Claire Delacroix (26 page)

“Do not fear, Raphael, I have done this afore,” he declared softly. The brush fitted Luc’s hand with a familiarity almost forgotten, and as soon as Luc touched its bristles to the stallion’s flank, he was deluged in memories.

The smooth gloss of a healthy horse’s hide, the smell of hay cast beneath one’s feet, of leather, of dung. These had all been part of Luc’s life, once, as had the tightening of a steed’s muscles in gallop, the bite of the wind, the echo of hoof on road.

No less the weight of steel in a man’s hand, upon his back, at his heels.

Luc made long, easy strokes with the brush, as always he had when Grisart was unsettled. After but half a dozen strokes, a shudder ran over Raphael’s flesh. Luc felt some angst ease from the beast as he made another leisurely stroke and another.

And he began to murmur to the beast, as once he had murmured to another. “Aye, you are a fine creature, indeed, Raphael.”

The horse shifted his weight from foot to foot, as though he acknowledged the words.

“But you must be in dire need of a run after two months in only stall and bailey. Do you not miss the road unfurling beneath your feet, Raphael? Do you not miss the rush of the wind?”

The stallion snorted less vigorously than before. He leaned into the stroke of the brush, though he tried to hide his interest by nosing in his feed bin.

Luc was not fooled. He had seen these ploys before.

“I would ride you to Endlist Priory,” he murmured. “I would ride you, Raphael, if you would bear me there.”

The destrier turned to watch Luc steadily, as though he considered the question.

“Aye,” Luc continued, brushing as he spoke. “I expect you know the way better than I and, in such foul weather, I would have a surefooted steed beneath me. A swift and fine beast, like yourself.”

Luc stepped farther into the stall and Raphael did not impede Luc’s progress. Nor did he flatten Luc against the wall of the stall. The stallion but waited and watched, tentative in the trust he had shown thus far.

“Has Denis cleared your hooves?” Luc asked softly. “Or would you even permit him?” As he began to brush Raphael’s charcoal-hued mane, the steed could not disguise his delight.

He tossed his head proudly and Luc thought suddenly of silver bells on a fine harness. They were long lost, as was the beast who had jingled them with such pride.

His eyes welled with unexpected tears.

“Aye, Raphael, I once rode a fine dapple grey,” he admitted huskily. “As finely wrought as you and every measure as loyal.”

Luc shook his head and felt his lips curve in a bittersweet smile. “I remember how high he stepped when he fancied himself well groomed and finely caparisoned.” Luc swallowed and his voice dropped. “And I remember how he would never permit any other but me to clear his hooves.”

In that moment, beside that grey steed, the years blurred. The stable could have been a hundred others, the stallion could only have been one. Without thinking of what he did, Luc leaned against Raphael and reached up to scratch the stallion’s ears.

As he had done to Grisart so many times before.

The muscled heat of the stallion’s flesh was against Luc’s chest, the scent of steed and stable rich in his nostrils, the
familiar brush clutched in one hand and the yet more familiar grey fur beneath the fingers of the other.

Luc tasted the salt of a tear he had not known he had shed.

“Aye, Raphael,” he whispered unevenly. “I
remember
.”

Luc stood there for a moment that stretched long, permitting himself to indulge in those memories he had long denied. ’Twas as though he opened a forgotten trunk and removed each treasure stored within it, holding each to the light and marvelling at them in succession.

He not only remembered but Luc acknowledged the gaping hole his choice had made in his life. If he had not pursued his knighthood, he would have seen naught of the world, he would never have known Tyrell, he would never have ridden Grisart.

And Luc realized that he sorely missed the gifts knighthood had brought his way. Like most matters, his experience had been a mix of good and bad.

For so long, Luc had chosen only to see the darkness, but now he would look into the sun. Raphael bent to nuzzle his neck, as though he had heard and approved of that sentiment.

Luc froze, the stallion persisted in nosing his chemise. Luc glanced up and saw in Denis’ wondering expression that this was the first the destrier had touched another of his own volition.

It seemed they both had stepped beyond an obstacle on this day. Slowly, the knight who had set aside his spurs so long ago turned and reached to scratch those silken ears anew.

“We ride then, Raphael,” Luc said quietly. “We ride to Endlist in the rain, you and I, and return with an ample friar name of Thomas.” He smiled crookedly up at the stallion. “That will teach you to take pity upon a knight who cast aside his spurs.”

Raphael snorted unrepentantly and stamped his hooves with new impatience. Luc heard Denis dance away, that man’s voice unsteady as he bellowed for a squire.

“Edward! Raphael has need of his saddle. Hasten yourself, boy!”

Brianna darted down the stairs, her sire’s old cloak clutched to her chest. She had found the news of Luc’s departure profoundly disappointing, though that made little enough sense.

Was Luc’s departure from Tullymullagh not the one objective she had sought?

Even so, in that moment, Brianna knew that she did not want Luc to go. If naught else, she intended to see Luc once more before he rode through Tullymullagh’s gates.

She stepped through the portal to the courtyard, breathless from her run, and pulled up her own hood against the onslaught of the rain. Brianna halted in astonishment at the sight that greeted her eyes.

Gaultier’s destrier Raphael had finally permitted someone to ride him.

And that someone was Luc.

The stallion trotted around the bailey, his neck arched, his nostrils flared, his hooves lifting high with each step. He toyed with the bit as though unfamiliar with its obstruction, though Brianna knew he had always made such a display. There was an exhilaration in his every step, as though he was overjoyed to be ridden once more.

