Claire Delacroix (82 page)

“Sir, you cannot think to leave!” he boomed. “Why, Cook is just making fresh bread now.”

“Aye?”

“Aye, and you will never guess what the steward found in the cellar—a fine cask of apple wine.” Cedric gestured to the cask, its discovery naught short of miraculous in his eyes. “You and I shall partake of its bounty.”

Talbot snorted. He considered the hall, the cask, then Cedric before he shrugged. “I suppose ’twill hurt naught to see whether ’tis worse than that swill you found last evening.”

“Naught at all, naught at all.” Cedric gestured wildly to Cronan who mercifully caught his meaning with speed. The cask was opened, two chalices filled, and Cedric breathed relief when Talbot pursed his lips in satisfaction.

“ ’Tis not half bad,” he conceded.

Cedric settled back, content. “Surely you cannot even consider leaving Kiltorren while there is such fine wine to be savored.”

“Indeed.” Talbot eyed the contents of his chalice, then fixed Cedric with a bright eye. “Perhaps you could aid me.”

“Aye! Anything I can do for a guest!”

Talbot smiled. “ ’Tis but a tale I desire. A tale of a woman named Isibeal of Kiltorren.”

’Twas not long that Burke waited for Alys, though he would have granted her days if she had needed it. He could see what a blow the woman’s loss was to her and could only imagine
what ’twas like to witness death the first time with the loss of one held so dear.

He stared out to sea, skipped stones across the water, gauged the changing mood of the clouds. The great raindrops had not lasted, though still the sky brewed. Moonshadow grazed, the quantity of grass so insufficient here that the task fully occupied the steed.

Burke watched the waves, thought of Heloise’s solitude, and marvelled anew at Deirdre’s cruelty.

He heard Alys’s step before she spoke and turned to find her hovering in Heloise’s doorway. She looked bruised and uncertain, young and shaken. Her fingers toyed incessantly with the pendant she had not wanted to take.

Burke waited in silence and, with halting footsteps, Alys came to his side, staring out to sea in her turn. He did not know how long they stood there thus.

“Thank you,” Alys murmured finally. “I am glad that you are here.”

“As am I.”

She turned to him, her red-rimmed gaze searching. “ ’Tis not new to you.”

Burke shrugged. “Though no less tragic, for all of that.”

Alys heaved a sigh, her gaze trailing over this lonely point. “I shall never be able to accept that she is not here, waiting for me to bring her fresh bread or melt her cheese.” Her lip trembled. “She loved cheese so.”

“Aye, you will. ’Twill not come readily, but ’twill come.”

Alys bit her lip, her thumb working across the pendant.

Burke thought it time to change the topic. “Might I see it?”

Alys hesitated only a moment before she pulled the chain over her head. She handed it to Burke, clearly reluctant to remove it. “Do not drop it, I beg of you.”

“Of course not.” Burke wound the length of chain securely
around his fingers. He tipped the golden oval so that the image engraved there caught the light. “ ’Tis a unicorn,” he said softly, “and a maiden. Like the old tales, when the innocence of a maiden subdues the ferocity of the unicorn, compelling that creature to tamely lay its toad in her lap.”

Alys nodded. “Can you guess what it means?”

Burke shook his head, examining the motif once again. “Perhaps your father felt that your mother had tamed him—did you not tell me that Heloise said to was reputed to be most fierce?”

Alys nodded again.

“Or perhaps there was a
chanson
on this theme that they favored.” Burke winked, thinking the lady in need of a smile. “Perhaps you were wrought in a forest glade.”

Alys extended a shaking hand for her token, but Burke stepped closer and lifted the chain over her head. “It matters little what it meant to your mother, Alys,” he said quietly. “ ’Tis a token of love and an apt reminder of Heloise’s love for you.”

Alys’s gaze clouded once more and Burke caught her in his arms. She wept against him, soaking his tabard with her tears, the sound of her grief tearing holes in his heart. Burke told her close, whispering soothingly in her ear.

When Alys finally lifted her head, Burke shed his cloak and cast it around her shoulders, nuzzling the fur lining against her chin. “Like a queen,” he whispered, and was rewarded with a faint glimmer of a smile.

“Hardly that.” She sighed, her tears gathering again.

“Should we take Heloise to the chapel in Kiltorren?” Burke asked, not certain how Alys would take to discussion of such practicalities.

She straightened though, looking regal indeed as she shook her head. “She said she would never leave here. In fact, she probably would want to remain with the stones.”

“What was that about?”

“She had claimed of late that the stones whispered to her and told her things.” Alys met Burke’s gaze. “ ’Twas uncanny how accurate some of their confessions could be.”

“ ’Tis often said that the voice of God resonates in all His creations.”

Alys nodded, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the site. “She liked it here, against all odds, and certainly more than at the keep. But I cannot imagine how she could stay.” The seabirds called and circled above, their cries more than apt reminder of the realities of leaving Heloise untended in the wilds.

“I can seal her hut, if ’tis what you desire.”

