Juliana Garnett (24 page)

Through shifting fog and low-lying cloud, the gray stones of the castle were barely visible across the inlet. Luc could feel Ceara’s rising excitement, and shot her a quick glance.

Mounted atop a snow-white palfrey, a wedding gift from William, Ceara wore a hooded cloak that covered her bright hair with crimson wool trimmed in ermine. It was a truly magnificent cloak, purchased with Luc’s hard-won coin, and worth it to his mind, for it set off her fair coloring like a rich jewel. Before leaving York, he’d purchased an entire wardrobe for her. He had not expected nor wanted thanks, but she had come to him with bright eyes and an almost shy smile, and pressed a silent kiss against his cheek.

At that moment, he’d felt like an awkward youth again, clumsy and uncomfortable, but it had quickly passed. There was
too much else to distract him, and he was swift to take advantage of her agreeable mood in the time-honored way husbands had with their wives.

Even now the memory of her soft body and eager caresses stirred him, and he shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and looked away from her across the choppy inlet toward the castle. He should not let a woman affect him like this, but somehow, Ceara crept into his thoughts with increasing frequency. At odd moments when he should be thinking of plans for fortifying the castle, or how many men he would need to garrison and how to strengthen his border positions, he would think instead of lavender-scented skin and hair the color of summer wheat.

It was as unnerving as it was arousing.

Luc urged Drago into a trot as they reached the road rounding the inlet. Cold wind burned his ears, stung his skin and eyes, smelling of snow and sea. Steam rose from Drago’s hide, and the destrier snorted eagerly as if sensing the end of the journey was near, a reaction echoed by the other horses. The jangle of metal bridle bits and creak of leather was almost drowned out by the roar of the surf crashing against rocks and sandy tussocks. At the end of the line of mounted men came the baggage carts and the cart bearing the caged wolf. From Sheba, a howl rose into the air, barely audible above the sounds of the sea but still causing the horses to whicker uneasily.

Some of the men cursed and had to struggle to keep their mounts on the narrow road, portions of which had washed away and been replaced with a new bridge made of rough-hewn logs. Deep mud made rough work out of the last of the steep road leading into the castle, and a greeting was shouted down from the walls when Luc’s standard came into view.

Remy came running out to meet them as the gates swung open, still buckling on his sword. Wind snarled his hair and curled his short cloak around him as the captain halted outside the castle and waited.

“I see you have taken great care of the castle, Captain
Remy.” Luc dismounted inside the small bailey, glancing about him at the well-tended grounds. Crumbled stone walls had been repaired, and the rubbish that had been strewn about was gone.

“I have tried, my lord. When the weather clears, we will repair the road again.” Remy glanced past Luc to the woman seated atop the elegant white palfrey, and his eyes widened. He cleared his throat and looked back at Luc. “I received your message, my lord, and have made ready the chamber you requested for your new bride.”

Remy’s curiosity was obvious, and Luc indicated Ceara with a tilt of his head. “The lady is weary, and will no doubt wish to go to our chamber at once. Where is Paul? Drago needs to be unsaddled and tended, as do the other horses—ah, Paul, here you are. I think Drago missed you.”

Paul’s weathered face creased with delight. “As I did him, my lord. We are much alike, in that we appreciate our old friends.” Taking the destrier’s reins, Paul murmured soothing words that earned a twitch of an ear and a welcoming nudge from the great head. “Come, meet a new friend, old fellow. Hardred will treat you most kindly.”

Luc moved past the horse steward, Remy at his side, to where Ceara perched atop her palfrey. She glanced at him, then to Paul, frowning. “My lord, please release my wolf from her cage. I do not want her in the stables. Sheba has been imprisoned so long she no doubt cannot use her limbs by now, and must be exercised.”

“One day without exercise will not harm her too greatly.” Luc’s mouth tightened when Ceara shook her head, and before she could argue, he stated his position more firmly. “I cannot just free the beast among my men.”

“Sheba roamed this castle long before Normans came, and will not leave unless I bid her to do so. Ask, if you do not trust me to be truthful. Any man here who knows the wolf knows that she is tame, and would not harm a beast or man unless she is provoked.”

