Chapter Nine

G envieve spent the next few days wondering why Winslow hadn’t been by to see her, hoping it wasn’t because he regretted the passion that still had the power to make her tremble.

Jillian and Eyreka took turns visiting her, distracting her, until both proclaimed she was recovered enough to get out of bed.

Today would be the first time she’d left her chamber since the night desperation had her trying to run away.

“You look lovely,” Jillian proclaimed stepping back to admire her handiwork. “The dark blue bliaut suits you.”

It was just the three of them in the chamber, so Genvieve risked trying to use her voice. Her thank you came out as a barely intelligible broken sound.

Jillian grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Don’t push yourself,” she soothed. “Your voice will return. It’s getting stronger.”

Eyreka moved to stand by Genvieve’s side. Reaching up, the other woman brushed a strand of hair from Genvieve’s eyes. “Mayhap it would be wise to try to speak,” Eyreka said. “At least a few words each day.”

Genvieve shook her head.

“Why not?”

Eyreka was watching her closely, but Genvieve refused to tell her about the comments she’d overheard one of the serving women make about her attempts to speak. She shrugged in answer.

Jillian’s gaze narrowed and Genvieve patted her throat. Her sign that it hurt to speak.

Garrick’s wife’s expression immediately changed. “Reka, she shouldn’t rush to use her voice if it still pains her.”

Genvieve hated lying, but it was necessary. She’d not be ridiculed by her cousin’s serving women or the people in his holding. Everything was too new. Her cousin didn’t need the added worry of chastising his people for speaking their mind, even if their words flayed her to the bone.

“Well, then,” Eyreka said. “We’ve a lot of duties to accomplish today, beginning with the food stores.”

The morning passed while the women counted barrels of flour, salted meat, and mead. Immersed in familiar tasks, Genvieve felt needed. When it was time for their nooning meal, Genvieve was weary, but not ready to seek her chamber and rest. She’d spent far too much time in her chamber.

“Angelique will help us sort through the linens and see what needs to be mended or replaced.” Eyreka’s announcement had her wondering where her younger cousin had been spending her time. Genvieve had only seen her a few times and only in passing.

She reached over and placed her hand on Eyreka’s. The lady of the keep set her goblet of watered wine down and looked at her.

Why? Genvieve mouthed slowly so Eyreka would understand.

“Angelique has been very busy with lessons.” The older woman smiled. “She’s learning how to manage a holding of this size, but also how to record what stores we have.”

Jillian nodded. “She’s very bright and willing to do anything her new mother asks.”

Eyreka’s eyes filled, and Genvieve wondered why. She squeezed Eyreka’s hand and let go.

“She learned how to care for the sick and wounded of her father’s people,” Jillian said. “And kept her stepmother, my mother-in-law, from bleeding to death when that madman’s sword—”

“Jillian, please.”

Genvieve wondered what the lady of the keep didn’t want her to know. But the struggle to speak was still too much of a barrier, and in the end, she forced herself to look away from the pain-filled expression on Jillian’s face and resume eating.

There was much to be done.

“Genvieve!” Angelique darted into the room and into her arms.

“Ma petite,” she rasped, her voice a jagged sound in the quiet of the room.

“Then it’s true?” Angelique pulled out of her arms, a look of horror on her face.

Genvieve nodded, unwilling to utter another word while her young cousin stared at her as if she’d crawled out from under a rock.

But the little one’s tears caught her off guard. “Does it pain you terribly?”

Genvieve shook her head.

“Won’t you please talk to me?” Angelique had grabbed a hold of Genvieve’s hand and was tugging on it.

Love for her cousin swamped her. She’d worried about Angelique’s adjustment to life when her father married after all of his years of widowhood, but could see from the way Angelique spoke and acted that she was secure in her new life.

“Soon, ma petite ,” she said, her voice grating though the now quiet room.

“I’m very busy these days,” Angelique confided, looking over at Jillian and Eyreka, “but I don’t mind the endless duties.”

“Much,” the other women added, smiling at the little girl. Angelique looked sheepish as she grinned at Genvieve.

At least Genvieve could stop worrying about Angelique. It was clear the little one was delighted with her new mother and her new life.

