XX

XX

Fall passed quickly to become winter, and by the middle of December the manor sat like an ice palace atop a mountain of snow.

Elise managed well enough. The guards had become proficient at their duties, the household ran smoothly, and the serfs seemed cheerfully resigned to the new order of things. The lord of the manor might be gone, but they had quickly learned that the Lady Elise could be both astute and hard if pressed, judicial and merciful when honestly approached. Disputes were settled each morning in the hall, and when there was no clear-cut answer to a problem by the law, Elise selected five men at random to deliberate the case, and so far, all had accepted the verdicts delivered. To her people, even to her closest servants, Elise presented a fa?ade of complete stoicism and calm.

Inwardly, she seethed with a roiling of emotions that threatened to drive her mad. They would make her all the more insane because she didn't in the least understand them.

With each day that passed, she yearned anew for Bryan. When each day came to an end she lay awake long hours in her chamber, alone and cold. She longed for him passionately.

When she awoke each morning, she longed to kill him.

Throttle him, thrash him, tear him apart limb by limb.

No matter how she tried to reason with herself, when Elise thought of Gwyneth and the child she was to bear, she felt an overwhelming cloud of black anger engulf her. She felt ill. And then she wanted to lie down and cry.

It was jealousy, of course, but she could not accept it as such. Nor could she allow herself to believe that she was anything more than resigned to her marriage.

She spent long hours wondering where Bryan was. Gwyneth might have remained behind, but London was filled with women, of the high and low variety, and she knew that, in the past, Bryan had enjoyed a level of entertainment from commoners and nobility alike. He had, after all, been intending to marry Gwyneth on that night when he had first taken her in the woods . . .

Men—from Percy to her father to Bryan (most certainly Bryan!)—were little better than animals. Henry, whom she had loved, had treated Eleanor and his scores of mistresses abominably. Percy, who had filled her with dreams of a different life, had proved himself to be little better than pathetically weak and hopelessly hypocritical. But thoughts of Percy no longer plagued her. Though she wanted Bryan to believe she was still in love with Percy because she sensed it gave her a small edge over all that she had been forced to swallow from him, she truly could not conjure her onetime betrothed's face anymore when he was beyond her view.

While Stede's image haunted her continually.

Angrily, she would remind herself that her husband might be anywhere. He had claimed that he had not seen Gwyneth since Richard had ordered their marriage—but had that been only to soothe ruffled feathers? Men, it seemed, were not expected to be faithful to their wives, especially not in the service of their king, when that service carried them far from their homes. Yet when thoughts of his probable infidelity plagued her, she did not imagine him with vague strangers. She saw him with Gwyneth.

When she closed her eyes at night, the picture could be disparagingly clear. They would stand in a room with only the glimmer of a few pale candles. A frothy bed of down and clean sheets would await them. Bryan's eyes would meet Gwyneth's; they would lock in a heated stare, Gwyneth would smile, her lips damp and parted, her dark eyes sultry. They would both begin to shed their clothing in eager haste, and Bryan would groan deeply. He would toss Gwyneth upon the bed, but she would rise upon her knees to greet his tall warrior's body; she would touch the tight bronze flesh, press her face against his chest and hear the pounding of his heart, feel the ripple of hard muscle as she ran her hands and lips over him . . .

Elise would awaken with a start, groaning softly herself—and hating her husband with a fervor to match that of the night they had met. Why hadn't he let her be? she would wonder savagely. She hated him because she yearned for him so passionately, and because she scorned herself for doing so. Her neighbor was about to bear her husband's bastard, a neighbor who had openly been her husband's mistress, who might, at a future time, become his mistress again.

Why not? Bryan wanted a child. Gwyneth was about to supply that want. Elise could picture them, meeting in a clandestine tryst, awed with the life they had produced between them.

But Gwyneth's child could not be Bryan's heir! Only Elise, his legally wed wife, could give him an heir . . .

But, she told herself to still her misery, hell and the devil himself would freeze solid if she gave Bryan his heir! Not when he ran about the country creating bastards.

