Claire Delacroix (19 page)

“There is nothing dreadful about one small kiss,” she said, hoping her voice sounded more carefree than she felt.

Yves glanced skeptically toward the roaring assembly. “I doubt one small kiss will suffice.”

Gabrielle caught her breath, knowing the truth when she heard it. That languid warmth she had come to associate with Yves’ presence grew within her at the prospect of a long, slow kiss from this man.

Could she manage to hide the response she knew was inevitable?

But before Gabrielle could voice an objection, Yves leaned closer to her. His golden gaze was so intense, so fixed upon her alone, that her trepidation evaporated.

“I must tell you this, my lady, while yet I have the chance,” he confided in a low voice. “I have never had a home in this world—while it seems that you have a gift for creating a home wherever you happen to be. Perhaps you will not understand the import of what I must say.”

Yves swallowed and his gaze flicked away, as though he could not find the words. His fair brows drew together and Gabrielle was surprised to see this bold knight so obviously unsettled.

She recalled the night in the forest when he had confided in her once before. Obviously, such confessions did not fall easily from his lips, and Gabrielle felt honored that he shared them with her.

Yves looked at her anew, sincerity gleaming in his eyes. “I would thank you,” he said, his voice yet lower. “I would thank you from the bottom of my heart for welcoming me into your home.”

And Gabrielle saw the depths of his appreciation shine in
his eyes. Unwittingly, she had given this man his one desire, even as he had taken great pains to grant her own. The ring Yves had given her weighed heavily on Gabrielle’s hand, its inscription seeming more fitting than she might have imagined just hours past.

She stared at the knight, struck speechless by his words, and Yves slid closer. In one smooth gesture, he engulfed her jaw in the gentle strength of his hand. Gabrielle shivered in anticipation, but could not bring herself to move away.

He was going to kiss her, and thoroughly so, judging by the determination in his gaze. There was no need for pretence between them—after all, they were wed. And Gabrielle wanted this kiss more than she had ever wanted anything in all her days.

Indeed, she wanted far more from Yves de Sant-Roux.

With aching slowness, apparently oblivious to the hoots rising from the assembly, Yves leaned closer until his breath mingled with Gabrielle’s own. He looked deeply into her eyes, as though expecting her protest, and when he found none, locked his lips over her own with a surety that made her heart pound like thunder.

Yves tasted of wine and an undeniable masculinity that fed Gabrielle’s desire. One strong hand closed on her waist and the other slid to her nape, cupping her head and lifting her yet closer in his embrace.

Gabrielle sighed, vaguely aware that the assembly roared approval. She closed her eyes as the world spun giddily about her, though she knew the wine alone was not at fault.

Gabrielle felt her hands rise to Yves’ broad shoulders, as if of their own accord. At her response, Yves gathered her closer, the firm caress of his hand making every fiber of Gabrielle’s being come alive as it never had before.

Yves lifted his head, his golden gaze smoldering with sensual heat. “And know this, my lady,” he whispered huskily. “I know well enough that I cannot replace Michel in your
heart or in that of your son. Indeed, I would not even try to do so.”

Yves paused, then frowned as though these words as well came to him only with difficulty. Gabrielle raised one hand to his cheek, wanting him to know that she understood, that she would not judge, that she wanted only to share what secrets burdened his heart.

That half smile that so affected her quirked Yves’ lips as he looked into her eyes anew. He ran a finger down her own cheek and tipped her chin toward him. “Such compassion,” he murmured. “You are the easiest person in all of Christendom in whom a man might confide, my lady.”

Gabrielle felt herself flush and might have demurred, but Yves’ thumb slid across her lips. That caress both sealed her words and raised her blood to boiling.

She wanted to feel his hands on more than her lips.

“My sire was both poor spouse and poor father,” Yves continued quietly. “The only way I know to end the legacy of his cruelty is to deny it, as my brother Quinn has done.”

Yves’ gaze bored into Gabrielle’s own and she knew these words came from the heart. She was achingly aware of the solid heat of his hand cupping her jaw and the imprint of his leg against her own.