Brianna looked at Luc and her breath caught in her throat. His attention was fixed upon the steed and Brianna heard the low thrum of his voice, though she could not discern his words. He gripped the reins with one hand, the other stroking Raphael’s neck. Luc’s chemise was soaked and clung to
his muscled torso like a second skin, his ebony hair hung wet against his brow.

He was a vision of mingled strength and gentleness that Brianna found extraordinarily compelling. She had never seen a man ride with such assurance—let alone one fixed so attentively on his mount.

“Rides as one born to the saddle, does he not?” Denis the ostler demanded with a pride more fitting of a man for his own son.

Brianna smiled. “Aye. I thought Raphael would bear none.”

“He would not, before this day.” Denis nodded to the pair as they made another round of the bailey. “There is a bond between those two, mark my words, Lady Brianna. They both of them know what ’tis to shoulder a loss.”

Mine was a dapple, name of Grisart
.

Brianna’s eyes widened as Luc’s low words echoed in her mind once more. She marvelled that a man who had seen such cruelty could not only keep from going mad, but retain such essential kindness. She could see that gentleness in Luc’s hand upon the stallion’s neck.

Indeed, she had sampled that tenderness herself in his kisses.

Luc turned Raphael and headed suddenly toward them, the stallion tossing his head proudly. When Luc’s gaze collided with hers, Brianna had the guilty sense that he had heard her very thoughts.

She flushed as Luc suddenly brought Raphael to a halt beside them. The horse snorted at the interruption, stamped his feet, but waited with a docility he had not shown these two months.

Denis beamed.

“He seems anxious for a run, Denis,” Luc commented.
He flicked an approving glance to Brianna, a half-smile curving his lips.

“Aye, ’tis more than time,” the ostler agreed with obvious approval. “Take him to Endlist Priory, sir, take him with my blessings. Show him what ’tis to feel the road beneath his feet and we will not be able to keep him in the stall.”

“You will have need of a cloak,” Brianna interjected. “My sire does not use this cloak any longer, but ’tis warm. I thought it might serve you well.”

Brianna’s color rose yet higher as Luc’s smile broadened and she shoved the garment toward him. Curse the man, he seemed amused by her discomfiture! Their fingers brushed in the transaction and at the heat of Luc’s touch, Brianna’s mind flooded with inopportune memories of his kiss.

And her own desire for more.

“You have my thanks, my lady.”

Even his low voice was enough to awaken that tingle of desire within Brianna. How she hated that he would be gone, even for a brief time!

Luc tugged Raphael’s reins. “Good day, my lady,” he said with a bow of his dark head. “Denis.” Luc turned Raphael adroitly and tossed the cloak over his shoulders in a wide dark arc. He clicked his tongue, gave the steed his heels and they galloped for the gate.

“Born to the saddle,” Denis pronounced with satisfaction.

Aye, ’twas true enough, Brianna had to admit. In fact, she could not tear her gaze away from Luc’s retreating figure. It seemed that he loved to ride, that he was one with the beast beneath him, that he cared about naught else in all of Christendom.

In marked comparison, when Ruarke rode, he was always looking to see who had noted his finery or his skill. But Luc
apparently cared naught for how he looked, who was watching, or what he wore.

’Twas odd, for though they were both knights, Luc was as little like Ruarke as ever a man could be—

Ruarke!

Brianna’s mouth dropped open in shock. She had pledged to see to Ruarke’s injuries this very morn! She made her apologies to Denis, then fled into the keep, the women chattering in her wake.

How could she have forgotten?

Ruarke did not smile this day.

Brianna had a moment to observe her father’s champion knight while Gavin’s man-at-arms sought the key to the knight’s prison. She peered through the tiny grate in the armored door and felt a wave of pity.

Ruarke was slumped in one corner of the shadowed cell, his gaze fixed on the fickle flame of a small oil lamp burning in the center of the floor. His expression was sour, his eye swollen to purple splendor, his mail gone, and his chemise stained. He moved with a stiffness that revealed Gavin’s savagery.

Brianna suspected the light made the knight look markedly worse than he truly was. All the same, ’twas clear Ruarke’s mood was less than prime.

“Here ’tis,” the man-at-arms growled suddenly beside Brianna’s elbow, the jingle he gave the keys making Ruarke’s head snap up. Brianna summoned her best smile and stepped into the cell with a confidence she was far from feeling.

She was not reassured when Gavin’s man locked the door securely behind her. Ruarke glowered at her, his swollen eye looking red and mean in the midst of the bruising.

“I had thought you might come sooner,” he growled.
Guilt surged through Brianna that she had kept him waiting for the only event of his day. “And why are you still garbed in less than your finest kirtle? You do your sire disservice—do you not understand your place in this keep, Brianna?”

Brianna lifted her chin proudly, disliking his tone. All the same, she could scarcely blame Ruarke for being dissatisfied. Although Tullymullagh’s dungeon was dry and relatively devoid of vermin, ’twas still dark and chill.

And ’twas still a prison. It must chafe sorely upon a man like Ruarke to be so confined, he who was so used to being free in the wind and sunshine.

So, Brianna deliberately did not take offense at his poor temper. “There was much awry this morn,” she said smoothly as she stepped into the cell. “Lady Ismay fell from the orchard wall last eve and was found dead in the Darrow.”

Ruarke’s brows rose in surprise and his expression brightened with curiosity. “Truly? What was she doing upon the orchard wall?”