Was it true, she wondered wistfully, that she could deny Bryan his heir by willing that she not conceive? Foolish thought, for even now she was left to wonder if she might not have conceived. A brief thought consoled her; if she did have a child, her child would not be a bastard.

As she was.

And that, too, was another thing she still held from her husband. Not that it mattered now. No one would dare lay claim to anything owned by Lord Bryan Stede. But the ring still bothered Bryan; that mystery was something he could not touch, and she felt it was a wall that protected her from completely . . .

Completely what?

She refused to face the answer. She did not love him, could never love him. She had once given him a wise truth; she would be a fool ever to lay her soul or her heart at his feet.

It was better to hate him. Better to deny him. Ha! she derided herself. She had never managed to deny him; when he had not reached for her, she had turned to him. What had he done to her that she longed for him night and day, and only him?

It was a riddle that would continue to haunt, no matter how serene the appearance she gave the world.

* * *

Gwyneth visited Elise in the middle of December.

She came encased in furs against the cold, her dark hair beautiful and lustrous against the white of the fox. Elise had stiffened immediately when informed that a party approached boasting Percy's banners, knowing full well it could only be her rival. Yet when Gwyneth reached the manor, Elise was ready to greet her demurely, telling her that she shouldn't have braved the weather in her condition.

"I was going stark, raving mad all alone!" Gwyneth proclaimed, settling herself before the fire. She still looked trim, Elise thought. Had her child been conceived before her marriage, her girth should have grown more rounded by now!

"I'm afraid there is little diverting here," Elise told her.

"Oh, but we are at least together!" Gwyneth told her.

With the other woman's dark eyes upon her, Elise felt a slight chill. Gwyneth was indeed beautiful. Yet, despite her friendly smile, Elise felt that there was something secretive and smug about the curve of her lips, and the knowing flash in those mahogany eyes, as she narrowed her lashes in appraisal. "I've been so anxious to see you, Elise, as I fear that I must throw myself upon your mercy! I know this might sound terribly silly, but I'd like to beg your hospitality from the month of March onward."

Elise kept her expression immobile and inquired sweetly, "Are you afraid that your child will come early, Gwyneth?"

Gwyneth lifted her hands vaguely and smiled again. "Winter frightens me. My first child . . . I so hope that you can understand."

"Yes, I understand," Elise murmured. But did she? Was Gwyneth seeking companionship—or something else? Did she wish to insinuate to Elise that her child was Bryan's—or was Elise imagining such a thing because of her own turmoil over the question.

"You are welcome to be here whenever you choose, Gwyneth," she told the other woman serenely. "I had thought you would want your heir born on your property."

"Oh . . . well, our all being so close . . . it doesn't really seem to matter, does it?"

"No," Elise replied, smiling, "I don't suppose it matters at all."

Gwyneth stayed the night. Elise, determined not to let Gwyneth believe that there was the slightest chink in the armor of her marriage, was charming and considerate of her guest. She even offered Gwyneth the master chamber, with its fabulous bath, for the night. And she insisted when Gwyneth demurred—and saw beneath Gwyneth's lowered lashes a sparkle of pleasure.

Again, Elise wondered. Was it evident that Gwyneth was imagining herself in the bath . . . in the bed . . . with Elise's husband? Or was Elise putting malicious thought where it was not due?

Elise did not sleep that night. She alternately raged and agonized over Gwyneth's blithe statements.

The child cannot be due in March! she assured herself staunchly. Gwyneth was too small.

But if the child was Bryan's . . .

Then it seemed natural that Gwyneth would want the baby born on Bryan's property rather than her own. But to what end? Elise wondered. Gwyneth was legally wed, as was Bryan. By Richard's order. They could never be together. . . unless they determined to wade through the long years it would take them both to procure annulments through the Pope . . .

Or, Elise thought, with another chill, unless she and Percy were both to die. And Gwyneth could become a widow again; men dropped like flies when they rode on crusade . . .

But I am young and healthy, Elise reminded herself. Very young, and very healthy.

She forced herself to turn over and close her eyes. Such thoughts were truly ridiculous. Gwyneth might possibly be a troublemaker, but the fragile brunette beauty was hardly a murderess.

