The Elusive Bride Page 18

  “I’m on my way to bed, Master Con. But I thought a little walk in the night air might clear my head first. I doubt his lordship would want me to go without an escort. He has yet to learn how well I can fend for myself. I would press you into service, but I do not wish to keep you from your cups.” How good it felt to talk to a man without watching every word!

  “Think no more of it.” He tried to bow over her hand, but the effort caused him to stagger. “A wise man would leave off drinking now, so as not to suffer on the morrow.” He gave an impish wink. “Not that I’ve ever been known for my wisdom on that score. You’d be saving me from my own folly by keeping me out of that hall.”

  They turned back in the direction Con had been coming and for a few moments walked in silence.

  Then the Welshman came to an abrupt halt. “I just remembered, Rowan bade me keep my distance from you. I don’t want to bring you a parcel of trouble on the very eve of your wedding.”

  The eve of her wedding. The words knelled in Cecily’s mind like a sentence of punishment. Before another sun set, she would belong to Rowan DeCourtenay. Fated to spend the rest of her life as she had tonight, struggling to be the kind of wife he wanted.

  “It is because of his lordship that I would speak with you, Con. The more I try to fathom him, the more he baffles me. He will not talk of his past on any account. Perhaps if I knew what drives him to behave as he does, I could better reconcile myself to his will. If I knew who and what he would have me be, perhaps I would be able to accommodate him. I’ve tried talking to Lady Aenor, and she’s a good soul. It just isn’t in her to see the world through any eyes but her own. Especially not those of so puzzling a character as Lord Rowan.”

  They descended the stairs slowly, Cecily prepared to grab Con by the collar and pull him back if he should stumble. He gave his whole attention to his feet, however, speaking not a word until they had emerged into the moon-bathed bailey of Ravensridge.

  “And you think because I’ve rattled around the Holy Land with him for the better part of ten years that I can tell you all his secrets? I can tell you this much, lass. Nobody knows DeCourtenay’s secrets. He only lets a body get so close and no closer. Unless I miss my guess, you’ve drawn nearer his heart in the little while you’ve known him than anyone else ever has.”

  Cecily gazed into the night sky. “A few days ago I would have told you I knew him. As it turns out I didn’t even know his true name.”

  “Don’t be too sure you didn’t get a glimpse of Rowan, all the same. Rowan at his best. Rowan as he’d like to be.”

  “I thought he’d come to care for me as I am. But since we arrived at Ravensridge he seems bent on changing me into something I can never be.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Jacquetta DeNevers.”

  “His wife who died, you mean?” Con patted her arm. “More fool he if it’s so. But you know, lass, you’re talking to the wrong man. You need to tell him how you feel. Ask him all your questions. He may not give you much of an answer at first, but at least he’ll know you care enough to want to find out. In time I wager he’ll come around.”

  “I can’t risk it, Con. What if he gets angry with me and refuses to aid Brantham? Reclaiming my home and saving my people from that blackguard DeBoissard are the most important things in the world to me.”

  Con clucked his tongue. “A noble goal to be sure. But is it more important to you than what you and Rowan have together? What you could have in the years to come?”

  The question struck Cecily dumb for a moment. She’d made no secret of her aim all along. Nor that her marriage to DeCourtenay was a necessary means to that end. For his part, Rowan had only his order from the Empress and his feelings for her—whatever they might be.

  Perhaps she did need to rethink her priorities.

  “Thank you, Con ap Ifan. You talk remarkably good sense for a man so full of ale and mead.”

  “Anythin’ to oblige a lady. Now I must get me off to bed, for my head is spinning like butter in a churn.” He took a few staggering steps.

  “Have a care now, or you’ll fall and brain yourself!” Cecily slipped under his arm. “I suppose seeing you to bed is the least I can do for…”

  A shadow detached itself from the nearest doorway. Light streamed into the bailey from the entry, catching Cecily and the Welshman in its beacon. One large fist reached out of the darkness, closing around the neck of Con’s tunic, pulling him free of her.

