Chapter 12

I t was not escape of The Gloaming that awakened Fira with the coverlet fallen from her mouth, nor onset of her menses. It was the voicing of horror amid her dream of an arrow that would be deemed landing well were she a warrior seeking another’s death. No warrior was she, and no death sought, and yet?—

The sound came again, but it was not from her. For images slashing their way through her dream and bringing her up out of sleep, she had believed she formed it. She erred, and again in interpreting the sound. Though there was horror about it, more it sounded of pain.

Realizing it slid under the adjoining door, she feared for Richarde. Though there had been no reason to check on him the remainder of the day since she heard Alice enter every hour and twice converse with him, now with the inn so quiet it must be middle night, Fira would have to aid him.

Sitting up in the room whose brazier had gone dark, she cast off the cover, set her teeth against the chill penetrating her chemise, and dropped her feet to the floor. She meant to don the robe, but the sound came again and ended on what might be choking.

Quickly, she unlocked her side of the door and entered. The brazier here continuing to glow, easily she navigated the floor past a high-backed chair to where Richarde lay with his face turned toward her. For how peaceful he appeared, she hesitated, then set a hand on his shoulder. “Tis Lady Fira. What relief can I offer?”

He murmured something, then exhaled long as if returning to rest.

Relieved, she turned back. And nearly yelped over what she had overlooked. Amid the shadow she cast over the chair, Amaury de Chanson reclined with eyes closed and legs thrust out.

While she slept, he had returned to watch over his friend, though hardly effective for Richarde’s voicing of pain having escaped him. Or so she thought until he jerked and made the sound she first believed was of her. A moment later, he rasped what sounded an appeal to the Lord.

Fingers prickling in anticipation of reaching to him, she told herself he could extract himself from the dream and sidestepped to avoid feet she must have nearly trod on in gaining the bed.

When her shadow moved off him and was replaced by the brazier’s glow, she stilled. Though the contrasting strands at the peak and sides of his black hair remained untouched by a blade, his lower face was so closely shaved no stubble hinted at the silver stripe and brackets amid dark whiskers. Too, he had removed his tunic and loosened the undertunic’s ties, exposing his chest.

Fira pressed her lips to keep from expressing shock. Even without her spectacles, she could see scars marred those muscles. Though the ones on his face and hands were so fine they would not be noticed if one glancingly looked at him, not these. Lacking the lividity of recent acquisition, they told of terrible pain that suggested his disturbed sleep was not merely of dark imaginings, just as hers had not been.

Since she could not believe him a flagellant, someone had tried to flay him. “Why?” she breathed, tears stinging her eyes as the voice within urged her to leave.

She meant to, but his hands gripping the chair arms splayed and strained as if to escape bonds. “Non!” he growled. “Kill you!”

When Richarde groaned, Fira whipped her head around and saw him turn opposite as if to escape his friend’s suffering.

Certain it would be a kindness to rouse the chevalier, though it must be done with caution since night travels could cling to a suddenly awakened mind, she looked back at Amaury as he went rigid. “Be oak, be stone, be iron,” he rumbled, then thrust upright and, eyes wide and angry, reached for her.

Before she could cry out, his hand was at her neck and dragging her so near her brow struck his collarbone. But then he growled, “Almighty!” moved his hand to her mouth, put an arm around her waist, and lifted her.

Fira’s heart beat so hard her head went light, nearly buckling her knees when he set her down in her room.

Retaining hold of her, he said, “I vow I did not know that for a dream. I thought another came to gloat before…” Though his back was to the other room, enough light stole within she saw him briefly close his eyes. “I shall remove my hand…trusting you to trust I mean you no harm.” At her nod, he released her and stepped to the side. “You should know that had only to do with you insofar as you were before me when I awoke. Pray, forgive me.”

Fairly certain his fleeting grip on her neck left no mark, she suppressed the impulse to probe for tenderness, then wishing she had donned the robe, said, “From the sounds you made, I knew you dreamed. Thus, I did not think it had anything to do with me.”

“A disturbing dream,” he allowed.

“Perhaps as much remembrance as dream, the same as mine,” she said and felt bile stir over recall of her own night travels. “In it, I flew an arrow that went well beyond preventing you and Richarde from being caught.”

Fighting the longing to comfort one whose ache he felt as though she was dear to him, hating he had just exposed the dark of him to the light of her, Amaury stared at the lady whose scattered tresses tempted his hands to go places they ought not.

Eyes brightening, she said, “Certes, mine was more remembrance,” then stepped much too near. “Surely remembrance here.” She touched a scar on his chest rendered visible for him making himself comfortable in the room when Richarde entreated him to tell of events in Boston.