Elise sighed, wishing she hadn't been foolish enough to give up her own chamber. The guest lodging was comfortable, but Elise was accustomed to her own bed. The bed that she had shared with her husband.

She began to wonder if Bryan would return to her anytime soon. Richard was still in England, the last she had heard, still collecting money and provisioning and organizing the army that would cross the Channel. In Normandy, he was due to meet with Philip of France, as the two monarchs were vowed to ride together. The army was due to travel to the Continent soon, though, she knew. But Bryan had told her that he would try to come back before they had left England for the Continent.

She began to agonize all over again, wishing he would come, wishing he would not. If she possessed the least bit of dignity or pride, she would deny him. Yet if she did so, she would leave way for him to seek out another.

Or would he do that anyway?

Gwyneth left in the morning. Alaric stood beside Elise as Gwyneth, a snow nymph in her furs once more, rode away.

"I don't much care for her," Alaric muttered beneath his breath.

"Alaric!" Elise chastised, turning around to stare at her steward with surprise. "You shouldn't say that in regard to Lady Gwyneth."

"Lady!" Alaric said with a sniff. He urged Elise back into the warmth of the hall. "Meaning no disrespect, milady," he told Elise, settling before the fire himself to whittle upon a piece of wood, "she may be nobility, but she is no lady."

"She is very beautiful," Elise heard herself begin.

"Beautiful, oh, aye. But not like ye, mistress. She can fool most men, but not a serf who watches her when she does not know it. She is dangerous."

"Nonsense," Elise said briskly. And she turned about, determined to give her attention to a tapestry that would need mending.

Alaric almost spoke again, but he held his peace. Broodingly, he stared into the fire.

The Cornish folk were a superstitious lot; he was Cornish, and knew this. He was a good Christian, and therefore tried not to allow his soul to wander into superstition.

But there was something about the dark-haired beauty who had just left that made him want to cross himself. He did so, looking covertly at his mistress. She did not see him; he almost wished that she had, that she had questioned. He had wanted to warn her that it seemed to his superstitious heart that the Lady Gwyneth held evil in her own—and was very dangerous to the Lady Elise.

Elise was just heartfully glad that Gwyneth had departed. She threw herself into her household, visiting those who had taken ill in the village, along with Jeanne. She was grateful to see that her stonemasons were still working despite the winter weather—and that Bryan's wall was rising high about them.

A week later a guard spotted another party traveling toward Firth Manor; he hurried to Michael, and Michael hurried to Elise.

"The queen is coming!" Michael exclaimed.

"Eleanor?" Elise demanded with surprise.

Michael smiled with nervous excitement. "Since our sovereign Richard has yet taken no bride, I can think of no other woman in this realm to call queen!"

"Michael, call Alaric. Call Maddie. Call Jeanne! Chambers must be prepared; we must present her with our finest!"

Elise changed hastily and hurried downstairs. Alaric was busy adding kindling to make the fire especially warming. Maddie was ordering the girls to prepare handsome serving cauldrons of mulled cinnamon wine. Jeanne hurried about sweeping the floor and dusting the tapestries.

When Eleanor arrived with her retinue, the household was lined up to greet her. Elise stood upon ceremony, falling to her knees when Eleanor entered, but the queen would have none of it.

"Up, child, and give those cold, old bones a warming hug!"

Elise did so, delighted to be with Eleanor again. The queen was traveling with several women, among them Alys, Philip of France's sister, and Richard's supposed "fiancée." Alys was a pleasant and pretty—if slightly fading—young woman, full of melancholy. Alys had long ago resigned herself to the way of kings. Purported to have been seduced by Henry not long after her arrival in England when she was little more than a child, it did not seem she now had much hope of marrying the elusive Richard.

Elise made her as comfortable as possible. The queen and her entire company were made royally welcome, and Elise was proud that her new home had come so far. A banquet amazing for wintertime was spread before Eleanor, and the conversation throughout dinner was so light and pleasant that Elise laughed with real pleasure . . . until she learned that King Richard was not still in England—that he and his company had landed in France two days previous.