  “To bed, is it?” Rowan choked over the words. “I thought I made it plain you were to stay clear of her, Ifan. Or did my warning only spur you on?”

  “Let him be, Rowan.” Cecily tugged at his arm. Its muscles were bunched tight and hard as marble. “This is not what you think.”

  “You!” The words retched out of him. “I thought you had gone to your own bed. Or did you have to go looking for company first?”

  All her private vows of meekness flew off, like doves scattering from a cote. Her old rebellious nature rose ascendant once again. “That’s the daftest thing I ever heard! I met up with Con as I was leaving the hall, and the two of us decided a walk in the air might do our heads some good. With the amount of drink in him, he needs sleep worse than air. I was only trying to keep him from hurting himself on the way to bed.”

  Con chuckled. “To be stric’ly honest, my friend, even if the lady had been willing, I fear I’m not in much condition to oblige her.”

  “Keep your mouth shut, fool!” snapped Cecily. “You’ll only make it worse.” She tugged harder at Rowan’s arm. “Put him down. This is no fault of his. If you have a quarrel, it’s with me. I was the one who suggested we walk.”

  So abruptly did Rowan loose his hold that Con dropped onto the hard-packed earth of the courtyard.

  The torchlight from the doorway flickered over Rowan’s face. The tightly clenched jaw. The flared nostrils. The ruthless set of his mouth. Most of all they reflected his eyes, blazing with silver fury. Looking into that face, Cecily could believe him capable of murder in a moment of unchecked rage.

  Cecily’s reckless courage almost deserted her. “I…I had to talk to him…about you. Please, you must tell me, for it’s poisoning everything between us. Did you kill Jacquetta?”

  She had managed to stand her ground against his fury, but Cecily quailed at the look of anguish that overset it.

  “If you care for me, as you claim,” he murmured, the words seeping out of him like blood from a deep wound, “you would have no need to ask such a question.”

  He was the one playing tyrant. He was the one keeping secrets. Why, then, did shame and sorrow threaten to engulf her?

  “If you cared for me, Rowan DeCourtenay…” Her voice choked off but she persisted. “You would trust me to hear the worst and still not waver in my feelings for you.”

  “Very well, then. If these are the words you crave to hear, I am guilty in Jacquetta’s death. I have tried every way in the world to atone for my sin. All to no avail. I am damned. What say you to that?”

  Cecily tried to dredge up some reply. Even if her reeling mind had latched on to the words, they could not have struggled free of her constricted throat.

  Rowan’s lip curled in disdain, but his eyes betrayed only misery. “As I thought.”

  Without another word, he turned and stalked off into the night.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Whatever had possessed him to say it?

  Rowan pressed his forehead onto the stone bench in the castle garden, where he had spent the night. Part of him longed to pound his head harder and harder against it, until he beat himself into oblivion.

  He’d wanted so badly to believe that all was innocent between Cecily and Con. More desperately still, he’d wanted to believe her idle bluff that she would continue to care for him no matter what his role in Jacquetta’s death.

  When he’d been fool enough to test her, she had failed him.

  What consequences would that have for today? Would Cecily still be willing
to go ahead with their wedding? And if she didn’t—what then? Could he still attack Brantham on her behalf and exact his revenge upon Fulke DeBoissard?

  His long smoldering spite against DeBoissard intensified a hundredfold. Not only had that perfidious vermin cost him Jacquetta and his own immortal soul, now he bid fair to cost Rowan his one chance at redemption.

  No need of my help! Fulke’s voice taunted Rowan from some dark, poisoned source deep in his own mind. You are pushing Cecily away quite well all by yourself. Another penance, is it?

  “Get my sword to your throat and I’ll show you penance, DeBoissard!” Rowan muttered under his breath.

  Just then he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Soft footsteps. Slow footsteps. Beloved footsteps. Of all the fears that had ever plagued Rowan DeCourtenay, none haunted him like the thought of those footsteps running away from him.

  Cecily did not notice him when she first entered the garden. Instead, she closed her eyes, breathing in the stillness and dewy perfume of growing things awakening to a new day.