What had possessed her to insist this match be made in name alone?

“I pledge to you that I shall be the finest husband and father that I can, and ask you only to be tolerant of my mistakes when they come.” Yves arched one brow and his voice dropped yet lower. “Bear with me, my lady, while I master this new task.”

He sealed his words with yet another kiss, this one even more languorously thorough than the last. The assembly hooted approval, but Gabrielle did not care. She opened her mouth to his embrace and wished with all her heart that this moment would never end.

This might well be folly, but it was not without its rewards.

When Yves finally lifted his head and the men applauded, Gabrielle was positively dizzy. She picked at her food, struggling to make sense of what Yves had just said. Despite the desire roaring through her, Gabrielle could not possibly bring herself to make the wanton suggestion her very flesh demanded.

Even if a consummation of their nuptials was what she desired beyond all else. Would that Yves pressed his case!

Gabrielle’s thoughts prompted her to looked guiltily to Thomas. The boy was obviously becoming sleepy, but still smiled with delight at the jongleurs’ antics. He must have witnessed those wanton kisses between herself and Yves, but seemed remarkably untroubled.

Gabrielle leaned over the boy, and he glanced up when her hand landed on his shoulder. “Do you mind having a new papa?” she asked quietly.

Thomas looked at Yves as though assessing the knight, then back to his mother. His gaze was clear when he shook his head.

“Will you not talk to me about it?” she asked gently.

Thomas eyed her for a long moment, then shook his head once more, turning back to watch the entertainment. Gabrielle straightened, knowing a worried frown creased her brow.

Why did Thomas not speak?

“Are you sleepy?” she asked.

Thomas shook his head, an obvious lie, but Gabrielle was encouraged that he did not wish to miss any of the festivities.

“Well, then, will you come and keep me warm, all the same?” she urged, delighted when her son immediately climbed into her lap as he had oft done before.

Still, he was troublingly silent.

“What do you think of the jongleurs?” Gabrielle hoped he would respond.

But Thomas simply grinned at her and nestled closer as he watched the antics of the entertainers. He did not seem to be
unhappy about anything, let alone angry, so why did he refuse to speak?

“Do not fret, my lady,” Yves murmured in her ear, his breath fanning her cheek in a most distracting manner. His voice was pitched low, evidently so that Thomas would not hear. “He will speak when he is ready to do so, and no sooner.”

Gabrielle looked at her new spouse, seeing once again that concern in his eyes. “But it is most unlike him,” she whispered, leaning closer to Yves and watching Thomas. Contrary to her son’s assertion, his eyes were drifting closed now that he was against her warmth. Gabrielle tugged the end of her cloak to tuck around him. “He has always been such a talkative child.”

“But that was before all around him changed so suddenly,” Yves argued with quiet resolve. He slipped an arm around her shoulders with an ease that made Gabrielle warm all over. “It will take time for him to realize he is no longer alone, and that Perricault is safe once more.”

Gabrielle brushed the fair hair back from her son’s brow and wondered whether Yves was right. The knight’s words made her recall his own tale of childhood solitude, and she knew that his understanding of Thomas was a result of his own experience.

“Do you really believe his confidence can be restored?” she asked worriedly, barely noticing how readily she turned to this man with her concerns.

Yves smiled reassurance. “Time heals much, my lady, as does your gift for listening without judgment.” He nodded to the dozing Thomas. “Already he smiles.”

It was true enough. Yet despite Yves’ heady praise of her own talents, Gabrielle suspected it would be the knight’s quiet confidence that would restore Thomas’ faith in the world.

This was a man who could securely capture her heart.

In that moment as she watched her son sleep, achingly aware of the knight seated beside her, Gabrielle hoped desperately that she had the allure to win more than Yves’ confidence in return.

A
fortnight after his nuptials, Yves was restless.

Still.

His pledge to the lady that theirs be a match in name alone was proving most difficult to live by. When Gabrielle had kissed with such abandon in the hall—and before a veritable army of knights!—Yves had fairly been turned inside out by the unexpected heat of her response.