Bryan would not come by.

Elise tried to hide her bitterness from her guests, and she believed she did an admirable job of it. She ordered that her chamber be given to the queen since it was the best in the house, but Eleanor, it seemed, was determined to speak with her alone.

"I'll not take your chamber away from you, Elise, but I shall be glad to share it with you. I miss those nights when you were near to talk to and make me feel young again!"

By the time Elise saw to her other guests and came to her chamber, Eleanor had bathed and crawled into bed, donned in a fresh white nightgown. Her graying hair was loose and it spilled about her shoulders, and she was reading a letter with a frown creasing her forehead.

She smiled, however, when she saw Elise, tapping the letter with a finger. "Richard! He is my pride, and my dismay. I am following him about with Alys, determined to get him married, so he hurries off and leaves me a letter stating that God's holy war must first be fought. Dear Lord! Does he not realize that he but leaves his country to John!"

Elise smiled wanly with sympathy. Eleanor was no fool. She knew that her son had carried a love for the wily Philip of France in his heart that could not extend to Philip's sister. "Ah, I will get him married. If not Alys . . . the King of Navarre has a daughter. She saw Richard once and swore she would have no other.... But Richard's affairs cannot be settled tonight. And I am very interested in yours."

"In my affairs! But why?"

The queen was always direct. "Why didn't you come when your husband summoned you to London?"

"Bryan never summoned me—" Elise began in confusion.

But the queen interrupted impatiently. "Elise! I had hoped that you would be reconciled once Bryan brought you here. To ignore his call as you did was a stunt as willful and childish—"

"I did not!" Elise said sharply, forgetting she was speaking to the queen. "I swear to you, by Christ above us, Eleanor, that I ignored nothing. Bryan sent no one for me."

Eleanor looked at the girl's lovely, puzzled—and, yes, anguished—features and frowned once more. "I saw the messenger leave myself," she murmured, gazing downward, then to Elise once more. "He reached the Lady Gwyneth, who told us all that she had just seen you and that you were fit and well."

Elise felt her heart sink low within her breast. Gwyneth had been in London; Bryan had been in London. Percy had been in London, too, but... "I am confused," she murmured bleakly.

Eleanor sighed. "I believe that you are, child. Richard, once his affairs were settled, was suddenly very eager to reach France. The men knew that once they left London they would not stop. But there were a few days' grace while still assembled in London, and those with wives summoned them. I believe that Bryan was very angry. It is difficult to tell with him, he is so silent. But one could tell by his eyes, by the twist of his jaw . . . He told me only that it was but what he could expect of you."

Elise laughed hollowly. "I don't know that I would have bounded at his beck and call had I had the chance, but I do swear to you, Your Grace, by all that is holy, I never had that chance."

"I believe you," the queen said. "It is my fervent hope that your husband believes you."

A swift and terrible desolation suddenly swept through Elise. She was so young, and all she could see were years ahead with her life nothing but a constant battlefield. She flung herself on her knees at the queen's side, her turmoil bringing bright tears to her eyes.

"Eleanor! Once you swore you would protect me! Why did you do this to me? You gave me to a man who did not want me, who wanted my land. And you gave Montoui to him, too . . ."

Her voice trailed away with a choked sob. Eleanor smoothed back her hair soothingly, as if she were her own daughter, rather than Henry's bastard. "Elise . . ." She sighed deeply and lifted the girl's chin with a bony but still elegant finger. "Elise," she reminded her softly, "you were determined to stop Bryan's marriage to Gwyneth. You must admit that. You would not have told me the tale that you did if you hadn't been determined that something be done. There are those who do call me a meddlesome old woman, but . . . Elise, you two are so right for each other. Percy would never have suited you, Elise. He is a good man, but his backbone twists with the wind. And Montoui . . ."

