XIX

XIX

In the span of a few weeks, a remarkable change had come to the manor.

When Jeanne and Michael arrived from the Continent, the place began to take on the ambiance that so graced Montoui. Elise's trained guards arrived, including her experienced captain. Bryan found his ten men for Richard's army, and a hundred more to train as guards and soldiers to protect his Cornish borders. A wall could not be built to encompass the village and the far-spread farms, but Bryan set boundaries around the manor, and in his first few days of labor he was able to see the foundations set. There was no lack of stone, since his property contained the quarry from which the walls of the manor had been dug a hundred years before.

At sunrise each morning, his rough army went through drills. They were ignorant of the way of arms, but eager to learn, and grateful for their new station. As Bryan well knew, a man born with little could expect to gain little in this life—unless he had exceptional wit or strength. It would take months for the army to shape together, just as it would take months for his stone wall to rise, but he could leave knowing that the foundations were well laid for each.

He sat upon his horse on the morning that marked his eighth in Cornwall, watching the captain put the men through drill. Dummies were staked out upon spits, and the men, who so far had swords, practiced tearing their lifeless opponents apart.

He called to a man now and then with a suggestion or comment, and saw that his orders were well taken. He was musing over a number of talented lads when Alaric came running to him, across the rear fields, from the back of the manor.

He was panting when he reached Bryan's horse, and had to take several seconds to catch his breath.

"Milady . . . the duchess . . . asks that you come to the house with all speed! Riders are coming; she's seen them from the west tower!"

"Riders?" Bryan queried.

"Seems she knows them," Alaric replied.

Bryan raised his brow, then turned his horse toward the manor and galloped full speed toward it. Young Wat, who had come with Michael and Jeanne, was ready to care for his destrier, and he was able to jump from the horse and hurry into the hall.

Elise had been supervising the curing of meat to carry the household through the winter ahead. She wore simple gray wool for the task, and her hair was plaited in two loose braids. She looked like a fresh, young peasant girl herself when he strode in and found her calling hurried commands to Maddie.

"What is it?" Bryan asked her.

Her glare at him assured him that, whatever it was, she considered it to be his fault.

"Company!" she snapped, and then she hesitated, lowering her lashes. "Lord and Lady Montagu."

"Gwyneth and Percy? How do you know? If you saw them from the tower, they must still be a distance away."

Elise hesitated again, then said blandly, "I know Percy's standard when I see it. They come with an armed escort of four. I've told Maddie that supper must be exceptional; Michael and she are putting together a meal now. Would you have Alaric bring up whatever wine is in the cellar? I know that it is a poor stock, but please make the best selection you can. I must run up and change my gown."

She was distressed, he saw, and it irritated him because he was not quite sure why.

"I wouldn't overly exert yourself," he told her dryly. "They are both aware, I'm sure, that we've just arrived. And being as close as they are, both surely knew that this place needed a great deal of work. They will not expect us to offer sumptuous hospitality."

"Well they will be offered it!" Elise snapped in return, and then her eyes lowered again. "Please, Bryan. I will not be pitied by either of them."

"Pitied, madame?"

Her eyes raised to his, turquoise, crystaline, and wide. She swept an arm to encompass the hall and the estate. "Please, Bryan?" she asked him softly. "I want no one to know that we . . . struggled."

He sighed. "Go change, Duchess. Alaric and I shall drag out our finest, and if some should starve through the winter for it, so be it."

"No one will starve!" she retorted, hiking her skirts up and scampering for the stairs, since no one but Bryan was about to see her. He watched her go, wondering if she wished to deck herself out because of pride, or because she needed to assure herself that she could still attract her lost love.

Grating his teeth, he spun about. Alaric, still panting, had entered the hall behind him.

"Come, Alaric. You must escort me to whatever wine cellar we have. That which is important must be ceased. The duchess wishes to entertain."

Alaric did not understand his duke's sudden foul temper. He nodded, then proceeded to lead Bryan to the kitchen, and then down to the dampness of the cellar.

