Claire Delacroix (17 page)

Yves took another step down, waited for the man to follow suit, then feigned another assault. When his opponent lunged forward to put his full weight behind his parry, Yves swiftly withdrew his blade and flattened himself against the wall.

The man’s look of exultation changed to terror in the instant before he tumbled head over heels. His fall was halted with the resounding crack of his skull against the stone floor far below.

The only movement was of the blood spreading from his mouth.

Yves dashed back up the stairs, not surprised to find Gabrielle thrust behind a Philip who looked less certain of himself than he might have liked. Yves recalled only too well that Philip had not joined the battle for Perricault a week past.

This was a man who let others fight his battles for him. Philip’s hand shook as he held his sword aloft, and Yves did not like that Lady Gabrielle was so close behind the villain.

A coward could be unpredictable when cornered.

Gabrielle shrank backward, her eyes wide with fear, and Yves realized suddenly that she did not know who came to her aid. After what she had endured, she might well fear another attacker within Perricault’s walls.

And he had a perverse desire to have Philip know the name of the man who would see him dead. The shock of finding
Seymour’s quest a failure might well lend Yves an advantage in this match.

Yves lifted his blade and stepped forward, well aware of the lady’s gaze fixed upon him. She must recognize his colors, but her manner revealed her uncertainty. What had Philip told her?

“Philip de Trevaine, I would presume?” Yves demanded with feigned casualness. The lady caught her breath at the sound of his voice and her hand rose to her lips, though not quickly enough to hide a small smile that warmed Yves to his toes.

That man tossed his head. “Philip de Trevaine and de Perricault, if you please.”

“I most certainly do
not
please,” Yves growled. He lunged forward, catching Philip unawares. The other man parried with undue haste, nearly dropping his sword in the process, and failed to block Yves’ strike.

A trickle of blood ran from Philip’s cheek. Yves danced backward, watching Philip’s hands quiver as he renewed his grip upon his hilt.

“And who might you be?” Philip demanded with bravado. “What manner of coward does not show his face in combat?”

Yves nearly chuckled aloud, the necessity of his helmet well proven by the nick in Philip’s cheek. He noted that the other man wore no mail, an obviously undeserved confidence in the men that guarded his keep.

“By your standard, brave men would be fools who did not live long at all,” Yves retorted easily. He attacked again with an agility that belied the weight of his armor. Philip hacked at Yves’ blade, his eyes wild as he struggled to defend himself. He panted desperately, and Yves tried to back Philip away from Gabrielle.

“But perhaps it is defeating death that makes a man cautious in such matters,” Yves continued. Philip’s gaze flew to his face with alarm, almost as though he guessed Yves’ next words. Yves hauled his helmet from his head and cast it aside.

“Yves!” the lady breathed with undisguised pleasure.

Philip looked from one to the other, a scowl darkening his brow. “You know this man?”

“Of course,” Yves responded smoothly. “I am Chevalier Yves de Sant-Roux.”

Philip blanched. “But you are dead!”

“Seymour de Crecy is dead, not I.”

Philip’s mouth worked for a moment, then he dove for Gabrielle.

“My lady, run!” Yves bellowed, even as he attacked the other man with renewed vigor. Gabrielle needed no such encouragement, for she had already fled into the darkness of the corridor.

She knew this keep, Yves reminded himself, hoping against hope that no other foes awaited her in the darkness. Philip snatched the air after her, but only caught at her veil. He swore, pivoted, and his eyes widened in alarm to find Yves so close behind him.

He barely raised his blade before Yves sliced it from his very hand. Philip gasped and Yves drove his sword into the villain’s belly, determined that this man should torment the world no more.

“My wedding clothes!” Philip squealed at the sight of the blood spurting on his fine garments. He scrabbled at the blade with anxious fingers, though made no impact, for it was planted deep.

Then suddenly, he stilled.

His hands fell limp and his chin lolled against his chest. His body slumped against the wall and the blood coursing from his wound slowed to a trickle.

It was odd how much smaller Philip looked with the force of his anger stolen away forever. The silence of a battle won carried to Yves’ ears from the hall below, and he had no doubt who had been victorious on this day.