Which only made his pledge doubly difficult to keep. It had taken every vestige of resolve within him to leave the lady alone in the solar, once the priest had blessed the bed. Just the sight of that great pillared bed made him long to sweep Gabrielle into his arms and carry her there to make love all the night long.

But he had given his word of honor.

Every glance the lady gave him inflamed his desire for her more. Every confidence she whispered into his ear, every time she laughed or demanded an explanation for something he did within Perricault made Yves’ burden all the worse. Never had he been so troubled by desire for a woman.

Yves barely slept, for his dreams were haunted by a certain lady’s compelling violet eyes and the lilt of her laughter.

Despite his exhaustion, he was driven by his restlessness to keep busy. The knights of Perricault trained to the same
ruthless discipline as had those at the count’s own hall. Yves had made a point of personally checking each point of defense, each change of sentry and guard. It had done much to cement his relations with his men, but little to dissipate his impatience.

So, whenever time allowed, Yves rode. Never had Merlin had so much exercise, and for the first time, Gaston had no cause to complain at the amount of jousting the two of them did. But on this day, after a fortnight of furious activity, even Merlin looked indifferent at the prospect of yet another ride.

A snort of oats recalled the other destrier housed in Perricault’s extensive stables. Yves turned to find Methuselah watching him with a wary, albeit interested, eye.

Not for the first time in these busy weeks, Yves felt the presence of another behind him and knew that Thomas trailed him yet again. Indeed, the boy was often as close behind Yves as his own shadow.

Yet still he did not speak. Gabrielle was near sick with worry. Though Yves knew the boy would talk in his own time, he hoped—for Gabrielle’s sake—that time would come soon.

Yves never disclosed his awareness of Thomas’ presence until the boy stepped out of hiding; then he invariably made time for him. He was a clever boy—not surprisingly, given his dame’s intellect.

One morning Yves had shown Thomas how to properly hone a knife and was pleased to see immediate results. Thomas now proudly brought his own blade to the board and kept it in good care. The boy seemed to devour Yves’ attention, and Yves suspected it was because of the time Thomas had been forced to spend alone.

And likely also the fact that Yves never pressured Thomas to speak.

Yves had taught Thomas to play draughts well enough that the child, albeit silently, insisted they play every evening. He
won as often as Yves did, and Gabrielle took no pains to hide her amusement at the fact.

Her laughter only made Yves long to kiss her smiling lips anew, but he did not dare press his suit. On the day of their nuptials, such a display had been warranted, but now Yves was painfully aware of the burden of his cursed pledge.

The very thought renewed his restlessness yet again. Yves propped his hands upon his hips and confronted the stallion, well aware of his tiny audience.

“Well, Methuselah,” Yves said calmly. “It seems high time that you had a long ride.” He had taken to speaking his thoughts aloud, in a most uncharacteristic fashion, so that Thomas might understand what he meant to do and why.

The steed exhaled noisily, sending a shower of oats to the stable floor in a gesture of supreme boredom.

The echo of little footsteps carried to Yves’ ears and made him smile when they halted just a short distance away. He did not look back, but fixed his attention on the gray stallion.

Perhaps it was time the boy learned something about destriers. Thomas frequented the stable enough that such a lesson might be well timed. The great beasts could be skittish, after all.

Methuselah’s ears twitched with curiosity as he eyed the knight.

Yves took a step closer. “You must be impatient with this stall, though I am certain Xavier sees you exercised in the lower bailey.”

Keeping one eye on the knight, the destrier nosed in his feed bin once more. Yves patted his rump and the beast did not step away.

Indeed, he seemed to lean into the stroke.

Yves smothered a smile and reached for the brush, watching the stallion’s flesh ripple as he settled to work. He whistled between his teeth and continued his monologue, knowing that one small set of ears listened closely.

“Ah, Methuselah, you will get fat spending all day within
your stall,” Yves chided in the soothing tone of voice he always used with horses. It mattered little what he said, only that he talked to the beast, brushed him and won his confidence before trying to ride him. He would be, after all, an unfamiliar burden, and this destrier was no less clever than Merlin.

