at his words.

’Twould serve him nothing to give in to his urges. Still, he watched with fascination as his fingers sank into her fiery tresses, finding them impossibly silky. He tugged her closer, even as he cautioned himself not to. The softness of her breasts against his chest made his heart pound.

Yielding to the blazing hunger he’d been fighting, he kissed her, crushing the lush fullness of her lips under his, wondering how he’d abstained this long without tasting her again. To his gratification, she softened beneath him, parting her lips shyly and offering the sultriness of her mouth.

He dove in, dizzy with need, provoked to recklessness by her tiny moan of surrender.

Encircling her waist, he hauled her tightly against him, driven to feel her pressed to him from mouth to thighs. Desire gripped him, both dismaying and exciting him with its power. His brain sought and failed to exert control over his baser instincts.

For the first time in his life, he acted at the mercy of his impulses, every nerve in his body straining to get its fill of her.

“Stop!” She twisted her mouth from his. “Please,” she begged in a ragged voice. “Release me.”

It took a moment for the meaning of her words to penetrate. Realizing he held her pinned against him, his erect manhood pressed against her lower belly, he dropped his arms with a feeling akin to astonishment and stepped back. Reason edged his desire aside.

Merry stood there, breathing fast. Her jaw worked as if she wished to say something but couldn’t.

Words eluded Luke, as well. Dragging both hands through his hair, he sought to slow his thudding heart. “I will escort you to Helmsley at dawn,” he grated, aware that his tone sounded harsh. ’Twas himself he blamed for his weakness, not her, but Merry flinched and faltered back. With a strangled cry, she fisted her skirts and whirled, running from him as if the hounds of hell were after her.

Wallowing in confusion, Luke watched her flee. Guilt bubbled up, and he took a few steps forward, intending to call her back. Then reason exerted itself once more. What could he possibly say to her—when he could not explain his own actions to himself?

Was this her doing or his? She had provoked him one too many times with her saucy mouth. Her tears had demanded that he comfort her with a kiss.

Yet she’d been the one to sever it.

He swallowed uneasily. Clearly, the fault was all his then, proving he was not the logical and disciplined warrior he’d always believed he was.

 

Merry slept fitfully and then stirred, not knowing what had awakened her. The brazier had died down to a mere whimper, and a chilly air seeped through the cracked shutters. Adelle, at Merry’s insistence, had retired to her own chambers hours earlier. Kit, who had been curled beside her when she fell asleep, had apparently slipped through the window to hunt by night, as was his wont.

Stricken with a sense of isolation, Merry burrowed deeper under the covers, seeking warmth and refuge from the dreams that plagued her. At the creaking of the shutter, she lifted her head from the pillow to listen beyond her curtained bed for the patter of paws upon the rushes. Her heart gave a jolt when rushes crackled beneath the tread of heavier feet.

Every hair on her body rose as, to her horror, her bed hangings parted abruptly, and there stood Cullin, his face dripping in blood. He grinned down at her.

“Ye thought me dead, didn’t ye?” he taunted.

Too terrified to utter more than a high-pitched whimper, Merry scrambled backward, kicking off her blankets. Cullin reached for her, seizing her by the ankle in a biting grip. He pulled her inexorably toward him. “Let us finish this.”

She fought him with the same desperation she had done before, clawing at his eyes and at his bloodied face until he pinned her wrists to the mattress. Her legs felt strangely weighted, as though he’d tied them to the posts at the corners of the bed.

She stared into the inky darkness, unable to comprehend the superhuman strength he wielded. In the shadows of the boxed bed, it was hard to see his face, but the man above her sported a beard and a full head of shaggy, matted hair. She studied him in consternation, noting the familiar form of his torso and a cold nail of fear drove straight through her.

’Twasn’t Cullin at all. ’Twas Ferguson. The man who’d murdered her father. The one who’d raped her mother. The devil who’d shattered her idyllic childhood and left nothing but ruin and despair.

“Now, Merry,” he growled through yellowed teeth, “I’ve come back for you.”