Yves retrieved his sword and peered into the shadows ahead. “My Lady Gabrielle?” he called. “He is dead.”

A faint patter of footsteps carried to his ears, then the silhouette of Gabrielle separated from the darkness. She rushed forward, disbelief in her eyes, her gaze fixed upon the fallen figure of the man who had so destroyed her life.

This was the man who had slaughtered the husband she loved, Yves realized. He watched her as she came forward, hesitation still evident in her movements, her pallor revealing the shock of events.

But Gabrielle came, despite her fear, and yet again Yves was proud of the woman she was. Gabrielle was daunted by nothing, much less her own trepidations.

The light revealed that she was dressed in a rich shade of crimson that highlighted her coloring marvelously, the ornate golden embroidery and fragile lace so suiting her that Yves was amazed she always dressed so simply.

Gabrielle’s hair was dressed differently, more ornately, braided and set with pearls, its dark splendor framing her features in a way that her usual single braid did not. Her dark lashes looked longer and thicker, her eyes appeared yet more violet in her fear.

When she looked to him with wonder in those wondrous eyes, he marveled that he had ever thought the lady plain.

“He is truly dead,” she whispered, then her lips curved in a tentative smile. She reached out one trembling hand, as though she could not believe Yves stood before her. “And you, you are not.”

“No,” Yves agreed, doffing his gloves and capturing the slender strength of her hand within his own. Her skin was so soft, her fingers so cold, that he closed his hand protectively about her own and pulled her closer. “No, I am not.”

Their gazes clung and a heat kindled to life between them. Gabrielle parted her lips and Yves could not look away from their luscious curve, his mind flooded with recollections of their softness trapped beneath his own.

“And you came,” she breathed.

Yves smiled. “You had my pledge.”

Gabrielle shook her head minutely, as though she could not believe he stood before her. She raised a hand to the nearly healed scar Seymour had given him, and Yves’ heart clenched at the concern in her eyes. “You are hurt!”

“No longer. It was but a scratch.” Yves stepped forward, following his impulse before he thought. “And you?”

“Unscathed,” she admitted breathlessly, and a tension within Yves eased.

Gabrielle’s gaze fell to his lips, then danced back to his eyes, the gesture making Yves burn to taste her sweetness anew. He lifted his hand to her face.

“My lord!” came a muffled but familiar voice from the darkness beyond. The lady danced backward as Yves’ head snapped up in disbelief. Could his ears be deceiving him?

Gabrielle’s eyes glowed with amusement. “It seems I owe Gaston an apology,” she murmured with a confidential air.

“Gaston?”

Gabrielle nodded, and relief flooded through Yves that his impossible squire had not paid the ultimate price for his impetuousness—at least, not this time. Only then did he consider Gabrielle’s strange assertion.

“Why an apology?”

Gabrielle sobered as she stared up at him, her eyes so wide that Yves felt he could drown in their warm depths. “He was certain all along that you would come.”

Her implication was clear, but Yves would have her say the words, even knowing how disappointing they would be. “And you were not?”

Gabrielle shook her head. “It was not sensible.”

“I granted you my word,” Yves reminded her sternly. “And that,
madame,
is no small matter.”

“I know, but circumstances were not usual. The odds were too great against you, and you had already tried—”

“For a woman of faith, my lady,” Yves interrupted her firmly, “you have surprisingly little of it in me.”

The lady stared at him, apparently at a loss for words. She
opened her mouth, then closed it again and visibly swallowed. “I simply did not think,” she began tentatively, then paused. She frowned and tried again. “I have never known a man who put his own well-being last.”

“It is not a case of well-being, but of keeping a pledge given,” Yves retorted, unable to completely explain his irritation with her. Others had expressed a lack of faith in him before and he had not been troubled as he was in this instance.

“I understand that now,” Gabrielle murmured, and her lips curved in a most unsettling little smile. “Perhaps I owe you an apology, as well,” she whispered.

And to Yves’ amazement, she stretched to her toes and planted a chaste kiss against his cheek. Her fingertips fluttered against his face for a fleeting moment during which Yves thought his heart might burst. He longed to crush her against his chest and kiss her truly, but she seemed so vulnerable that he was loath to frighten her. In some way he could not begin to understand, his return to Perricault had shaken her expectations.