* * *

In truth he felt he owed Percy Montagu no grudge. He considered his neighbor knight to possess a strange set of priorities and a foolishly quick temper, but he felt sorry for him. Percy had been in love—a fool's quest, at the very least. It had been his own confused sense of honor that had cost Percy Elise, and he had certainly been rewarded handsomely with Gwyneth. But Bryan had, albeit unknowingly, taken the woman he had loved. Knights felt a keen sense of justice toward one another, and because of that, Bryan still felt that he wronged the man—whether he particularly liked him or not. If he but trusted Elise . . .

There had been a small, cobwebbed supply of Bordeaux wine in the cellar. Bryan had left Alaric to bring it up, and had then come back out, calling to Wat for his horse. Elise wanted to offer hospitality; he would ride out to greet the callers.

It was just minutes before he reached them. Gwyneth waved wildly when she saw him coming, and was ready to greet him with her ever-lovely smile. Percy took his hand in a firm grip with more solemnity, and as their horses pranced, he spoke apologetically.

"Perhaps we shouldn't have come; word is that you have just arrived yourselves. The truth of the matter, Stede, is Gwyneth. I am recalled to London to join Richard, as you are, and I would be happier if Gwyneth and Elise were to keep in close touch with each other." He hesitated a moment. "Gwyneth is expecting a child, and should we be in a distant land when the time comes, I would like to know that she has a friend nearby."

Bryan glanced quickly at Gwyneth, then offered them both his congratulations. "I'm quite pleased, as I'm sure Elise will be, with your good fortune. And you are quite welcome here at any time. It's true that we've just arrived, but we're glad to have you come."

They walked the horses to the manor. Gwyneth spoke about the crops that grew best in their rocky soil; Percy told him that Richard had started on his campaign to raise money. A knight with no desire to go on crusade could honorably "buy" his absence. The King of Scotland had offered several thousand marks rather than his service, and other great barons, dukes, and earls were doing the same. Merchants were being sold concessions; obscure offices and titles were being revived, and for a goodly sum, a man could purchase himself a place in the king's government.

"Of course, he's being careful. And some knights have paid their dues—and then announced they were riding with our king anyway."

Bryan laughed. "I sense Queen Eleanor's fine hand in all this," he told Percy. "She would have warned Richard that he could not remain a popular monarch while taxing his people further! So no taxes—the king becomes a merchant. Brilliant!"

They had reached the manor. Bryan was surprised but pleased to see that Wat and two other—suddenly uniformed —boys were standing by to take the horses, and to escort Percy's guards to the freshly refurbished gatehouse.

Elise was waiting for them before the mantel. Although he wasn't sure he didn't prefer the long-braided waif, Bryan had to admire her elegant transformation. Her gown was a deep green velvet, long, gracefully sleeved. The scooped neckline and hem were edged with gold trim; it was a simple dress, yet entirely fluid and lovely upon her curved figure. Her hair had been captured and sleekly coiffed to curl about the gold-and-pearl crown of her headdress. A light train of wafting beige silk flowed from her crown as well as plaited lengths of her hair.

She stepped forward to greet them. "Lady Gwyneth, Percy . . . what a pleasure it is to receive you here. Come in, come in. You must be parched from your ride."

Bryan watched her as she addressed the two; she was so cordial and demure that he felt the urge to shake her. He couldn't tell what went on beneath her turquoise eyes when they rested upon Percy, but he wondered if he wouldn't be tempted to slap her if he did know.

She smiled her elusive smile and seemed to float across the room as she approached the table. The burgundy had been brought up and set into a silver decanter; four jewel-crested goblets rested beside it. Bryan hadn't seen the goblets before; he assumed that Michael had brought them from Montoui along with other "niceties."

Gwyneth and Percy followed Elise to the table, and Bryan followed. They took chairs before the fire and conversation continued. Percy expounded on King Richard's affairs; Gwyneth invited Elise to come hunting in their forest acres.

The time passed easily, Bryan noted. A lad appeared in the room, and Elise needed only to lift her hand and he stood ready to refill a glass.

One would never think that she had just left the heat of her own kitchen, sweating along with the others to preserve meat for winter. It appeared that her most difficult task in the world was the selection of the proper gown for the day.

My cap is off to you, Duchess, he thought dryly.

They gave Percy and Gwyneth a tour of the manor, and Bryan smiled as he realized how smoothly Elise avoided the rooms they had not yet cleaned and refurbished. The only awkward moment was in their chamber, when Gwyneth exclaimed with delight and envy over their bath.

