Lady Gallant (48 page)

In the fortnight that followed, peace descended on Nora's life, a peace she hadn't known since the day Christian de Rivers galloped into her life quoting poetry and lusting for blood and the pleasure of her body.

She hadn't realized how racked with chaos her life had become until Christian set about trying to please her. She woke one morning to find the entire household transformed. Tideman suddenly handed the manor's keys over into her keeping. With no explanation he and his underlings began to look to her for the ordering of the house, whether it concerned the making of tallow candles or the need to replace the rushes on the floors, or the settling of a claim of paternity by one of the milkmaids. It took Nora little time at all to realize that, overnight, her husband had abdicated. Falaise was hers.

Thus Nora acquired responsibilities and duties for which she had been trained by nurses, governesses, and tutors but that she'd never dared imagine as hers. With the work came a growing feeling of worthiness, and deep inside her heart she felt iron bands loosening. She had work to do. Before, she had served a Queen and felt useless without knowing it. In his search for her goodwill, Christian had stumbled on an irreplaceable gift. Nora blossomed with each new task, each decision made and proved wise.

While she went about the unending chore of managing a nobleman's large household, Christian shouldered the duties Tideman so often chided him for neglecting. He rode across his lands, taking stock of forest and pasture, consulted with the clerk of the estate, and judged disputes. Yet he would disappear without warning, often for more than a day, and return to throw himself at Nora's feet and present some jewel or rare perfume to her. Not fooled, Nora refused the gifts while taking him to task for continuing to hunt for Jack Midnight.

One morning after Christian had returned from one of his disappearances, Nora was in the still room with three maids preparing to make rose water. She was standing on a stool and reaching for a jar high on a shelf when an arm lifted past her head. Christian plucked the jar from her straining fingers and swept her off the stool with his free arm.

"Good morrow, fair wife." He planted a noisy kiss on her cheek before he set her on her feet.

Glancing at the snickering maids, Nora nodded to Christian and snatched the jar from him. Undaunted by her frown, he indicated the open door to the still room, and the maids scampered out.

"I'm going to make rose water, my lord."

"An easy task for one as beautiful as a rose."

Nora lifted her brows and sniffed. Beautiful as a rose. What cozening. She turned away and set the jar on the work table behind her. The room darkened as she heard the door close, and she whirled to see Christian leaning against the shut door while he lit a second candle from the flame of one resting in the pewter holder by the door.

Already wary, Nora edged toward the vat filled with fresh water as Christian crossed the room.

"Don't take fright," he said. "I only want to give you something."

"Again?"

"Someday I will find a gift worthy of your admiration. Until then I will content me with poorer offerings."

He withdrew a small object from his doublet. Holding out his hand, he opened it, palm up, to reveal a miniature prayer book wrought to hang on a lady's girdle. Bound with gold enameled in brilliant shades of red, blue, white, and green, it rivaled any Nora had seen hanging from the gold chains that swung from the Queen's girdle.

Unable to resist, she touched the binding with her forefinger.

"Take it," Christian said, his low voice sending quivers down her spine.

She held out her hand, and he placed the book in it. She opened it, perusing the Latin words. "It's beautiful."

"Far less so than you."

Fear burned through Nora's pleasure. He had praised her once before and then ground her heart beneath his boot. She handed back the prayer book.

"I don't want it."

Christian's shoulders sagged. "Why, Nora? I thought to please you. It's been so long—"

"Cooking-pot plain."

"What?"

"That's what you called me." She tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. "I've known for a long time that I was plain, but no one ever said that before. It was so much worse coming from you."

He made a violent movement with one hand. "Stop! You must forget the things I said. I lied. Can't you understand? I was mad, torn in two by love and hate. I don't know how you could believe those things anyway."

"Because my father already told me the truth."

"Your father wouldn't know the truth about you if God Himself came to earth and told it to him. I don't know what demon entered Becket's brain all those years ago, but I do know he's wrong about you." Christian eased closer to her, close enough to touch her sleeve. "If you don't believe me, I can send for at least a baker's dozen of my friends to swear to your beauty and grace of mind."

"A baker's dozen?" She twisted her hands together and thought a moment before shaking her head. "It's no use. I'm afraid to trust you again."

He stepped nearer. She met his gaze, and detected a firmness of purpose that increased her edginess.

"I bethought me that you might not," he said. "And if I don't find a way to regain that trust, I may indeed finally go mad. I can't even touch you. Blade says I will fade into dust soon. But don't look at me with those shaming eyes. I'm not trying to arouse your pity. I've decided that the way to gain your trust is to give you mine."

Nora left off twisting her hands as Christian held up the prayer book. He undid the tiny clasp to open it, then twisted the small tongue of gold metal. She heard a click, and the binding snapped open to reveal a compartment. He held the book out to her, and she saw inside a folded piece of parchment. He removed the paper.

"Take it," he said.

She took the parchment, opened it, and read. "
I, Christian de Rivers, Viscount Montfort, deny the Pope and his supremacy, and declare myself a believer in the church as ordained by the late Henry VIII of England. "
Below the words lay Christian's signature.

The veins at her temples throbbed as Nora stared at the miniature confession that could send Christian to the stake.

"You're a heretic?" she whispered.

He shrugged. "According to the papists I am. I happen to think God cares more about the truth of our hearts than the outward trappings of our worship."

"You're giving this confession to me?" She suddenly recovered herself at the realization of what Christian had done. Fear lanced through her vitals, and with it, anger. She crumpled the parchment in her fist and pounded his arm. "Have you lost your wits? What possessed you to write down such a thing?"

Rushing around the vat, she stuck the parchment in the flame of one of the candles, then thrust the burning paper in the well of the candleholder. She watched it until she was sure the whole of it was burned. Turning on Christian, she shook a finger at him.