Having learned more following his meeting with Charles, Amaury had done so, and when his friend nodded off, closed his own eyes for what should have been moments. Thus, this lady saw things she ought not.

“More remembrance in this one.” She touched a scar whose wound had been so deep infection had burned through him. “The getting of them haunts your dreams, aye?”

And seeps into my waking hours, which might have seen you harmed beyond the fright I gave you this night, he did not say.

“Because of these you could not get back to your boy.” She met his gaze. “Tell what was done you.”

“You do not want to know, Lady.”

“But I do. ”

His jaw tightened. “All you need know is whatever I do with what was done me will be…justified.”

“You were tortured.”

Watery blue and black memories making his lungs strain as if to fill them with much-needed air, he said, “That is one way to describe what I endured.”

“The other way?”

“Best not spoken.”

Her gaze wavered. “Thus revenge—and not only against those who took Richarde.”

“Though that to which I aspire will not be half the justice due me, I shall strive to be content providing others…benefit from my efforts.”

As inwardly he groaned over another elusive word to which he was most vulnerable during times of great stress, she frowned. “If it prevents you from being reunited with the boy who deserves to know the sire lost to him, ’twill not benefit him.”

“You are wrong. Though you believe Mace is safe at Wulfen, and I would not argue it at this time, the danger stalking me will stalk him if not…contained. And could be the death of him.”

She considered, then gave a sorrowful sigh. “I suppose you must stay the course.” She touched another scar so lightly that sensation spiraled through him.

Silently rebuking himself for not ending her exploration of things done him, Amaury closed a hand over hers. “You must know it a reckless and dangerous thing to touch a man thus since it could be thought an invitation of the sort a woman should issue a husband alone.”

“Invitation?” she repeated, then blinked and raised a hand to his jaw. “I warrant I am not thinking right, and some of it is because I do not wish to. ”

“Lady,” he warned against her heart seeking to match the movement of his.

She pulled her hand free and set it on his shoulder. “Chevalier?”

He knew to distance himself, but his body resisted when, breath fanning his mouth, she pressed, “I would know,” and slid her other hand up and around his neck.

“As you should not,” he rumbled.

She went to her toes. Though her breasts traveling his chest made his mouth go dry, it was little compared to her upper lip brushing his lower, then her huskily repeated, “I would know.”

“Fira!” That was meant to reproach ahead of setting her back, but the speaking of her name without title coincided with another touch of her lips. Then his arms were around her and mouth on hers, remaining even when his conscience told she was untried and this attraction was desperation both sides—on her side, likely an attempt to blot out having slain a man, on his side, an answer to the longing to know again the soft of a woman who might be a balm to a calloused soul.

Despite the lady’s inexperience, her gasps and sighs, sips and nips, and restless hands intoxicated.

Dare not go there with this innocent, his conscience tried again as he moved his mouth to the sensitive place beneath her ear. She knows not what she does with one dark of soul.

“Amaury,” she whispered.

Such familiarity with his given name should have righted the wrong of this, but the carnal of him saw it as encouragement—even permission—to let his hands further explore her curves.

Dare not! the voice once more gave him pause, but she turned her face and pressed her mouth beneath his ear and pushed fingers into his hair, stirring him so much he imagined closing the door and accepting her invitation in full. And when she murmured, “I am glad you did not also shave your hair,” and he felt her gentle tugs, further he was tempted to close the door.

Amaury would like to believe he had enough restraint to pull back before yielding to the forbidden, but what returned him to a semblance of control was where her fingers went next, the depression in the side of his skull making her catch her breath.

Talking himself down from the place he had no right to go even were she well aware of the destination, he stepped back, and this time when she spoke his name, dim light revealed kiss-flushed lips and hurt in her eyes.

“I think it best neither of us learn what is beyond mutual commiseration,” he said with reproach meant to offend so she not tempt him again.

When her lashes fluttered as if to adjust to light after impenetrable dark, he was reminded of the Caen mine. Most was open pit, but each time he rebelled and was beaten into submission, he had to labor in jagged, poorly illuminated tunnels for days.

“You are right,” she freed him from those memories, then said defensively, “especially since you are much of an age to my ten and eight.”

He nearly startled. Though he had quite a few years beyond hers, not as far as she made it sound.

“And even were you nearer my age, it could not work, Chevalier.”

Because of his past and what it portended for his future should his plan topple? No sooner questioned than Amaury chided himself for seeking a defense to persuade her otherwise.

Crossing her arms over her chest as if to conceal her curves, she said, “Be assured I was merely curious about how a real kiss feels.”

Now she knew—and more. Before he could think better of his words, he asked, “Your findings, Lady?”