Alys looked to him hopefully. “Truly?”

“Of course.”

The lady nodded with resolve. “I think Heloise would prefer that.” Her eyes filled with uncertainty. “But what of last rites?”

“I do not think this anchorite had any sins to confess,” he said firmly. “She was a woman of God, Alys, and no doubt as pure as after her last confession.”

Alys nodded slowly. “You are right.”

Burke touched his lady’s cheek. “Have you said your farewell in full?”

Alys blinked back her tears, then nodded vigorously. She kissed his fingertips then turned away, walking a little distance to stare out to sea, swathed in his cloak.

And Burke set to work.

Burke was quick. Alys turned to watch him when she had suppressed her tears once more, and was surprised at how much progress he had made. He fitted stones with precision, his brow knotted as he chose each one in turn, and already she could not even discern where the base of the door had been.

As Alys watched, he finished the stonework, then chinked the stones with the greenery cast up by the sea. Finally, Burke stepped back to appraise his work.

But a few adjustments and he washed his hands, offered Alys his arm, and together they strode back to his destrier. He lifted Alys wordlessly to the saddle, then walked alongside her. Alys glanced back as he led the stallion away and cast her gaze one last time over this place.

In her heart, Alys knew she would never return.

Just as Heloise would never leave.

When she listened closely, Alys almost fancied she could hear the stones murmuring to each other. She turned away then, telling herself to be content that Heloise was at peace, in solitude with her whispering stones.

’Twas perhaps all the anchorite desired.

The wind pressed at their backs as they made their way toward the keep, and Burke was stoically silent. Alys considered the pledge she had made to Heloise, stubbornly ignoring the catch that rose in her throat at the very thought. She realized that what she fought was not Burke, nor his charm, nor even her uncertainty of what might come between them. ’Twas not even a dread of repeating her mother’s error, though she had long been certain that was true.

’Twas the fact that she loved Burke de Montvieux precisely as he was.

And she realized that her pledge to Heloise compelled her to do something about that, not merely wait to have her dream fall into her lap.

Burke halted when they reached the low wall on this side of Kiltorren’s bailey and fixed Alys with a troubled gaze. “Alys, I would speak to you of something before we return to the hall, though indeed the timing is less than opportune. This day’s events will change matters, as always a passing does, and I would have matters clear between us.”

He did not touch her, nor did his gaze swerve from hers. Alys almost dreaded whatever he might say.

“You know well enough that I am without holding, without inheritance, without allegiance to a powerful lord,” he admitted heavily. “I have precious little to offer, save myself, but I offer all that I have to you, Alys.”

Alys stared as Burke continued with quiet intensity. “A few successful years at the tourneys and I would have enough to support a family, to acquire a small holding, to see my wife indulged.”

Then he offered Alys his open hand. His fingers were outstretched, his broad palm up, but the choice to take his hand was left to Alys alone. Burke looked up at her, his expression serious beyond all.

“Be that wife of mine, Alys.”

Alys did not trust her ears. Though Burke had offered himself before, he had never offered marriage with his heart shining in his eyes, no sweet words upon his tongue. “You would truly wed me?”

“You cannot be surprised, Alys,” Burke chided. “I offered for you before, and the choice of a bride is not an issue upon which any man of merit changes his thinking. Brianna dispatched me on a quest for a bride, and only one bride would do.” With one last silver glance, he made to pull his hand away. “I ask only that you think of the matter.”

“There is naught to consider,” Alys said quickly.

Burke looked back to her, his expression so cautiously hopeful that a lump rose in Alys’s throat.

“I will marry you, Burke, whether you have Montvieux or not.”

His eyes flashed, he snatched her from the saddle and held her close. Alys laid her head against his chest and savored the agitated pounding of his heart, the tenderness of his hand cupping her nape.

“Alys, I shall see that you never regret this,” Burke murmured, a waver in his voice. “I pledge it to you.”

Alys smiled and reached up to touch his jaw. “I believe you.”

Burke seemed momentarily astounded by this, then he granted her a thorough kiss that left her unsteady on her feet.

“Alys, I would not hasten you, but I would welcome having this wretched place behind me.” Burk’s arms tightened around her. “I do not trust your aunt. ’Tis late this day, but I would prefer not to linger here any longer.”

“Nor would I,” Alys agreed. “Indeed, there is no longer any reason to stay.”

“Shall we leave with all haste?” Burke’s gaze was anxious. “We could escort Brigid to Guillaume.”

“Aye. I shall fetch her. She will not have much to pack.”

Burke kissed Alys with a ferocity that shook her to her core. She closed her eyes against the heat of his ardor and knew that she chose aright. She would pursue love, precisely as Heloise had bidden her, and she would not be left clinging to regrets.

That was the lesson of her mother’s life, and Alys had long ago vowed not to repeat her mother’s mistake.

She could only hope that her love for Burke would suffice.

No sooner had Alys reached the landing before her chamber than a figure stepped from the shadows to confront her. “Aunt!”