“What you need is a good ride in the countryside, a run in the forest. Sadly, there is no one to take you there but me.”

Methuselah granted Yves a skeptical glance that nearly made the knight laugh aloud.

He shrugged. “It is true, sadly true. Xavier has far too many steeds to his hand these days, and we have far too few knights. Though I do my best to rectify matters, it will take time, as all things of merit do.”

He gave the steed one last stroke of the brush, finishing with a flourish. “And my lady Gabrielle has much to resolve these days, with the keep having been poorly tended for so long.” He shook his head with mock sadness. “No, my friend, I fear that if you want to run, I am the only one in a position to take you for a ride.”

The stallion’s nostrils quivered and he stepped impatiently within his stall.

Yves chose to take the move as an agreement.

“Well, then, we are decided!” Yves brushed his hands together with purpose and wondered suddenly whether he could induce Thomas to ride with him. The change of view might do the boy a world of good.

First, though, he would have to tempt Thomas to come out into the open.

“And which blanket do you prefer. Master Methuselah?” Yves mused, certain that if he talked enough, Thomas might feel obliged to contribute an answer.

None came, although the hay rustled in the next, otherwise unoccupied, stall.

“This one looks a popular choice by its wear.” Whistling
through his teeth once more, Yves chose a blanket and spread it over the stallion’s back. “And how is that?”

Methuselah spared him a wily glance and braced his feet against the floor. Too late, Yves recalled the beast’s reputed tendency to fight the saddle.

No horse had bested Yves yet, however willful the creature had proven to be, and this destrier of Michel’s would not be the first.

“You have need of a tether,” he commented mildly, knowing he did not imagine the beast’s baleful glare as bridle was fitted and buckled. Yves knotted the reins closely, giving the steed a stern glance of his own before he continued.

“And now the saddle.” Yves hefted the saddle into place, bending quickly to fasten the buckle.

But Methuselah had blown out his belly to such proportions that the cinch could not be fastened. It seemed Gaston’s tale had been true, after all.

“A surprise,” Yves murmured with a frown. Methuselah held his breath with a vengeance. “The lady said you have need of a surprise to take the cinch, but I cannot recall what she did.”

Before Yves could ponder the matter any further, a small shadow separated itself from the far side of the stall. Thomas dove beneath the great destrier with a bravado unexpected, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he reached up and gave Methuselah’s testicles a hearty squeeze.

The beast squealed in outrage.

Yves saw one shod foot lift and his heart nearly stopped in terror. He lunged beneath the destrier and snatched up an astonished-looking Thomas just before Methuselah slammed that foot hard in the precise place the boy had been.

Thomas gasped and clutched Yves’ neck as the gray destrier stamped with anger. Yves retreated with the boy until his back collided with the stable wall. Methuselah bared his teeth and finally settled with an outraged snort, his nostrils still quivering.

He granted the pair of them a baleful glance fit to curdle milk.

Yves’ heart hammered in his chest, and the staccato of Thomas’ pulse vibrated beneath his hand. Yves felt a cold trickle of sweat meander down his back at the thought of what might have been, but fought to control his tone before he spoke.

“I think,” he finally managed to say, “that you surprised all of us with that.”

Thomas grinned impishly, obviously unaware of the danger of what he had done, and squirmed to be released.

Yves swallowed, then marched the boy to Merlins stall. He spoke soothingly to his destrier, watching the steed’s ears flick in acknowledgment before advancing into the stall.

“You see,” Yves explained with a mildness he was far from feeling, “it is not wise to surprise a stallion.” He squatted down beside Merlin and set Thomas on his feet.

The stall was broad enough that they were well out of the range of the stallion’s feet. “Stand back and look at the size of this creature. Methuselah is no less small. Here, give me your hand.”

Thomas did as he was bidden, his smile fading when Yves placed both their hands against the expanse of Merlin’s massive foot Even Yves’ own hand with fingers outstretched did not span the width of the hoof.