"How wonderful!" she cried.

"Yes, it is," Elise told her. "The water escapes constantly through a pipe, and is replenished constantly through a mechanism that dips down to the spring beyond the walls. It was an invention from Rome, or so they tell us."

"Absolutely wonderful!" Gwyneth repeated with awe. "And right in your bedchamber!"

"You must come and make use of it sometime," Elise told her politely. But it was at that moment that an uneasy cold seemed to settle over the group. Bryan glanced at his wife. All of them . . . who was thinking that they would enjoy the bath with whom?

Percy would be leaving when he did, he reminded himself. He did not like the amount of relief that the thought gave him.

Gwyneth laughed and broke the uneasy spell. "Perhaps, when we two are left behind when our husbands enter the king's service, I shall come and stay with you."

"That will be pleasant," Elise murmured. "But, you must be famished by now! We'll go on down and dine . . ."

The meal was wonderful, impeccably served. Bryan wondered how even Elise and her loyal servants had managed such a feast in such short time. There was roasted pork, huge legs of lamb, endless pies, sweetbreads and puddings, fresh fruit in abundance.

We might well be the wealthiest nobility in the land by such a spread . . . he thought. Ah, yes, his wife was efficient.

It was not until the meal was almost over that Gwyneth thought to explain their appearance that day to Elise.

"So you see, though I do apologize for coming so hastily upon you two, I was most anxious to see you! I'm not as young as I should be for a first child, and I confess to being very frightened."

There was a subtle difference in Elise's expression and tone of voice.

"But this is . . . wonderful . . . Percy, Gwyneth . . . I wish you every happiness with your child." She took a sip of her wine. "When . . . is the child due?"

"Late spring, I believe," Gwyneth said enthusiastically. "It sounds so far off, but time can so easily escape us."

"Yes . . ." Elise murmured. "It can. Don't be afraid, Gwyneth. My maid . . . Jeanne . . . was in attendance when I was born. We are both nearby."

The words were cordial, but Bryan thought the warmth had gone from his wife's voice. Why? Because she had longed for Percy's child herself? He wasn't to understand her reasoning until Gwyneth and Percy had been lodged in a guest chamber, and he had at last closed the door to their own.

"What was the matter with you down there?" he demanded. "One would think you wished them ill with their child."

"Their child?" She spun about and he saw that fury burned, vibrant and vital, burned deep within the turquoise depths of her eyes.

"What are you talking about?" he queried, equally tense as he crossed his arms over his chest and surveyed her.

"Can't you count, my lord? The child is due in spring. Is it Percy's child—or yours?"

Bryan narrowed his eyes at her and said evenly, "They were married in August."

"Yes—conveniently close, I would say."

Bryan ignored her and moved into the room. He sat upon the bed and pulled his boots off, then wearily drew his fingers through his hair.

"Well?" Elise demanded in a hiss.

"Well, what?"

"Is it your child?"

Bryan threw off his mantle, not caring that it fell to the floor in a heap. "No," he told her, but he had hesitated just a minute too long.

"You're lying."

"I'm not lying," he snapped impatiently. "I'm doing my best to shut you up without any English barbarism."

"Is it or isn't it your child?"

"All right, Elise. If it comes in March, it is my child. If it comes in April, Percy is the father."

He stood up, ignoring her, as he pulled his tunic over his shoulders. He completed undressing and climbed into bed. She hadn't moved. He cast a glance her way. She stood dead-still with her hands knotted into fists at her side as she stared at him with dark fury burning a lethal tempest in her eyes.

He closed his own, casting a crooked arm over his eyes to shield them from the candlelight.

"We played your game today, Elise. Our company was suitably impressed with our elegance. I am weary; come to bed."

He remained still, opening one eye beneath the shadow of his arm. She swung about suddenly, her footsteps sharp as she headed for the door.

He sprang out of the bed with an agile leap, catching her arm and swinging her about.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Out where?"

"Anywhere. Away from you."

"Why?"

"That is clearly apparent."

He released her and leaned negligently against the door, staring at her. With her chin obstinately raised, she returned his stare.

"I have not been with Gwyneth since the night Richard reached the outskirts of London."

She blinked, but gave no other sign the words meant anything to her. "I would like to walk by," she told him coolly.