  “What brings you here at such an early hour?” he asked.

  Her eyes flew open and her whole body stiffened. “I did not expect to find you here. I’m sorry if I disturbed your…rest?”

  Rowan rose and stretched. “I thought I could not sleep here as well as anywhere else. And you?”

  One corner of her mouth lifted. Nowhere near a smile. Only half a grin. Still, it was something.

  “I told Aenor and the other ladies I wanted to gather flowers for my bridal wreath.”

  The implication of her words stunned him for a moment.

  “You are…willing for it to go forward?” He could scarcely form the question for fear of the answer he might receive. “After last night?” He left the rest unsaid. After what I accused you of? After what I admitted?

  Cecily nodded. “I will not believe what you told me last night, Rowan DeCourtenay.” She flung the words down—a gauntlet of challenge. “Nothing you or anyone else can say will convince me of it.”

  Her eyes glowed with stubborn, unbowed beauty. Her chin had regained its proud tilt. “If you will still have me, I will wed you.”

  If?

  Though his cautious nature warned that it was only a measure of her desperation to save Brantham, hope blossomed in Rowan’s heart. Like a Rose of Sharon in the Sinai wilderness.

  Unable to bear even the tiny distance between them, he opened his arms. He recalled Con’s advice. Hold her too close and you will drive her away. Rather than taking Cecily into the embrace he ached for, he held himself still and invited her. With his stance. With his gaze. With his heart.

  The change was not lost upon her.

  As she plunged eagerly into his welcoming arms, her face lit up with a smile that eclipsed the dawn. It glowed with the promise of a fresh start for them both.

  Resolutely, Rowan wrestled the demons of his past into his soul’s deepest dungeon. As Cecily pressed her face over his thundering heart, he nuzzled his cheek against her hair and battled to retain his composure.

  His father had never hesitated to believe the worst of him. For years, the world had held him to blame for a crime he had not committed, until he’d grown to doubt his own innocence, wallowing in guilt. Now Cecily had staked her future happiness on her faith in his better nature. The thought of it dizzied Rowan with rapture.

  And terror.

  Did he dare to scale the heights of bliss, knowing full well the peril of a disastrous fall?

  The sweet, hopeful warbling of a lark called Rowan back from his doubts. Still holding Cecily close, he glanced around the garden. “This puts me in mind of the first time we met, in the glade near Wenwith Priory. Do you recall?”

  She nodded and nestled closer still. “And will as long as I live.”

  Lifting one hand, he ran it down her silken plait of hair in a sinuous caress. “I want that lass back.” The words escaped from his lips before he could detain them.

  She drew back. “My lord?”

  Rowan plunged ahead, despite himself. “I will take that Cecily Tyrell to wive. Not the sulky, mum creature who kept me company at table last night.”

  Her fine arched brows drew together and her eyes widened. Something within Rowan kindled in answer. A man could relish doing battle with such a mettlesome opponent. The sparring. The spirited thrust and parry. The conquest. Better a week of lusty combat with his Cecily than a hundred years of plodding tranquility with any other woman.

  “I do not, nor never did sulk, Rowan DeCourtenay.” She poked a forefinger into his chest. “I was only striving to be the kind of wife you would have me be.” A rueful sigh heaved out of her. “And uphill work it is, I can tell you.”

  “When did I ever say I wanted a stiff puppet for a bride?” Rowan’s temper warmed. “One who pulls glum mouths, keeps downcast eyes and makes lifeless answers by rote— ‘Yes, my lord.’ ‘No, my lord.’?”

  “When?” Cecily rolled her eyes heavenward. “Time and again since we arrived at Ravensridge, and I can bring forth a legion of your own castle folk who can bear me honest witness. Every man jack in the bailey must have heard you the other morning. Bidding me keep to my proper sphere and occupy myself sewing wedding clothes.”

  Rowan pulled himself erect, master of his domain. Then why did he feel as if he was treading on quicksand? “I do not deny it. Fair counsel it was, and tendered for your own good.” How had she managed to put him on the defensive, the vixen? “What has that to do with the other? Can you not tend to women’s work and still keep a merry air when we are together?”