Then Gabrielle’s fingertips quivered and the single word she uttered fanned across his flesh.

“Thomas,” she whispered, and looked so uncharacteristically vulnerable that Yves’ heart wrenched.

“Where is he?”

“I do not know. Philip took him away.” She clutched at Yves’ arm in sudden trepidation, those shadows claiming her eyes once more. “He could not have killed him, could he? Thomas must be here!”

Yves gripped her chilled hands and stared into her eyes, willing her to believe him. “I will find him.”

Gabrielle’s glance flicked away, then she took a deep breath and met Yves’ gaze once more. “I know,” she admitted unevenly. “I know.” Twin spots of color burned in her pale cheeks, but she did not look away.

It was as though she, in turn, would will him to believe her.

The two simple words launched a surge of pride through Yves, for he had never expected this lady to rely upon anyone, much less himself, and certainly not in comparatively short order. He knew in that moment that he could not rest before all was set right within her world.

She swallowed again, her eyes wide as she looked up at him. Her words came so faintly that Yves had to lean closer to hear them, the move earning him a whiff of the warm scent of her skin. “I am so glad that Seymour de Crecy failed at his task.”

Then she was gone.

Yves’ heart thudded in his chest as he watched the lady flee into the darkness of the corridor. It seemed that he could not draw a full breath into his lungs. What was this witchery Gabrielle cast about him?

“Let me out! Let me join the fray! My lord, do not leave me imprisoned!” Gaston began to pound on the door of wherever he was captive. Yves snorted with the certainty that the boy could not be sorely injured if he could manage to make so much noise.

“I am coming, Gaston. I am coming,” Gabrielle retorted brusquely, reminding Yves of the task that yet lay before him. He donned his gloves once more, scooped up his helmet and went in search of the heir to Perricault.

While the others tended the wounded and tallied the damage, Yves opened every door within that keep. He peered into every cranny, calling to Thomas, though he fully expected the child would answer to no stranger now. He worked the château from the ramparts down with methodical precision and terrifyingly lean results.

Finally, Yves ventured into the deepest dungeons of Perricault.

A sniffle alerted him to the presence of another. Yves lifted his torch high and peered into each cell in succession.

Through the sturdily barred window of the fourth door,
Yves could see a fair-haired child cowering in the farthest corner of the heavily padlocked chamber. His fist was raised to his mouth, his garb was dirty and his dark eyes were fixed on the door.

Evidently he had heard Yves coining and knew not what to expect.

Mercifully, the keys had been left close at hand, and Yves made short work of the locks, casting the door open with impatience. He jammed the torch into a sconce and stood in the portal. Yves faced the silent child, uncertain for a moment how to proceed.

“Are you Thomas de Perricault?” he asked gently.

The boy endeavored to take a step backward even though his back was already against the wall. He did not speak, but a wariness dawned in his dark eyes.

This could have been himself when he was six summers old, Yves thought suddenly. This could have been the way he looked when he was a child, lost and confused within his father’s house. And oh, Yves well recalled how frightened he had oft been.

He squatted down in the portal, moving slowly so as not to alarm the boy. Yves set his helmet aside, propped his elbows upon his knees and laced his fingers together.

“I am Chevalier Yves de Sant-Roux,” he said slowly. “Your mother convinced me to take the cause of winning back Perricault and seeing you safely by her side once more.” Yves paused, noting how the boy’s gaze flicked to the corridor behind him, then back to fix upon him.

Still he said nothing, though Yves had no doubt he understood. Though the color of his eyes was so different from Gabrielle’s, the boy’s gaze had a steadiness about it that echoed his dame’s.

“Your mother is in the hall even as we speak, safe from harm.” A light kindled in the boy’s eyes and it seemed he chewed that fist with less vigor.

“Philip de Trevaine lies dead, and by my own hand,” Yves continued.

The boy blinked and shuffled his feet with new restlessness. Evidently, he was still not convinced to come any closer.

But he had responded to the mention of Gabrielle. Yves made a point of looking about the dark and damp chamber, knowing full well that that avid gaze devoured his every move.