“About those linens,” Lady Eyreka said gently.

*

Georges was due to return any day and Genvieve wanted to be there when he delivered her father’s missive. Had her mother fully recovered from whatever illness prompted her to send for Genvieve, interrupting her journey north, taking her away from Angelique?

A fortnight had passed with her slipping seamlessly into the day-to-day tasks involved maintaining the keep. While she worked, her thoughts drifted toward a certain Scotsman, his absence burning a hole in her new life.

At night she dreamt of Francois and her miscarried babies. During the day, while her hands were busy, her mind and traitorous body inevitably focused on Winslow’s devastating kisses.

Thoughts of him muddled her mind and she’d lost her place counting their store of foodstuffs more times than she’d like to admit. Since she couldn’t speak, no one questioned how long it took her to record her numbers on the growing list of Merewood’s inventory.

Hurrying across the lower bailey on her way to fetch newly sharpened eating daggers from the blacksmith, she caught a glimpse of Winslow speaking to one of the serving women and smiling down at her.

His name on her lips had her drawing the hurt inside and clamping them shut tight. He was speaking to the woman who’d made her voice the object of many a jest. Genvieve watched the way the woman brushed a strand of flaxen hair over her shoulder and wondered how the woman would look without her hair.

Jealousy clawed at her belly, making it ache. Did he mean so much to her or was it simply his lack of attention and loss of his friendship?

So, he was still here…and avoiding her. The kisses they shared had not meant anything to him. Needing to sort through her feelings she turned away and sought out the blacksmith. There was work to be done and duties to see to before she could escape to her chamber.

“Genvieve?”

She hastened her steps, ignoring Winslow. He’d not noticed her before when he was smiling at the pasty-faced Saxon wench, so she pretended not to hear him now.

“MacInness!”

Augustin. She looked over her shoulder in time to see the confusion furrowing Winslow’s brow. As he turned to answer the summons, her heart sank. She’d more than grown accustomed to the man’s company and friendship. But what she felt for the Scots mercenary couldn’t be more than unfulfilled desire. Could it?

In her haste to fetch the daggers and return to her chamber, she’d managed to trip on her hem and tear her bliaut. Now she’d have to change for the evening meal.

Her stomach rumbled as she hastened to wash and dress. A glance out the arrowslit told her that she’d have to hurry. A light breeze blew in and carried with it the scent of freshly baked bread. Preparations for the evening meal would no doubt be underway. Having worked with Lady Jillian and Lady Eyreka, she knew the kitchen would be bustling with activity.

Spurred on by her hunger, Genvieve ventured from the solar downward. Her booted feet made little sound as she descended to the hall below. Raucous sounds grew louder with each step she took. The deep timbre of her cousin’s voice reached her ears as she paused in the doorway to the hall.

“I wilna wed.” She recognized the depth and tone as Winslow’s voice, though it had a harshness she had not heard before.

“You cannot ignore a missive from the king,” she heard Augustin reply.

“I dinna even know the lass.” Winslow said again.

“Genvieve will be a good wife, she has healing hands, a kind heart, and pleasant demeanor,” Augustin said convincingly. But Genvieve had not heard past the mention of her name and the words—good wife. She shook her head, denying that she had even heard her name mentioned. There must be another woman by the same name living within these walls. Augustin could not be speaking of her. She had her father’s word that she would never have to wed again.

She heard her name mentioned a second time and burst into the hall. Forgotten were all of the years of training to be a lady; all that mattered was her need to act. Anger punctuated each step she took, bringing her closer to the two who thought to take control of her life. Mon Dieu , she would never let that happen again.

The strained scratchy sound that she made caught the attention of the men she strode toward. “I’ll never marry again,” she said, but her words were lost in the garbled sound that reminded her of her inability to speak and her dependence on the kindness of others.

Her gaze locked onto the broad and powerful form of the only person who cared enough to take the time to even try to understand her. Winslow’s stance was eerily familiar. A chill raced up her spine, as she tried to remember why it was so.

“Genvieve,” Augustin called to her, reaching out to take her by the arm.

Her gaze darted back and forth between both men. How could she make them understand? How could she convey her wish? Did they not know of her father’s last agreement with her? Aimory de Chauret had given his word, promised she’d not have to wed again.