Eleanor paused a minute, taking a deep breath. "Elise, an inheritance is a curse, not a blessing. I was in love once, when I was very young. But it couldn't be, you see, because I was the Duchess of Aquitaine. They married me off to the King of France—because of my lands. And when Louis and I divorced, I knew I must marry again hurriedly before I was dragged to the altar drugged by some enterprising nobleman intent upon seizing my land. When Henry came to me—I do believe he loved me then—he held Normandy and Anjou. But Poitou and Aquitaine were mine, and the richer lands. He was the heir to the English throne, of course, and when Stephen died, he claimed that throne. I was not English, but I came to love England. I bore Henry eight children. Three of our sons died. And . . . I'm not explaining this very well, am I? Elise, I could have gotten out of my prison once—in seventy-six, when Henry had me summoned to Normandy. If I had agreed to take Aquitaine from Richard, and give it to John after young Henry died and Richard became Henry's heir. Elise, Richard bestowed this land on you, just as he did Montoui on Bryan. To hold jointly. Not yours, not his. Yours together. Elise, Richard knew how Henry and I fought over his lands and my lands, and the dispersal of them. He didn't want that for you. Bryan is young, brave, and strong. You are wise in the ways of nobility and ruling. If you just give it a chance . . ."

The queen's voice had such a wistful, yearning quality to it. Elise knew Eleanor was trying to see that her life did not repeat the travesties of the queen's. Eleanor had tried to give her happiness. She didn't fully understand.

Elise kissed Eleanor's fragile hand. "Sometimes I just wish for the warmth of Montoui," she said softly. "Sometimes it is just so very . . . cold here."

"Ah . . . I cannot tell you how I missed Aquitaine when I first came to London!" Eleanor explained. "How I longed for the sunny south. But the English . . . they are unique. I love the people, for on the whole, they are just, and they are fond of the law! And England . . . Elise, it is solid. We are upon an island. Distant from the Continent. Distant from the wars that rage. Philip is a far more wily king than old Louis could ever have been. Louis was not a bad man; he had been raised to be a monk, not a king or husband. But I fear . . . if Richard . . . dies, I fear that John will be a weak king. He will lose the holdings on the Continent to Philip. But Elise, this piece of England that you hold, this land in Cornwall, it will be yours, and it will be your children's, and their children's. Hold it dear."

"I will, Eleanor, I will . . ." Elise swore, touched by the queen's heartfelt confession. I will try, she added silently to herself.

"Be happy, child," the queen said softly, kissing Elise's forehead. "I will tell Bryan that the messenger never reached you," she added thoughtfully.

She did not add that she doubted Bryan would believe her.

But neither woman slept easily that night, for they were both wondering what had happened to the messenger.

Elise was delighted that the queen and her party stayed to celebrate Christmas with her. She would have been lonely and desolate without them. As it was, the manor sparkled, and Elise found a certain peace in the quiet mass and feast enjoyed by the group of women.

The morning of the queen's departure, Elise realized she would know a keen loneliness once Eleanor was gone. She thought of begging to go along, then remembered how fervently Eleanor had wished her to care for her part of Cornwall. She would stay; she would see that the manor and the lands continued to grow in elegance and wealth.

Eleanor had only a few last words to say to her in private.

"Remember, Elise—and please don't think ill of me that I say this—be loyal to Richard, but do not become John's enemy! I fear for Richard; he can be so reckless . . . and John can be so vicious!"

"Where is Prince John? And . . . Geoffrey?"

Eleanor smiled. "Both have left England. Geoffrey . . . I have seen to it that he has been offered high office in the Church. John . . . They have sworn to Richard that they will not enter England in his absence, so that he not fear that his brothers make an attempt to seize his crown. I daresay, though, that they will both be back in a matter of months—on one pretext or another. I don't believe that Geoffrey covets the crown. I think John would gladly slit his own brother's throat for it. So take care."

"What of England?"

"Ah . . . England! I worry. Richard has given the office of chancellor to a Norman. A man named Longchamp. I don't trust him, but . . . I must see Richard married!"

In the icy courtyard, Elise hugged Eleanor ardently, and wished the hapless Alys the best. She waved long after the queen's party, with its majesty and color, had disappeared.

Then she returned to the hall she had worked so hard to make beautiful and elegant . . . and felt the terrible cold seep into her.