He was silent for several seconds. "Because of Gwyneth? Or because you suddenly find it distasteful to sleep with your husband when the gallant Percy rests beneath the same roof?"

"Does it matter?" she queried. Elise was very close to tears, and more than willing to lash out at him and make him feel the hurt that gnawed at her like a hundred tiny knives.

He raised a brow. "In the outcome of anything? No. To me, yes."

"Maybe I feel, my lord husband, that you should be forced to the same doubts as the rest of us. Maybe I should seek Percy out—and allow you to wonder if the heir you crave is your own or not. And maybe knowing that Percy is in this house does make me ache to feel his arms about me—"

It was as far as she got. He never meant to do so, but suddenly he was grasping her to him and shaking her. He realized what he was doing and released her—too quickly. She fell to the floor, stunned, but not beaten. Like a whirlwind she was on her feet, flying at him, fists pounding his chest, nails raking his flesh. He closed his eyes briefly, fighting for control, then caught her and held her hard against him. Her head tilted back; her eyes met his, still blazing a liquid turquoise fire.

"Leave off, Duchess," he said quietly.

"Just let me by," she whispered.

He shook his head slowly. "You'll never shut me out because of Percy Montagu—or any other man."

"Yet you expect me to jump demurely into bed while I accept your mistress and your bastard into my house?"

"Ex-mistress—and it was at your insistence that we offered hospitality. And . . . it is most unlikely that the child is mine."

"Most unlikely!"

"Elise! The past is something I cannot change. I doubt that she carries my child; Gwyneth is wise in the ways of the world, and I have always been careful not to leave a string of bastards across the battlefields or home. What would you have me do? Insult Percy further and demand to know if he is certain he is about to be a father?"

"I would have you leave me alone!"

"You are not going out that door tonight. I'll not have you combing the corridors to snare the unwary Percy, should he wander from his chamber and discover his hostess ready for reckless abandon upon the stone—"

He broke off, ruefully rubbing his jaw as he discovered that she could break his grip and return a slap to rival his for potency. The sharp sound echoed between them.

Perhaps it was deserved.

"You are not leaving, Elise," he told her quietly.

"I am—"

"No, you're not. And if you push me any further, I'm going to forget that I possibly deserved your blow. If we must have a scene before guests, it might as well be that of the brutal husband flogging his sharp-tongued wife."

If she'd had a sword at that moment, he was certain she would have gladly pierced it through him. As it was, she held his eyes with brilliant defiance, then spun about, wrenching from his grasp, and sat in the chair before the fire.

He watched her for several seconds, then sighed. He knew that set of her chin. She was not about to budge.

He walked to her side and grazed her cheek with his knuckles. She flinched at his touch.

"I am sorry, Elise."

She lifted her eyes to his. "Just what, pray tell, milord, is it that you're sorry for? That you railed against me? Or that we were forced into this mockery of a marriage to begin with?"

"You never bend, do you, Elise?"

"I asked you a question."

"I am sorry that you are hurt."

Her eyes dropped from his to her hands. She played idly with the sapphire ring she wore now on her middle finger.

"I must admit, I'm flattered."

"Flattered?"

"I had not thought you would care."

"Then don't flatter yourself, Stede," she told him coolly. "I don't like to be humiliated, and I consider this a humiliating situation."

Bryan stepped away from her. "Get in bed, Elise," he told her tiredly.

"I don't care—"

"I don't give a damn what you do or do not care to do. I can't leave you sitting there fully dressed upon the chair; I know your talent for disappearances."

She remained in the chair, staring absently at the ring, as if she hadn't heard. With a muttered oath of exasperation, he wrenched at her arm, jerking her from the chair. Her eyes fell upon his with surprise and brilliant hostility. "Elise, I did nothing with malice in mind to hurt you. But, by Christ, I will not allow you out of this room, and therefore I will have you by my side to assure myself you do not attempt any of your foolish escapes. I am very tired, and weary of this pointless argument. You have until my count of ten to undress and be in bed—else I'll see you there myself."

