Chapter Twenty-One

“I still don’t understand why she couldn’t come downstairs to greet me last night,” Lady Annaliese said to her husband and his nephew.

Augustin grinned. “They are newly married.” As if that explained it all—and it did as far as he was concerned—he let the matter drop, changing the subject to the weather, their crops, and his own wife.

Lady Eyreka entered the room smiling, Jillian walking on one side of her and MacInness and Genvieve on her other side.

“Maman!” Genvieve rushed over to where her mother sat and would have hugged her, had her mother not moved out of the way.

“Annaliese,” Aimory de Chauret warned, rising to his feet. When Genvieve would have stood quietly by, he stepped forward, enveloping her in his embrace. “I’ve missed you, daughter.”

“Hmmph.” Her mother looked away.

*

She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve such a reaction from her own mother, but sensed it had to do with not attending the welcome feast last evening. Looking up at her husband, she knew she’d make the same choice, given another chance. His touch was a healing balm she desperately needed.

He lifted their joined hands to his lips and kissed the back of her hand.

“You look well, Genvieve,” her father said with a nod in Winslow’s direction. “I knew you would be the right choice as husband for our daughter.”

“He would never have been my choice,” Annaliese ground out.

“Maman!” Shocked to the core, and embarrassed, Genvieve tugged on Winslow’s arm to get him moving. Once they were seated, she leaned close. “Something’s wrong with my mother.”

Winslow mumbled something under his breath that sounded a lot like bitch. When she looked at him, waiting for him to repeat what he just said, he shrugged then smiled at her. He wouldn’t use such foul language referring to her mother, would he?

Once everyone was seated, he leaned close and offered her a bite from their shared trencher. She smiled and opened her mouth. The bit of honeyed bread melted on her tongue. She licked her lips and watched Winslow’s eyes widen, then darken with desire. It felt wonderful to be able to elicit such a strong reaction from her husband. Especially when she felt the same way.

He continued to feed her and halfway through the meal, her mother shot to her feet, crying, “Enough!”

Genvieve had no idea what was wrong with her mother, but something must be bothering her. “Maman,” she began, “is something wrong?”

“You can sit there and let that barbarian touch you, and yet you ask me if something is wrong?” her mother bit out, acid dripping from her words.

Winslow pushed to his feet, but Genvieve laid a hand on his forearm, and he paused. “But he’s my husband,” Genvieve said, confused by her mother’s outburst, hurting for the man she’d grown to love.

“In the eyes of God and man,” Winslow added, resuming his seat after the insult he’d been dealt.

“You don’t have to touch him in front of everyone, do you?” her mother asked.

Genvieve felt the flush staining her cheeks. She was embarrassed, but she would stand her ground. “I enjoy touching him, Maman,” she said loud enough to be heard at the back of the hall.

Her mother’s gasp of outrage was only slightly louder than Winslow’s sign of contentment. “Ye have a way with words, lass,” he said putting his arm around her and bringing her close enough to press his lips to hers.

“Aimory,” Annaliese shouted, “do something!”

“What would you have me do?” he asked, not rising to his feet, though his wife was still standing.

“Bring her back to London with us and then to Normandy.”

“We’re not going back to Normandy,” Aimory said slowly. “But you’ve known that for years.”

Her mother’s eyes began to dart from side to side and she started shaking. “I cannot stay here, Aimory.”

Genvieve went to her mother. “Maman, please,” she begged. “Come sit and have something to eat, you’ll feel better.”

“I will never feel better.” Annaliese rasped. “Nothing can repair the damage that has been done.”

“What are you talking about?” Genvieve asked, but her mother pulled away from her. “If you’d trust in Father, like I’ve learned to trust in Winslow,” she said, “all would be well.”

“I’ll not have you suffer as I have,” her mother screamed. “You’ll not have to feel the brutal fists on your face and accept a rutting beast into your body as I have!”