“These are great heavy beasts,” he told the boy solemnly, “and their weight should not be underestimated.” He then clucked to Merlin and stroked the horse’s foreleg.

The destrier lifted his foot with a docility far different from Methuselah’s response, revealing the crescent of steel beneath his hoof. Thomas’ eyes widened at the sight.

“You could have been sorely injured,” Yves informed him, then grimaced with mock fear, for he thought his point was made. “And your mother would have made mincemeat of me for that, you can be sure.”

Thomas grinned again, then backed obediently away at
Yves’ gesture, his hands folded behind his back. He watched with apparent fascination as Merlin’s foot dropped heavily to the floor once more.

It was clear he had an interest in the steeds, and Yves decided to take advantage of that curiosity.

“Come out here into the corridor and let me tell you something of horses,” he invited, pleased when the boy did not think twice before doing precisely thus. Yves hunkered down in the sweet-smelling straw, choosing a panel of sunlight for their place of discussion.

“You see,” he began, noting that Thomas listened avidly, “if you mean to ride a steed, he must trust you. Surprising him does little to feed that trust. Did you see what I did before we went into Merlin’s stall?”

Thomas nodded. Yves waited, but the boy clicked his tongue, mimicking the sound Yves had made. Then he raised his hand, as though he patted a steed’s rump.

Yves smiled. “Exactly. You have a keen eye, Thomas.” Thomas smiled at the praise and sidled closer to Yves. “I always make the same sound when I come to Merlin’s stall, so he always knows it is me, even though I approach him from behind.”

Thomas nodded in understanding.

“And I pet him so that he knows we are yet friends. Whenever I can, I brush him before we ride, because he likes that and he likes that I do it for him.”

“Friends,” Thomas said approvingly. Yves’ heart jumped with surprise that the boy had spoken, but he dared not give any sign that this was unusual.

How he wished Gabrielle could have heard this first word!

“Exactly,” he agreed. “We are friends.”

Thomas squatted down beside Yves, his pose a perfect copy of the knight’s, and Yves struggled not to smile. A tiny frown pulled Thomas’ brows together, and Yves’ inclination to smile died a quick death.

What was amiss?

Thomas laid one small hand tentatively on Yves’ knee and looked up at the knight, uncertainty shining in his dark eyes. “Friends?” he asked softly, his fear of rejection so obvious that Yves’ heart wrenched.

“I should like very much to be your friend,” Yves declared, and Thomas smiled sunnily. Yves smiled back and closed his hand firmly over the boy’s small one, amazed at how one child’s smile could make so much difference in his mood.

But then, Gabrielle’s smile had much the same effect.

Yves glanced to the other stall, only to find Methuselah watching them both with a vigilant eye. Yves leaned closer to the boy, deliberately letting his voice become teasing. “But I am guessing that neither of us will be friends with Methuselah anytime soon.”

Thomas giggled and shook his head, clearly enjoying the fact that they two were in disfavor together. The sunlight in the stables seemed suddenly more golden with promise than it had before, and Yves marveled at the acceptance he had found within Gabrielle’s home.

It was now his home.

And Thomas was his son, as well as his friend.

Would that Gabrielle could hear her son speak, too!

Yves watched Thomas’ bright gaze as he eyed the destriers. Clearly the boy had an affinity for the creatures and it could be no coincidence that his first word had come here.

Yves recalled all too well how he had adored the wolfhounds in Sayerne’s stables when he was a child. “When I was a boy, of about your size,” he said carefully, “there were wolfhounds in the stables of Sayerne.”

Thomas turned to Yves, his mouth round with delight.

But he did not speak again.

“I liked playing with the dogs,” Yves confided, though still Thomas held his tongue. “Do you like dogs?”

Thomas nodded with enthusiasm and his fingers clenched
minutely over Yves’ own. Perhaps the presence of dogs would coax yet more response from Thomas.

But did Gabrielle desire dogs within her home? The absence of any such creatures gave Yves pause. He should ask her thoughts before making any promises to Thomas.