She started to laugh. "The valiant man who never stoops to force—"

"And his wife the shrew," Bryan interrupted her. "I won't force anything from you—other than your form where it should, by right, be. But, sweet wife, that I swear I will force with little patience if—"

"Just don't touch me!" Elise hissed, pulling her arm from his hold and turning her back to him. With shaking fingers she doffed her finery, allowing her clothing to fall at her feet. Tears were hotly stinging her eyes; she wanted to pound against him until he was black and blue, pound against him until he understood. . .

What? She didn't know. She didn't understand herself. He thought she wanted to run to Percy; she couldn't even remember what it had been like to love Percy.

She had just wanted to run . . . from Bryan. And yet, if he had let her go, she would have known an even deeper misery.

Her shift fell to the floor. Still shaking, she threw aside her headdress impatiently and unwound her hair, wrenching the pins so that liquid rushed to her eyes with pain. Barely aware of any feeling, she climbed beneath the coolness of the sheets, turning her back to the center of the bed and closing her eyes. It would have been foolish to fight him, because he would have won.

It would have been even more foolish to fight him, because she would have touched him, and perhaps given away the fact that no matter how hurt and angry she was, she still longed to touch him. Maybe more than ever, she wanted to be reassured and held, and she wanted to believe that Gwyneth's child couldn't possibly be his, because Elise did not think she could bear to share Bryan in such a fashion. She would go mad . . .

She dug her fingers into her pillow, forcing herself to keep her eyes closed, her body perfectly still.

He moved about the room, snuffing out the candles. She felt his weight as he lay down beside her.

True to his word, he kept his distance. She heard his breathing in the silence of the night; she fancied she could hear his heartbeat.

It was but her own, pounding mercilessly against her chest.

She waited, tense and miserable, but the seconds ticked by to minutes, and the minutes continued to pass. He did not reach out for her. Elise brought her knuckles to her mouth and bit into them; she needed him . . .

She didn't want to need him.

The conflicting desires created a havoc in her heart that was as painful as it was confused. Her emotions roiled within her, out of control like a wave begun at the ocean floor, and tearing now toward land. She could not stay in the bed, not without screaming, not without exploding like a dry log in a hot fire . . .

Her knuckles grazed against her cheeks and she found that they were damp. She tried to take a deep, steadying breath; instead, a muffled sob escaped her.

"Elise . . ."

At last he rolled to her, his fingers smoothing her hair away lightly, and grazing her throat.

"No!" she groaned out miserably.

"You're crying . . ."

"I'm angry!" she retorted, and her very fragile grasp upon control snapped. She spun on him, entangling herself in the sheets, and pounding brokenly upon his chest. For a long while he allowed her to. Then he crushed her against him, holding her. He touched her cheeks and felt the tears, and he knew a feeling of tenderness to rival the passion she could always arouse. He abruptly rolled her beneath him, and, forgetting his promise, kissed the dampness from her cheeks, and then found her lips. To his surprise, her lips parted hungrily to his, and she clung to him, pressing fervently against him.

Elise discovered that anger could spark desire—dark, fierce, and tempestuous. Her heart had never been more in a tempest, but never had she longed for him more.

Yet suddenly he drew away from her. She had wanted the night to surround them with only the dim embers from the fire to break the blackness; Bryan began lighting the candles about the bed.

He met her eyes as he came to her again, lowering himself slowly over her.

"Tonight . . . tonight we will both see with clarity. You will keep your eyes open when I make love to you. And you will whisper my name to me . . . again . . . and again."

She did not answer him. Their eyes continued to meet in a fiery clash of wills until all was forgotten but sweet urgency.

When it was past, Elise curled against him, and, exhausted in body and mind, slept.

Bryan lay awake a long time, watching the candles burn low and thinking that he should douse them.

And wondering bleakly what had driven his wife to such wild abandon. Could she keep her lashes wide, yet dream in her mind's eye of another man . . . ?

He had to leave so soon. Too soon. He did not believe Gwyneth's child could be his, but only time would tell. Elise . . . her pride was so great. She would never forgive him. It was possible that as soon as he left, she would be gone again. Crossing the Channel for Montoui, more determined than ever to escape.

At last he sighed and rose to pinch out the candles. He paused before snuffing out the last flame. She was beautiful tangled in the silk of her own hair, yet her cheeks seemed strained with pain, and a frown, even in sleep, furrowed her brow. She twisted and whimpered slightly as he watched her.