* * *

Bryan Stede awoke suddenly in the night. The fire in his chamber in Normandy's Stirgil Castle had gone out and the room was freezing, but a fine sheen of perspiration lay over his bare back.

He had been dreaming.

Elise had been before him, so close that he might have touched her. Her hair had been free; a breeze had lifted it until it spun like fine mists of gold web about her naked, alabaster body. She had been walking, slowly, sinuously, with the elegant grace and sultry ease of a cat. Full breasts high and inviting, curved white hips swaying in a seductive enticement. Her eyes flashed like true gemstones, and she smiled as she reached out her arms . . .

And stepped past him. Into the waiting arms of a mist-enshrouded lover. Another man's hands had reached out to touch her, caressing the silky hollow of her waist, grabbing hard at the firm, rounded flesh of her buttocks and lifting her up, against him . . .

Elise twisted in her arms to stare at Bryan, and her eyes were hard with gloating triumph. "She bears your bastard for Percy, and I shall bear his for you . . ."

The dream had not faded; he had awakened in a piercing agony. His flesh cried out to hold a woman, yet any woman would not do; he had to hold the taunting wench of his dream and take her in such a fashion that she would never stop quivering from his touch, never doubt that she was his and only his.

Damn Gwyneth!

The thought was so sudden and strong that he thought he had spoken it aloud. He turned quickly, but Will Marshal, sleeping soundly beside him, hadn't stirred. Will's dreams were sweet; Isabel was expecting their first child and her letters arrived daily. Will's marriage had brought him wealth—and far more. It had brought him contentment and happiness.

He grated his teeth. If not for Gwyneth, he might not be content, but he might know the fringes of happiness. He had believed that Elise was at least reconciled to their marriage—until Gwyneth had come with the announcement that she was enceinte.

He hadn't been entirely certain that the child wasn't his until Gwyneth had come to London. Now he was certain that the child wasn't his, but he was equally certain that Elise would believe even more fully that the child was his.

When Elise hadn't arrived, Bryan had been too angry to pay much attention to anything else. But then Gwyneth had cornered him in his rooms at the town house, throwing herself into his arms and crying that her child was his: What were they to do?

He had been about to hold her, for her beautiful face had seemed wrenched with anguish when she had first entered.

But even as she leaned against his chest, he felt himself go cold. He did not know what her game was, but she was trying to take him for a fool.

He knew the exact night he had last been with her; the night before Richard's arrival on the outskirts of London. And had she conceived that night, she would have to boast a certain largeness of girth that was obviously missing. Did she think that men were incapable of calculation?

"Touch me, Bryan," she had pleaded, groping to bring his fingers to her belly. "Feel our child. Our child, while that grasping little slut who set her claws into you proves to be nothing but barren."

"Percy is your husband, Gwyneth. And that ‘grasping little slut,' as you call her, is my wife."

"Wife! She despises you still! She refuses to come to your side! What loyalty can you owe her? Oh, Bryan, we were meant for each other! She wanted Percy, and I know that he lusts for her still. Let them have each other."

Gwyneth was as beautiful as ever. As sweet when she spoke her accusations to him. As soft in his arms. He was tempted for a moment to throw her down hard on the bed and relieve himself of all his pent-up hunger and fury.

He could not. She was, but she also wasn't, the woman he had once wanted.

"Bryan, I love you so!" she whispered brokenly.

"When we met here this summer, you seemed quite pleased with your marriage."

"You were lost to me. I thought I would have to bear it. I cannot."

"Gwyneth, your child is not mine," he said stiffly.

"But it is, Bryan. I know it . . . and Elise knows it."

"Elise!"

"I've been to see her, Bryan. I was so frightened. I want your baby born well, and beneath your roof."

"Gwyneth!" Suddenly he was shaking her fiercely. She didn't seem to care as her head fell back and her dark eyes met his in a vixen's gloat. "What did you say to Elise?"

"Nothing . . . she simply knows."

Gwyneth did not have her victory, for Bryan shoved her aside and quit his own chambers.

The next day they had ridden from London. There had been no time for detours into the Cornish countryside.

