Claire Delacroix (138 page)

Marika felt the weight of a hand upon her shoulder and might have hidden her tears, but her companion turned her to face him. Eyes filled with compassion, he truly had the most expressive features she had ever seen. Marika was amazed that a man could look so strong and reliable yet have his gaze tempered with understanding.

She had never met the like of this man. He was pleasant to look at, but that was not the root of it. She had a sense that he had endured much, for he did not accept his own good fortune with the foolish confidence of one who does not understand that matters could easily be otherwise. Yet no man with eyes so clear could be embittered by what had been his due.

Indeed, the lines in his tan indicated that he oft laughed.

“Aye, ’twas not too wise of me, was it then?” he said now. “If you were taken slave, then you must have seen those you loved die before your very eyes. I apologize to you, Marika, for that was less than thoughtful of me, and I know well enough the burden that the loss of a loved one can be.”

Clearly he was sincere, and he apologized for surprising her. Marika nodded and might have turned away, but the man before her bent slightly to hold her gaze, an appeal in his own.

“Apology accepted then?”

He smiled tentatively and she tried to respond in kind. This seemed to relieve him, though he did not release her shoulders from his warm grip. He was slightly taller than she, though he was not a big man, and Marika found herself noticing the way the sunlight glinted in his fair hair. She had never seen hair such as these people possessed.

“Was it your husband that was killed, then, Marika? You are a pretty girl and I cannot imagine that you were not happily wedded wherever ’tis you were living.”

Marika eyed him blankly, the cadence of his voice indicating a question, though she could not imagine what he asked. He grimaced and frowned, then shrugged. “Well, the truth of it will come out soon enough, I suppose, though only if we learn to speak properly to each other. Are you hungry, then?”

Marika stared at him, feeling like a fool for not understanding whatever he asked so earnestly.

He rubbed his belly, then wiggled his fingers as he made a funny growling sound. He looked to his belly, as if it had made the sound and startled him, and Marika laughed despite herself at his antics.

He grinned. “Hungry?” he repeated, and she knew what he meant.

She tapped her belly and nodded agreement, not because she was hungry but because it seemed to matter so much to him. “Hungry,” she echoed carefully, and he smiled.

“Marika is hungry.”

’Twas clear enough what that meant, given that she knew two words he uttered, so Marika repeated the phrase. They
smiled at each other, both well pleased with what they had managed, then he was off.

“Well, there is much to be done this day, that much is certain, and if you are not minding a bit of a delay, I would have your help in bringing some herbs into the kitchen. Then I might labor while you eat your fill.”

Marika trailed behind him, not certain what he was doing.

He tugged at an herb. “For a stew of chicken?” At her blank stare, he tucked his thumbs into his underarms and began to cluck like a barnyard fowl.

Marika laughed again and quickly indicated the sage she recognized. It grew lavishly along the edge of one bed, thyme directly behind it. She gestured to both, and he took his knife to generous handfuls of each as he taught her the names of the plants in his tongue.

She asked his name, just as she had done with Ibernia, and he grinned in that boyish way that was starting to affect the beat of her heart.

“Connor,” he confessed, and Marika was glad she could say his name correctly the first time.

Indeed, Connor was so charming and attentive that it was easy to forget her painful memories for the moment. Marika found herself enjoying the sunlight and the plants, remembering her garden and wishing she could stay in this place forever.

But she did not know whether her mistress intended to remain or to continue on, though she knew that Ibernia was known here. Marika would remain with the woman who had won her freedom, for truly, she owed no greater loyalty to anyone else.

They were leaving the garden, their arms laden with herbs for the meal Connor must be preparing, when a child shouted from afar. Marika turned at the cry, the way Connor’s eyes lit telling her much.

The young boy’s resemblance to Connor told her the rest. He could have been no more than five summers of age, his hair the same golden hue as Connor’s. She might have hated this child, if he had been closer in age to her own, or darker of hair as her own had been, simply for the crime of being alive.

But Marika was fiercely glad that she did not. She watched the play of emotions on Connor’s face, though, and felt like a voyeur. She felt she lived vicariously by watching him.

And envying him.

The boy burst into the garden, a torrent of incomprehensible words falling from his lips and a tears upon his cheeks. He went straight to Connor and pointed to the line of blood upon his knee.

Connor crouched down before the boy after hugging him tightly, his words flowing low and soothing once again. “ ’Tis hardly a scratch, though I can imagine it hurts like the very devil.”

He ran a thumb across it and the boy winced. “Were you out in the brambles again? You know well enough that you are not to go there alone. The river is too close at hand and who knows what manner of mischief a boy can find himself within.”

As Marika watched, Connor reached up and affectionately wiped a purple stain from the boy’s chin. He smiled. “You were there, were you not?”

The boy shuffled his feet, clearly caught at some crime, then looked to Marika for the first time. Connor followed his gaze. “This is Marika.” Marika bobbed her head at the sound of her name. “She has come to live here but does not understand all we say.”

The boy studied her with open curiosity. “Why not?”

“She is from far away.”

The boy’s eyes rounded with wonder and Marika wondered what was being said of her. Her grip tightened on the herbs she carried and she did not doubt that Connor noted her uncertainty. The boy opened his mouth, no doubt to ask more questions, but Marika pointed to his wound. It was not overly deep but could do with some tending to halt the bleeding.

With Connor’s encouragement, the boy followed Marika. She quickly found the plant she sought, plucked a few leaves, and crumpled them in her hands. Connor spoke to the boy, perhaps endorsing what she did.

They were in the kitchen shortly, the boy’s eyes round with curiosity as Marika bruised the leaves, cleaned his cut, then bound the leaves over them. He thanked her prettily, then Connor dispatched him to some errand.