“I’m glad you are here,” Augustin said in a low voice, guiding her to a bench by the far wall. “We have much to discuss,” he said cryptically, neither confirming nor denying what she feared.

“The lass has a right to know,” Winslow ground out, as he stalked over to where she sat.

She nodded her emphatic agreement and cleared her throat to tell the men how she felt. It hurt to speak, but she needed them to hear her refusal. “More right than either of you have to plan my life.”

Winslow’s frown was fierce, but she didn’t know if he agreed with her or not.

Augustin’s gaze turned bleak as it always did when she mouthed words to him, or tried to control the scratchy, freakish sound of her voice. He looked away, motioning to one of the serving girls. She carried a tray with a pitcher and four goblets over to the table. The girl started to pour, but he waved her away. With a bob, she turned and hastily fled the hall.

The sound of soft footfalls rustling the rushes strewn across the floor caught Genvieve’s attention. Genvieve looked up and saw Eyreka walking purposefully toward their small group.

Will she help me, and with me against her own husband?

“Genvieve,” Eyreka reached out to grasp her hands, squeezing them briefly before letting go. She turned toward her husband. “Have you told her?”

“Nay.” He glanced at Genvieve out of the corner of his eye. “But I think it safe to assume she knows.”

“Bollocks!” Winslow’s curse echoed her thoughts. “The lass doesna ken what she is expected to do.” Winslow’s gaze locked with hers.

Genvieve suppressed the sudden urge to fling her arms about him. She stared at him and waited for him to tell her, needing to hear the words from his lips.

Augustin cleared his throat. “Georges returned earlier.” He paused and looked from Winslow to her. “I have had an answer from your father,” he began, only to pause to pour out four mugs of mead.

“Get it said,” Winslow urged.

Genvieve nodded her agreement, accepting the mug placed in her hands, praying that she somehow had misunderstood what she overheard.

“Your father is greatly relieved to hear of your safe return,” Augustin began, “but was fraught with worry over the kidnapping.”

Genvieve fought the urge to speak, it was pointless when only Winslow took the time or made the effort to understand her. Even if she could utter the words, she still had no memory of what had happened.

Augustin paused and looked at Eyreka. She smiled at him and nodded, a silent entreaty to continue.

“It is the issue of your safety that has convinced the baron to change his mind,” her cousin said, slowly staring at her.

Genvieve could feel the numbness start to creep up her legs. Nay. Papa would never go back on his word.

She looked frantically from one face to another. Her cousin looked away, but Winslow held her questioning gaze. Eyreka leaned closer, reaching out a hand, and took hold of Genvieve’s chilled fingers. The warmth was meant to soothe, but the numbness had reached her roiling stomach, accompanied by an icy feeling of shock.

Her own father had betrayed her trust. He knew how she suffered when her babes had been taken from her…when Francois had died…and then her betrothed, Guy…

Unaware that anyone addressed her, she felt the gentle touch on her brow.

“You have to,” she heard through the haze that seemed to rise from the rush-strewn floor.

“I can’t,” she said, though it was barely above a garbled whisper, and no one seemed to be paying attention to her.

“I canna,” she heard Winslow answer the command.

Genvieve wanted to thank Winslow for refusing to do as he was bid, without knowing or caring why he refused her hand. It would be easier for him to accept her refusal.

Strong hands gripped her upper arms, and a welcoming heat suffused her cold, clammy body. The mist evaporated, and she realized she had been helped to her feet and was standing before the man who saved her life, the man who cared enough to interpret her unspoken words for more than a fortnight now. The man who boldly refused her father’s offer of her hand in marriage.

“Ye must ken what I say, lass,” Winslow said in a harsh voice, his grip tightening around her arms.

She stared up at him and was again surprised by the emotion that rose from within her. His amber gaze seemed tortured. She nodded and mouthed the words, I’m listening.

“I canna marry,” Winslow said slowly. “Not just ye, lass,” he said, releasing his hold on her and abruptly stalking away.

“No one refuses a direct order from the king,” Augustin said in clipped tones.