“Annaliese, no!” Her father leapt toward her mother while Genvieve watched in horror.

Her mother’s words had rendered Genvieve, and half of the people gathered in the hall, motionless.

Proof of her mother’s horror seeped into Genvieve’s soul. The hurt her mother had endured contorted the older woman’s face as she reached for the eating dagger still hanging from her belt.

“Lassie, dinna move,” Winslow shouted. He jumped to his feet and threw himself in front of the blade flying toward Genvieve. She jerked back to reality in time to see her mother’s eating dagger bury itself deep in her husband’s shoulder.

The sight of the blade sticking out her husband’s body, with blood oozing down the front of his sleeve, turned her stomach upside down. But the screeching sound her mother made as she dove forward to claw at Winslow brought Genvieve up short.

“Maman… no!” She stepped in front of her husband to stop her mother. When that did not deter her, Genvieve curled her hand into a fist and delivered a solid jab to her mother’s jaw. Her mother went down like a stone.

She turned to her husband and gasped as Winslow pulled the dagger free. Tugging the threads loose from her sleeve, she balled the material up, and pressed it against the open wound where the dagger had been moments before.

“Ye’d best see to your wife,” Winslow said to Genvieve’s father, swaying slightly from the ugly wound.

All at once the hall was alive with movement and sound as Genvieve’s father bent to lift his unconscious wife into his arms. The uproar died down a bit when he turned toward Genvieve. With tears in his eyes, her father rasped, “I am at fault. If I had hunted down the dog who raped your mother, none of this would have happened.” He paused. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“If not for what Maman had tried to do to protect me, I’d never have met Winslow.” Turning toward her husband, she let go of the tears she’d tried to hold back. “I’m so sorry. I never would have let her near you if I had any idea how she felt.” Tears streamed down her face. “Forgive me?”

“Ye did a fine job, plantin’ yer fist to her jaw, lassie,” he rasped, brushing her tears with the tips of his fingers. “I’ll make a Highlander out of ye yet.”

Genvieve smiled through her tears.

While her mother was carried out of the hall, bits and pieces of the past came together. “Jillian must be right,” she whispered so only Winslow could hear her. “I cannot think of any other reason why she would try to kill you.”

“’Tis the truth, everyone loves us, lass,” Patrick said with a grin.

“Us?” she asked, feeling as if she’d come into the middle of a conversation.

“’Tis a long story, wife,” Winslow said, watching her as she pressed against his wound.

“Can you not be serious?” she demanded. Lord, his blood was everywhere. “Lady Jillian, please help me.”

“You’re doing a fine job,” Kelly said, walking over to where she stood maintaining pressure on her husband’s wound. “I’ll heat my blade, and we’ll let Lady Eyreka sew him back together. She has a fine hand with stitches.”

Genvieve couldn’t speak, anguish swept through her at the thought of her mother trying to kill her husband. “Why?” she asked. “Why didn’t she tell someone?”

Just then her father reentered the hall and walked toward her. “She came to me and explained what had happened, but I didn’t react the way she expected. I didn’t hunt the man down and kill him as she demanded.”

He paused and nodded toward Winslow. “I discovered that she paid someone to deliver the message to you that your mother was dead. I am beyond sorry.”

Genvieve watched the play of emotions flickering across her husband’s handsome face. “Ye did what ye thought was right at the time.” Winslow paused, then added, “I would ha’ reacted a bit differently.”

He cupped her cheek tenderly, while he said, “I would ha’ hunted the mon down like a dog,” Winslow bit out.

“And?” Garrick asked, as if he sensed there would be more.

“Then I’d skin him alive,” the Scotsman said with no inflection in his voice.

Genvieve swayed, but kept her hands firmly pressed to his wound.

“Are ye all right, lass?” he asked tenderly, brushing the wisp of hair out of her eyes.

Fresh tears welled up and spilled over. “She hurt you,” Genvieve cried.

“I’ll mend,” he promised.