They stood, this man and woman, eyeing each other in the shadows of the kitchen. Before he could ask any questions, Marika pointed after the boy. She pointed to Connor, then rocked her arms as if she held a babe.

Connor smiled. “Aye, he is my son, that is the truth of it.” He looked after the boy and his smile faded. “Though ’tis true enough that God gives with one hand and takes away with the other. ’Tis a sorry price to pay, to gain a son and lose a wife, but I cannot say that I would have preferred to be without him.”

He smiled sadly and Marika wished desperately that she could have understood what he confided in her. “ ’Tis the nature of all of us, I suppose, to want only all that is good and naught that is bad. I do miss Anna sorely, that much is for certain, but I cannot imagine not having my son.”

He looked to Marika, as if asking for her endorsement of words she had not understood. Clearly he told her much, and she was suddenly impatient to explain herself to him.

She touched her own heart, she indicated the roundness
her belly had taken, then rocked a babe again. “Vassily,” she said, naming her child for this man who listened so well.

He nodded, his gaze intent. Then Marika snatched the knife from the counter, her vision blinded with tears as she slashed at the mock babe in her arms. She choked on the tide of her tears and bowed her head as they flowed, ashamed to have shown so much of her pain to a virtual stranger.

But Connor stepped closer. He touched her shoulder, his expression sympathetic beyond all, and Marika found herself turning into his embrace. She found comfort there against his warmth, and she let herself weep for all she had lost.

When she was done, Connor wiped her tears and took her hand. He cupped her chin in his hand and spoke to her earnestly. “It seems we have much in common, though the fates have been more cruel to you. We have both lost what we held dear—come with me, Marika, and let me try to explain.”

But Marika understood all too well when Connor bowed his head before the green mound marked by a wooden cross. And when his expressive eyes clouded with tears for Anna—a woman’s name, without mistake—Marika offered solace this time.

’Twas no wonder she felt drawn to Connor, for this man understood how it stung to lose a loved one.

The sky was darkening when the family retired to privacy from the chaos of the hall, Rowan and Marco among their select number. Ale was brought in as well as bread, cheese, and a hot stew. Rowan ate his meal with gusto, as, he noted, did Bronwyn. The conversation rolled around him in that Irish tongue, but Rowan cared little for what was said.

Bronwyn was glad to be home, no doubt of that, and her family were more than delighted to see her again. She flitted around the table, sharing laughter with this one and another, spreading the delight of her smile. She had been sorely missed, Rowan could see the truth of it.

’Twas good to he here, and in such company. He glanced up once or twice, smiling to himself at the way Bronwyn fairly glowed. He had thought her a beauty before, but surrounded by the love she so treasured, she shone like a rare jewel.

The very sight made his heart ache with the knowledge that he would depart, never to see this lady again.

Suddenly Rowan guessed that the topic had changed, for Marco’s comment brought silence over the board.

“What did he say?” Rowan asked Adhara.

She did not smile, and her words came low. “You will be wedded now, Bronwyn of Ballyroyal, he said. It must indeed be why you are coming home.”

Bronwyn straightened and looked to her father, who sobered in turn. He did not reply in Irish and Rowan wondered if this was so he could understand, or whether Nicholas preferred not to speak that tongue.

“I understand, daughter of mine, that you did not want a spouse as old as me,” Nicholas said carefully. Rowan noted how tightly he held Adhara’s hand, how solemn that woman was. “I thought only of securing the future of all I had built and did not consider your feelings on the matter.”

Bronwyn bowed her head.

“I wish that you had spoken to me before you fled.”

The lady’s chin shot up and her eyes flashed. “I did speak to you, but you would not listen!”

Nicholas cleared his throat and looked at his fingers entangled with his wife’s own. “ ’Tis true enough, I fear.” He looked at his daughter again. “But now I have listened. I
have cancelled your betrothal agreement, at not inconsiderable cost.”

Bronwyn’s shoulders sagged with obvious relief and Rowan noted how Marco stiffened. The man was not surprised, though, making Rowan wonder what had been agreed.

“And I have made another arrangement, one equally suitable to me and one that you will hopefully find more fitting.”

“Another!” Bronwyn gasped, twin spots of color burning in her cheeks. “But I had thought to make a love match. I had thought to wed for love as you did!”

Adhara shook her head. “There is too much at stake for such frivolity, Bronwyn, and you know the truth of it well.”

“But—”

“But naught,” Nicholas interjected. “Your opinion has been heard and my choice adjusted accordingly. You will wed Marco’s son Matthew, a man but two years your senior.”

Bronwyn paled, as sure a sign of her dissatisfaction with the new arrangement as any. Before Rowan could protest that she should have some right to name her future after all she had endured, the lady lifted her chin and spoke. “I cannot.”

“Whyever not?” Nicholas said impatiently.

“I am no longer virginal,” Bronwyn declared, standing straight and tall even as the assembly whispered in horror. “I would not shame Marco or his son thus.”

Nicholas swore. Marco swore. All gazes pivoted to Rowan, but Bronwyn spoke clearly and distinctly. “This knight showed me naught but courtesy,
after
I was raped by an unscrupulous sea captain. The blame for this lies at my own door alone, for being an impetuous fool and losing what I had to bring to a wedding as a result.”

Nicholas ran a hand over his brow and muttered something under his breath. Adhara took a deep breath and turned to Marco. “Marco, what do you say to this?”

That man, though he looked older than he had moments past, nodded grimly. “It does not affect the intent of our agreement. I shall speak to my son and ensure he understands the greater import at stake here.”

“Matthew will see sense,” Nicholas agreed. The two men held each other’s gaze, then nodded once, their course agreed. Nicholas cast a glance back to his daughter, one that was not without affection for all its steadiness. “Indeed, Bronwyn, you may find that Matthew is a good match for you.”