Luc eyed her, and without replying, reached up to lift her down from the palfrey. Her hands flew to his shoulders for balance, and her body tensed beneath his hands as he deliberately held her above the ground. Blond hair tumbled from beneath the hood to frame her face, and her fingers dug into the mail over his shoulders. Her strong scent of lavender wafted over him, stirring him so that he set her on her feet and released her. It would never do to act as if he was besotted with her in front of his men.

“I will consider your request, and most likely allow Sheba to roam if it is proven that she is harmless. But tonight, I think it best the wolf remain safely in her cage, until I have had the opportunity to advise my men of her harmless nature.”

Ceara smiled slightly. “I did not say she was harmless, only that she will not attack unless I allow it.”

Luc’s brow lifted. “Then I will think on it a long time before I make my decision.” Switching back to French, he turned to Captain Remy. “I trust there is ample food for the evening meal, as we have ridden long and hard this day to reach Wulfridge before dark.”

Remy nodded, and glanced toward the doors of the castle uneasily. “My lord, perhaps you are unaware, but you have guests.”

“Guests?” Luc was surprised. “Who has come so swiftly that they arrive before I have?”

Coughing, Remy looked uncomfortable, but Luc had only a moment’s apprehension before his captain replied, “It is your brother, my lord.”

Luc’s jaw set tensely, and his words came out in a low growl. “Jean-Paul is here?”

Remy nodded unhappily. “He arrived only yesterday. I did not know your wishes, so have allowed him to stay. I hope I have not erred, my lord.”

“No. It is not your place to refuse entry to him. It is mine.”
Tugging at his mail gauntlets, Luc strode toward the castle without waiting for Ceara. How could Jean-Paul arrive as if nothing had happened between them, as if there had been no fierce rivalry? And now, now that he had earned title and lands, Jean-Paul just appeared on his doorstep as if it had been yesterday instead of five years since they had seen one another.

But this time, it was not Luc who was the cast-off son, disinherited with nothing but his sword and an adopted name. It was Jean-Paul who had lost all but his life, although he was luckier than their father, for both had dealt treacherously with William and few men survived that.

Torches lit the short corridor leading to the hall, and armed guards straightened to attention when Luc stalked past them. A fire blazed in the center of the hall, huge logs crackling, smoke curling upward to blacken the rafters and ceiling.

Jean-Paul sat at the main table, talking with a woman and two other men. Reflected torchlight glinted in his blond hair. The hall fell silent as Luc entered and made his way past trestle tables set up for knights and soldiers, and finally the quiet caught Jean-Paul’s attention so that he paused and glanced up. His face paled slightly, and he set down his wine goblet as Luc approached.

“Greetings, brother,” Jean-Paul said when Luc reached the table. “I trust your journey was uneventful.”

“What do you here, Jean-Paul?”

It was a demand more than a question. Jean-Paul’s mouth turned down at the corner as he regarded Luc. “I came to beg succor.”

“Did you. Why now? Why not last year? Two years past?” Luc stepped onto the dais and moved to the end of the table, watching narrowly as his brother rose to his feet to turn and face him.

Slowly holding his arms out to his sides to show that he wore no weapon, Jean-Paul said quietly, “I came now for I have
nowhere else to go, Luc. I am bereft of all! Home. Land. Name. Family. You are all that is left to me.”

“A bitter day for you, then, I warrant.”

“Bitter indeed.” Jean-Paul’s blue eyes lowered under Luc’s relentless gaze. “Once, you said if ever I needed you, you would come.”

“That was a long time ago, Jean-Paul. Much has happened since then. Much of your own making.”

“True enough. Yet I am here now, and I humble myself to you.” He looked up, the blue eyes that Luc remembered from their childhood beseeching, reminding him of times that were not so bad, boring into him with hopeful regard. “Do not turn me out, Luc. No one else will take me in.”

“Perhaps you should have chosen your former companions more carefully then.” Luc drew in a deep breath that tasted of smoke and bitterness. “I will not turn you out this eve. We will talk on the morrow, once I have rested and thought on the matter.”

It was a compromise of sorts, if not a victory, and Jean-Paul brightened immediately. “You will not be sorry, Luc. I will—”

“Who are your companions?”