  “And shall I produce you hot ice and dry water, too?” Behind the jest Rowan detected a note of pain. An old wound, poorly set, never fully healed.

  “You cannot lop off my legs and expect me to dance a jig, DeCourtenay! There may be women who can deny their nature in one arena, then turn and give it free rein in another. But I have not that subtlety.”

  She sounded as though she was admitting a grave flaw. The very thought made Rowan bristle. Cecily’s forthright nature was one of her qualities he most prized.

  “Say how you would have me.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “If you want a docile chatelaine, I will labor with all my might to be that for you. As I labored to be worthy of a place in the nunnery. As I should have labored to be a dutiful daughter.”

  A page of Cecily’s heart suddenly opened before him—illuminated. He recalled his own struggle to win the regard of his father. Might he have been a different, better man, if he’d simply gone his own way, as Cecily had?

  But what price had she paid for her independence?

  It occurred to Rowan that he had once hankered for marriage to just such a docile would-be-nun. After a closer acquaintance with Sister Gertha of Wenwith, he wondered if such lifeless paragons truly existed. In any case, the prospect of such a union no longer held any appeal for him. Doubly so, if it would cost Cecily a moment’s unhappiness or self-doubt.

  “If you want me as I am,” she continued, “I serve you fair notice. You must be prepared to accept all that goes with it. That includes poking my nose into the bailey and putting your swordsmen through their paces if I reckon they need it. Which will it be? I swear I’ll do all within my power to abide by your will.”

  If his lance had shattered during a cavalry charge, or his destrier had fallen beneath him at full gallop, Rowan would not have been more completely at a loss. How could he grant Cecily the freedom she so obviously craved? With no curb but her own common sense. No tie to him but her regard and affection. And if those should ever wane?

  She must have sensed his indecision, and perhaps the inner struggle he waged. For she held out her hand to him in a frank offer of trust. An invitation for him to trust her in kind.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Rowan raised his hand to hers. Their fingers entwined.

  “Very well.” His stomach waxed bilious at the risk he was taking. It was everything he could do to keep a tremor out of his voice. “I prefer the hoy
den to the nun.”

  Her gaze searched him. “Truly? The hoyden and all that goes with her?”

  If he spoke again, Rowan feared he might recant. With a mute nod, he tried to tell her what she longed to hear.

  “I won’t ever give you cause to regret it.” How ardent she looked. How earnest she sounded.

  How Rowan wished he could believe her.

  “You did not truly think I would play you false with your Welsh friend?” A flash of insight overset her skeptical grin. “Did Jacquetta break faith with you? Is that why you tried so hard to keep me from the men of Ravens-ridge?”

  The question was too impossibly painful to contemplate on the morn of his second wedding. It threatened to loose the demons he’d so recently imprisoned.

  Wrenching his hand from her grasp, he wheeled away from Cecily before her too perceptive eye ferreted out more than he could afford to divulge. “Leave it be, lass. You’ve won concessions from me. Now leave the rest be.”

  He strode off without a backward glance before she could engage him again. A sense of foreboding gripped him. Would he live to rue this marriage as deeply as he rued his first?

  He might trust her enough to allow her some freedom, but would Rowan ever trust her enough to confide in her? Cecily swept the doubts from her mind, like dirty rushes from the floor of a banquet hall. Such notions had no place in her thoughts today, she chided herself, determined to enjoy the festivities surrounding her bridal.

  After all, she did have cause to celebrate. Marriage to a man she could respect and love, who bid fair to love and respect her in return. That he would wrest Brantham from Fulke DeBoissard and help her hold it against any further aggression now felt like an added boon instead of the sole purpose for their union.

  She had seen the effort it cost him to agree that she might be herself, not some poor copy of Aenor…or Jacquetta. But in the end he had decided in her favor. He cared for the woman she was and he was wedding her for herself alone. The notion made Cecily hum a little tune as she wriggled into the kirtle of primrose silk. It whispered over her skin with a delicious tickle that put her in mind of Rowan’s lips.