Lady Eyreka’s gasp echoed her own. It would seem more than her own father’s wishes were to be considered. The enormity of her situation hit home with the force of a cudgel. She swayed on her feet, but caught herself, shrugging off the offered assistance. Winslow would forfeit his life if he disobeyed the king!

Winslow stopped halfway across the hall. His arms dropped back to his sides; his massive hands clenched into formidable looking fists. “I dinna mean to hurt ye, lass,” he rasped, then turned back toward the doorway and disappeared from sight.

“Never you,” Genvieve whispered, and for the second time, no one appeared to hear her. “’Tis not your hand that wielded the dagger of mistrust, nor you who plunged it into my breast.”

She finally turned her gaze away from the door and noticed that her cousin and his wife were watching her intently. For the first time, Genvieve was not sorry she had no voice.

*

Genvieve sat alone in her chamber, sorrow lancing sharply through her breast. Francois, why did you leave me? No voice answered her silent cry. No words of comfort reached her straining ears. I do not even have a raven-haired babe to cuddle and care for, she thought bitterly. Even that gift was cruelly torn from me.

The pain of her miscarriages returned with a vengeance, as fresh as it had been nearly a dozen years before. She tried to close her eyes against the pain, but she saw herself double over as if in pain. She saw her gown soaked with blood, Francois’s babe’s lifeblood.

With a groan of agony, she pushed herself up on the bed, and dropped her head in her hands, and asked God, why did she have to give up the man she adored? Why had she been unable to carry either of their babes to term?

Genvieve swept the tangled strands of hair out of her eyes and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, letting them dangle for a brief moment before pushing off the bed.

She began to pace the small chamber while scenes of her past flashed before her. It was as if her tortured mind was forcing her to relive the past. By the tenth trip past the arrowslit, the air had grown thick, and her breathing had become labored. She drew in a breath but could not get enough air. Desperate for a breath of fresh air, moments away from hysteria, she bolted for the door.

With no memory of opening her chamber door or descending the steps, she jolted out of her panic as a fresh, cool breeze hit her in the face. She gasped, drawing in more air than she needed. After a few deep breaths, her breathing slowed and returned to normal.

The full moon lit her way, as she walked around the back of the holding to the walled herb garden. The subtle scent of rosemary wafted up to greet her as the hem of her sleeping gown brushed against the fragrant herb.

The cinder path wound through the groupings of plantings, leading her to the far wall and the little used side door. Thoughts of escape filled her with each step she took.

Freedom.

Blinding need to be free of Merewood’s walls twisted through her, nearly robbing her of the precious breath she had just recovered. Her heartbeat picked up speed and she could feel her life’s blood beginning to pound through her veins. Her steps gathered momentum until she was running toward the wooden door.

She grasped the handle and tugged, not even thinking to muffle the sound of the hinges. They creaked and groaned, but the door opened. She slipped through, not bothering to stop and close it. Unsure of where the path would lead, she slowed her pace to a fast walk.

Soon her thoughts were tangled up with the past. A rustling in the underbrush startled her. When she turned toward the sound, she saw Francois’s beloved face. Her silent scream erupted from the pit of her stomach. She began to run again and with each pounding footstep, visions of their raven-haired babes haunted her. The crack of a twig made her jump and look behind her. The specter of her betrothed, Guy, seemed to float toward her.

She stifled another scream of terror and ran on. Her head pounded viciously, marking time with each footfall. Pain enveloped her, wrapping her frayed feelings about her until she thought to suffocate. A sudden splashing sound echoed in the stillness of the night, but she ignored it, driven on by the pain in her heart and heaviness in her soul.

The sudden chill of the lake water broke through the demons of her past. Icy fingers of dread curled at the base of her spine and crept slowly upward toward her pounding heart. Breast-deep in weed-choked water, she tried, but could not move. Her struggles bound her tighter, until she was held fast by unseen ropes of green, tangled beyond her ability to free herself.

Genvieve tried to cry out for help, but only the broken sound of her useless voice echoed in the vast emptiness.

A sudden sinking sensation caught her by surprise. She tried to ignore it, but then distinctly felt it again. The soft lake bottom was slowly pulling her under.

There was no one to help her.

By morning, she would be dead.