Her shrug failed to appear nonchalant. “Rather pleasant.”

That did not begin to cover her reaction nor his, but he let it be.

“I thank you,” she said. “Since I shall not wed, ’tis good to know something of what is denied one’s self.”

He frowned. “You are for the convent?”

“Ah, nay, that would not suit me!”

He concurred she who ventured into the wood and flew deadly arrows was no fit for a disciplined life meant to preserve the chastity of those who devoted themselves to prayer and the contemplation of godly things.

“Why have you no wish to wed and have children, Lady?”

“I am aware ’tis the desire and destiny of many women, but since I shall be occupied keeping our family’s history, I will be satisfied to bounce nieces and nephews on my knee.” That sounding a recital of something to which she sought to convince herself, he was not surprised when she changed the subject. “I would not have entered Richarde’s room had I known you were there and it was your sleep disturbed.”

“As told, it was only a dream.” Knowing he sounded defensive, he added, “Of course, darker for there being some remembrance about it as you guessed.”

When her eyes dipped to his chest that evidenced what she named torture, he suppressed the instinct to close his undertunic and said, “Before I leave, I should tell what I learned of your kin.”

Her eyes widened. “Is Sir Achard in Boston with my youngest brother?”

“The day before we arrived, the king’s contingent entered the town, and at Sir Achard’s side was a Wulfrith who, though appearing of an age to have earned his spurs, was titled a squire.”

“Rémy.” She nodded. “Ahead of knighthood, he was to gain more experience in the ways of the warrior as my eldest brother discussed with Sir Achard months ago.” She raised her eyebrows. “They remain in Boston?”

“Unfortunately, after a day searching for pirate activity and finding none, early this morn they continued north.”

Her disappointment was as seen as his was felt. Now that his plan was to commence sooner than Richarde and Charles wished, she was a complication—and more for being desirable when he must focus on taking Gert to ground, which was imperative since it could prove a greater challenge were he forced to go around the king’s man whose small army would grow as it moved toward Scotland.

“Fear not,” he said. “As I sent a missive to Baron Wulfrith informing him of your whereabouts before learning the king’s contingent had departed, it should be in his hands by early afternoon on the morrow. Thus, as I am certain you will be retrieved the following day, I will move Richarde from the inn to avoid a confrontation with your menfolk that is best had later.”

She moistened lips whose taste remained on his own. “Then I will not see you again until you return to Wulfen for Mace.”

“Likely not, though I will continue to set a watch over the inn to ensure your safety. Until your family arrives, do not leave this room.”

It was good there was no hesitation about her nod and much wariness, doubtless due to having loosed a killing arrow. Hopefully, in time she would recover enough of her former self that her light burned bright again .

“I leave you now, Lady. Return to your rest.”

As if I could, Fira thought as he strode to the doorway. As if I did not learn something I should not for now wanting what I should not, she rued as he entered Richarde’s room. As if I did not make it obvious the difference in our years is my problem, not his, she chided as he closed the door.

“As if,” she whispered, then touched lips she had not known could feel so much, nor that there were paths between them and other parts of her body, making the pleasant felt in one place felt in another.

She dropped her hand, then seeking to distract herself from recall of those sensations, listened for movement in the other room. It was there, then the outer door closed softly and Amaury moved past her room.

Though she longed for bed, impulse made her veer to the window, open a shutter, and peer into the moonlit street. For how late the night and this being a prominent part of town, there was no movement nor shifting shadows. She waited, expecting to see Amaury depart, but all remained still.

The rear entrance, she recalled the precaution he took in delivering her here. That was how he had come to Richarde this night and now left.

Shortly, Fira went beneath the covers to return to sleep, but remembrance was a powerful thing, whether it haunted dreams or caused wakefulness to block dreams.

Why did I seek his kiss? she questioned as she shifted onto her side. She could tell herself he made her feel safe in a world she had done much to turn inside out, and it would not be all lie. She could tell herself it was only curiosity, and it would not be all lie. But were she to tell herself it had nothing to do with a heart that hardly knew his, that would be much lie.

Her only experience with the other sex was exchanging smiles with young men, conversing when they were of a mind to believe she possessed a good wit, touching hands, and two kisses—one with the cobbler’s son when they were ten and five and the other with a squire upon her attainment of ten and six.

She had felt an uncertain thrill with the former and a lovely thrill with the latter, but not enough to persuade her to marry away from her family. Thus, when The Gloaming made its presence known, she had told herself she would not overly miss being a wife and mother. But there another lie, though she believed she could make truth of it if she took back the bit of heart carelessly given into Amaury’s keeping—and forget his kisses and touches.

“I shall,” she whispered into her pillow. “I must.”