His fingers moved over the last flame and then he crawled beside her, taking her very tenderly against him and holding her to his heart.

* * *

Gwyneth and Percy departed in the morning. Bryan and Elise saw them off together, waving until the horses disappeared over the crest of a hill.

Elise murmured that she had something to do, and hurried away from Bryan. Bryan tightened his lips and went back to the tasks of building his army and his wall.

The days passed by quickly in an uneasy and too silent truce. Food was prepared for winter; the cellar stocks of ale and firewood continued to grow. Bryan spent several days hunting; Elise roused the household to long and tedious hours over the cauldron to make candles.

Each night Bryan held his wife and lay awake wondering if he held her at all.

Then came the inevitable day that was to be his last at home. Bryan was satisfied to see that the wall was rising steadily, and that his ragtag army of guards was shaping up well.

The manor had become an elegant and welcoming place; Elise had sent for tapestries and finely crafted furnishings, Belgian laces, and Mideastern rugs. It was a home.

Lacking only the warmth of those who inhabited it.

She came to him eagerly that last night; as always it was amazing that a woman so cool and aloof by day could offer such sweet heat by night. Night . . . his last night.

A despair of leaving seized him, and as soon as thirsts were quenched, they rose again. He was fierce and demanding, inexhaustible and insatiable. She did not murmur a single protest, but met him in a reckless, smoldering fervor of her own.

When dawn came he rose to dress, having never slept.

With his scabbard in place, he knelt down beside her. Shadows played beneath her eyes, and her flesh was pale. The dawn creeping through their windows played upon her hair, and she seemed to be wrapped in silken threads of red and gold.

He picked up her hand and played idly with the sapphire upon her finger. He looked into her eyes, and spoke with deep sincerity.

"Who are you, Duchess? Do I truly have you? Or have you forever locked away your soul in mystery and secret?"

Her eyes glistened, turquoise pools that threatened to spill and drown him. She shook her head.

"Do not hate Gwyneth because of me," he told her softly.

"Another threat, my lord, or merely a warning?"

"A suggestion, not a warning or threat." He smiled, suddenly bitter. "I leave you no threats—Percy rides with me."

"Convenient, isn't it?"

He shrugged. "To my way of thinking, yes."

"And I am to be kind to your mistress!"

"Cordial, merely, to a neighbor. We are isolated here, and she is with child."

"Ah, yes! Aren't you wishing heartily now that she, our fertile neighbor, were your wife?"

"She has by far the better temper," Bryan said lightly. "And I admit, I would feel more secure in the belief that I would return to find a wife. I wonder if you don't intend to forsake this place yourself the moment the dust lies in my wake."

"Run to Montoui?" she queried him. "I wonder what welcome I would find. Your friends, the king's men, have surely taken a strong foothold in your duchy by now."

"As that is mine, this is yours."

"Don't fear," she murmured, turning her back on him. "I have no desire to be dragged through the countryside again."

"Or do you merely wait with the hope that the Crusade will take her toll in the lives of men?"

"I do not wish your death."

"Just my absence."

"You have been as eager as Richard to go to battle."

"And you have been as eager to see me go."

"Richard is still in England."

"Yes . . . so I will most likely be back before the forces take leave for the Continent."

"A warning, my lord?"

"A statement. Perhaps of curiosity." He reached out, touching her chin lightly with his thumb and forefinger, yet firmly forcing her eyes to look at his. "I will be intrigued to discover if you really do await me."

"The future does promise to be intriguing, doesn't it?" she murmured, and he knew as always that, as with himself, mockery lurked behind her words.

"Very intriguing. I shall be especially interested in the state of your health before we leave for the Holy Land."

"My health? It is always fine—"

"I am hoping to find you wretchedly ill with sickness each morning."

Her cheeks flooded with color. "You should truly have fought to marry Gwyneth, since 'tis likely she would have surely awaited you—wretchedly ill each morning!"

He stood and walked to the door, having no wish to leave her with the bitterness of a full-scale quarrel between them.

He paused at the door.

"I have no regrets about our marriage, Duchess."

The door closed softly behind him, and in minutes she heard the clatter of hoofbeats as Bryan, with his party of soldiers and squires, rode out to greet the day.

The room grew chill; the manor seemed empty.

Already she knew a terrible void in her heart.