But now . . . now it was February. And Richard's champions awaited him, day after day. He and Philip could come to an agreement on nothing, they distrusted one another so. The Crusade had not even begun, and already it dragged on and on.

Bryan stood up. He looked out the slim arrow slit of the old Norman castle. To the north lay the English Channel. Past the Channel, an eternity away, lay home.

Home, yes, it was his home. She was his wife. She must accept that, must accept him, must wait, for him alone . . .

The queen had told him Elise had never received his summons. He didn't believe it. Not when Elise had run the night of Richard's coronation. Not when she had threatened him with infidelity to match what she assumed to be his . . .

A sheen of sweat broke out across his shoulders again. He could not rouse the king now, but in the morning . . .

* * *

"God's blood, Bryan! Nay, you haven't my leave to return home! I tell you, I need you when I go to council with that sly French fox Philip—"

"Your Grace, William Marshal is at your side—"

"And good there he is, but I need your wits with me also, Bryan Stede. In three days' time we call upon my Norman barons to give support to the cause and you must rouse the knights."

"Then give me three days' time, my liege!"

"For what? That will give you travel time, no more. Perhaps a few hours at your home—"

"I'll take it," Bryan said quietly.

Richard threw up his well-muscled arms in a blustery display of exasperation. "Three days, Bryan."

Bryan bowed low and left Richard.

He set out by himself, leaving Wat, who had proven to be a fine squire, to serve Will Marshal in his absence. Will scratched his head as he watched Bryan mount his destrier.

"You're half mad," Will told him. "You'll reach Cornwall, and have to turn back."

"I know," Bryan said grimly, looping his reins into his hand as he swung his horse about. He grinned then. "I am half mad, Will. I'm hoping that an hour or two will give me back a little sanity."

Will frowned. "Bryan . . . perhaps what Eleanor said was true. Perhaps the messenger never reached her. Don't go off . . ." He cleared his throat. "Don't go riding off like that in a rage of anger. You'd not gain anything by . . . beating her for this disobedience. It would just—"

Bryan laughed bitterly, wondering at the power Elise possessed to drag him across land and sea just for a few brief hours of her company.

"Will, I assure you, the last thing I have in mind is beating my wife!"

He was to reach the Channel and cross it in record time. And then he was Cornwall bound.

* * *

By late the next night, the guard atop the southern turret saw a single rider coming toward the manor at a breakneck speed.

The guard hurried to rouse Alaric.

Alaric watched the horseman approach the manor.

"Shall we awaken Lady Elise?" the guard asked nervously.

Alaric continued to stare at the dark rider, coming closer and closer. His brow knit in consternation.

Then he laughed. "Nay, we needn't awaken Lady Elise. Lord Bryan will be here 'fore we could properly do so!"

* * *

Elise had been deep in an exhausted sleep. The day had been bitterly cold; she had spent endless hours boiling forest moss, packed beneath the snow, into a medicament for the winter cough that so often plagued those weakened by the harsh cold

She, Maddie, and Jeanne had worked late into the night. When she climbed upstairs to her chamber, she had been touched to find that Michael had seen that her hearth fire burned brightly, and had thoughtfully ordered that the braziers beneath the bath also be lit. She had almost drifted off to sleep in the tub, absurdly grateful to be so tired that she dozed so easily, but frightened that she should solve her problems with the simplicity of drowning.

Climbing from the tub, she had deeply and appreciatively breathed in the clean scent of her bath oil, so much more pleasant than the lingering musk of boiling mold! She had dried herself, briefly untangled her hair with her fingers, and fallen into bed, dragging the sheets and heavy fur coverlet over her. Even before her head had touched the down pillow, she had fallen asleep.

Now, it was hours since. Her dreams had wrapped about her like the soft clouds of spring, beautiful dreams in which she loved, and was loved.

She awoke with a start, jolted from sleep, and yet not at all certain that she had ever awakened.

Because Bryan was standing before her.

Delicate, intricate flakes of snow still dotted his dark woolen mantle and dazzled against the midnight black of his tousled hair. For long moments he stood there, those flakes of snow melting against him, one hand still upon the door he had just opened, the other upon his hip. Elise was unable to believe that he could really be there. She had known he was in Normandy.