Luc’s abrupt query cut short his brother’s promises, which always came much too easily and lacked sincerity, and Jean-Paul turned toward the woman and two men at the table.

“Friendless wanderers like myself. They mean no harm, Luc, but seek only shelter and your kindness.”

Luc swept them with a critical glance. A disreputable lot, to be sure. Mercenaries oft came to England with high hopes but no merit, and were soon disappointed.

“My hospitality is extended to your companions for this night only. On the morrow, I will have my steward give them a coin and food, and they will be on their way.”

Jean-Paul looked chagrined, and the woman’s eyes grew wide with dismay, but Luc turned away. He had enough to do without providing charity to those unwilling to work.

As he left the hall, he saw Ceara. She stood just inside the outer door, an odd expression on her face. He halted beside her.

“There are guests in the hall. They will be on their way by the morrow. If you do not care to share the table with them, I will have Alain bring food to you in our chamber.”

“Nay, that is not necessary.” Her quick reply was followed by a light shrug. “I would see to Sheba before I eat, as she will be hungry and miserable.”

“Curse that wolf—would you have her eat at the table as well?”

“Once, she ate where she pleased, but no, my lord. I would not ask you to do anything that made you uneasy.”

His mouth tightened. “I do not fear the wolf, but my men are not as accepting.”

“Yea, my lord. I understand.”

Hard on the heels of Jean-Paul’s unfamiliar humility, Ceara’s mockery was more than he could stomach. He swore again, harshly this time, a vile French curse that caused one of the guards to glance at him with apprehension. Luc took Ceara’s arm just above the elbow, and walked her several steps away. Though she was stiff with resistance, she offered no struggle when he turned her toward him.

“Take the wolf to your chamber. Be certain there is no trouble because of it, or she will be caged again. Keep her with you.”

She gazed up at him a moment. The rebellion in her eyes faded, and a faint frown creased her brow. “Do you expect trouble, my lord? I mean—danger?”

“No.” He released her arm, feeling suddenly foolish. She was more astute than he’d thought. And he had no reason to think of danger. Yet he knew his brother, knew him to be capable of great treachery, and would take no chances. Had he not been betrayed before? Taken in the night when he slept, before he could reach his weapon and defend himself? He would not chance it again.

Shrugging, his reply was brusque. “If you question my decision, leave the wolf in her cage. I do not care, but I am weary of your harping on the subject.”

He pivoted and walked away before she could speak again, but he felt her gaze follow him. The homecoming he had anticipated was not as he had wished. But he should have expected trouble. When had it ever avoided him?

Luc was in the small room off the solar that he was to share with Ceara when Alain found him, sidling in the door in his customary way, a smile of welcome on his face.

“Welcome back, my lord. Your return is most timely, for it has begun to snow quite heavily.”

Luc looked up with a faint smile. “I thought it would be soon, for the air smelled of snow. Have we stores enough for the winter?”

“Enough, I think. The harvest was in, but was not plentiful, as Sir Simon’s arrival interrupted the gathering of crops. Now, much wheat has rotted in the fields, but I was able to save enough wheat and corn to last if we are frugal. Fatted pigs and kine have been salted down, and should the supply grow too low, wild game abounds aplenty in the forests, if the king’s laws will permit our hunting.”

“The king has granted me complete sovereignty over these lands, as we are so remote. I have only to hold them against the Scots and Danes, and any Saxon outlaws who would take them from me.”

Alain looked a bit surprised as he glanced up from gathering Luc’s armor. “I had not thought William so trusting as to lend complete sovereignty to any man, my lord.”

“Nor did I. Yet Northumbria rumbles with the threat of rebellion, and is so near the land of the Scots that he has little choice but to give his earls free rein to hold the border as best they can.” Luc bent a keen gaze on the squire. “Do you fear I will fail, Alain?”

“Fail? No, no, you misunderstand, my lord. Not for a moment
do I think you will fail. You have won over all odds, have you not? And you have won all, my lord.”

“No. I have not won all.” Jean-Paul’s arrival dredged up the old memories, the old hurts, and made raw the wounds he had thought healed. But it was his father who had done the worst, caused the damage of soul and body that would never heal. No matter where he went or what he achieved, he would never be able to forget his father’s contempt, the words and deeds that had seared him so deeply.