At the bang of the door she had half risen, the sheets clutched to her, her eyes wide with the sudden alarm. Now she stared, feeling as if time were as frozen as the ice that captured the winter branches of the trees. She had never seen him look . . . so fierce and formidable, yet never had seen such a wistful yearning in his blue-black eyes. It was a trick of the fire, she told herself, a winter's dream. The look he cast her, both tender and hungry, and the tall warrior himself. . .

She was, he thought, as wild and as sweet, as innocent and sultry, as all his haunted dreams. At his entrance she had started to her knees, defensively clutching the bedclothes. Stunned by his appearance, she had dropped the sheets. Gold and copper tendrils of wispy silk curled in dishevelment over her breasts and fell about the sinuous beauty of her form. The dusky-rose crests of her ivory breasts peaked firm and proud beneath the gold and fire of that tangling hair, and, had he ridden a full week solid, desire would have streaked through him like the onslaught of a summer sun. Her eyes were wide, blue and green crystals upon him, her lips were parted and moist with surprise, and as he had so often dreamed, her arms slowly lifted . . .

Not to another. To him.

With a hoarse cry he came to her, slamming the door closed with a foot. His clothing escaped him with the same simple quality of the dream, and he was beside her, meeting her, melding with her. He could not hold her tightly enough, tenderly enough. His body trembled violently as she met his lips in a passionate kiss, her tongue probing his mouth sweetly, hotly, her nails raking through his hair, over his shoulders, his back, his buttocks. She was warm and vibrant, sweetly, sinuously moving, Whispering inarticulate but ardent words. His hands moved over her, his lips thirsted for her. Their mouths met in fiery splendor again, and moans that were like sobs caught and then tore from her throat. He rose above her, then lost himself within her, shaking violently with the intensity of that sweet, embracing ecstasy. The fire in the grate seemed to build around them, burning ever higher, defying even the winter winds.

How many times he had held her so! Yet still he felt that he traveled anew. He climbed through uncharted paths of splendor, and his soul flew with the summer sun while his body learned a peak of pleasure that crested anything he had known before. She quaked beneath him when splendor erupted like the burst of a falling star; summer slowly came to be winter again, but a beautiful winter, swept with the fragile delight of wafting, delicate snowflakes.

He did not speak; he held her. When she would have spoken, he brought his fingers to his lips. She curled sweetly against him, the sultry vixen innocent again, the wild wanton a creature of infinite sweetness. For a time he was content, and he began to doze.

Time was his enemy. He awoke with a start, and kissed his dream sprite, arousing her with the slow play of his fingers upon her flesh. Winter winds blew outside the chamber; neither knew nor cared. The sun blazed within.

When they again lay in the glow of sated contentment, she made no effort to speak, but rested contentedly within the crook of his shoulder.

He let her doze, and then fall deeply into the drugged sleep of her contentment. Her lips, even in that deep sleep, curved into a winsome smile, and he knew then that he loved her. More than any title granted him, more than land, more than life.

He rose and began to dress. His tunic and mantle felt wet, and very, very cold. He gazed upon her, so loath to leave. Her hand was curled to her cheek. The sapphire glared up at him, caught by firelight, and he sighed.

He was the fool. He had lost his soul—and she was determined never to give her own. Never to forgive him. And he must ride by the side of his king . . .

Bryan stopped allowing himself to think. The night was a dream, a spun fairy-tale web of a soaring summer sun against the white-flaked, ice beauty of winter.

He would not have that crystal glory shattered.

The naked face of his love stared upon her then, and her heart would have flown with joy had she but seen it.

With a groan of tearing agony that grew not from his throat, but from his soul, Bryan turned and left.

Dawn was almost upon him.

Alaric awaited him downstairs. He conversed quickly with his steward while he consumed a hastily prepared meal of bread and cold meat. Alaric had heated wine, which warmed him for his journey.

Then he was riding away again, a dark knight upon a midnight destrier, racing over the snow.