"You are never to do such a thing again, Christian de Rivers."

"You don't understand."

"I seldom understand the madness of fools."

"Listen to me."

"Writing it down, may God protect us."

He swooped down on her, catching her hand and pressing his lips to the backs of her fingers to silence her.

"You miss my point," he said. "I have placed my life in your hands." He turned her hand over and brushed his lips to her palm.

She gaped at his bent head. "Placed your life in my hands?"

"I trust you to keep it safe."

"But I wouldn't want you hurt."

Her shock had slowed her reasoning. It was beyond her to conceive of wanting to endanger Christian's life. It was also hard to believe that he would calmly hand her the means to do so.

"Mayhap I was too dramatic," he said. "I thought you would fancy the idea of holding my life suspended from your girdle."

Eyes widening, she cried out, "That's unconscionable! I could never do such a thing. The idea disgusts me."

Chuckling, he bowed to her. "I beg your pardon."

She reached out and boxed her husband's ear.

"Ouch!"

"Serves you right, addlepated fool. Have you written anything else like that?"

"No."

"Don't."

"Yes, little dragon."

"Give me the prayer book." She took it and placed it in the purse at her girdle. "So you don't take it into your head to make another madman's confession and put it in your hidey-place."

She opened the door to the still room, but Christian was after her in a trice. He stopped her by putting an arm across the threshold. She bumped into the arm, her breasts pressing against it. Throwing up her hands, she started to push him away, but he stooped to whisper in her ear.

"So if I want to hide something in the book, I will have to capture your girdle, my love."

She felt a hand on her waist. It slid down her skirt as if to search for the purse.

"Where is it?" Christian asked as he groped.

Her mouth fell open, and she gasped as his hand slid between her legs. Knocking his arm away, she scurried out of the still room.

"Come back here, wife. I've not done searching for my prayer book, and I've a sudden urge. To pray, that is."

For the first time in weeks, Nora found herself smiling. She quickened her steps as she heard the still room door slam and Christian call her name.

"Nora, you thieving shrew, come back here with my prayer book."

Lifting her skirts, she dashed through the house and on to the herb garden, where she hid behind a thick stand of foxglove. Christian raced past on his way to the river. When he was out of sight, she stood up and looked in the direction he had gone. Strange it was, she mused, that she felt a thrill at being chased by him.

During the next two weeks Nora's fear of her husband lessened. Mayhap it was because he tried to bury her in costly gifts, each of which she refused. It could have been his habit of launching into bawdy song whenever she grew pensive, or the way he would forget what he was saying if he caught her looking at him.

She found herself looking at him often. It had been a long time since she had wanted to gaze at him, but lately she couldn't help secretly studying his lips. They were a dusky rose color. She knew they were warm and pliant, and she remembered the way they seemed to tug at some hidden knot between her legs when he kissed her. More and more she caught herself thinking such thoughts, and others equally as carnal. She decided Christian had deliberately invoked them with his songs and his preening.

Like a cock in a henhouse, he had taken to parading before her. Only he kept shedding his finery instead of displaying it. Why else would he breakfast in nothing but a shirt, hose, and boots? Those shirts, they were of the thinnest silk or cambric. Though cut full, they clung to his shoulders and arms, outlining long expanses of brown flesh and arousing in Nora the urge to tear the white material and expose the flesh to her touch. If only she weren't afraid.

That was the trouble. She was still the same Nora—timid, and sheltering in her heart a fear that Christian would suddenly turn monster again. She could be brave for Arthur, and she would continue to be, but to be brave for herself alone… that was another matter altogether.

So she dithered and stewed, longing to cast aside her wariness, yet afraid that in doing so she would be hurt beyond bearing. While she dithered, she could see that Christian suffered. Blade had been right when he told her Christian didn't eat.

He also prowled the manor at night, unable to sleep, and Nora began to feel guilty that she was the cause of his pain. When he had first returned, she'd been too concerned with her own fears to care about what he felt or said. Nothing he did touched her heart, and all she'd had left for him was distaste. Gifts were insults, compliments mere deceptions. Until de Ateca came and threatened Christian's life, arousing within Nora a violence she had never suspected herself of owning. Once stirred from her indifference, she found it impossible to recover it.

She couldn't ignore him anymore, and as she began to truly look at Christian, she beheld a man in agony. The evening after de Ateca's body had been removed to London, she'd been an unwilling and secret witness to that agony. Still racked with her own guilt at having killed a man, she had ignored her husband all day. After the evening meal, he'd given up beseeching her goodwill and said he would take a walk. Later, Nora went outside herself to the herb garden, thinking he would avoid that place that was so much hers. She was wrong. He was there contemplating the rosemary, and Blade was contemplating him.

"You're going to cheat me of my entertainment if you die of starvation," Blade was saying.

"Go away."

"Here."

Blade thrust half a loaf of bread at Christian. Christian glanced at it with no interest, then shifted so that Nora could see his face in the light of the moon. The beam illuminated his beautiful features with silver and emphasized the shadows under his eyes.

"What is it you want, comfit?" he asked Blade. "To feed me so that I'll have the strength to suffer?"

"If you wish."

He turned on Blade without warning. "I'll strike a bargain." His voice broke, and he snatched Blade's collar, shoving his face near the youth's. "Look, damn you. Look at me. Can you see Hell in my eyes? It's there. I'm tied to the stake and burning in the fire I set myself. Does it please you? It should, for by God I'd rather be broken on the rack than suffer this agony." He released Blade. "Begone, young vulture, and if you tell her what I've said, I'll give you the lie."

Blade fled, but Nora stayed to see Christian drop to his knees and cover his face with his hands. As she watched, she began to ache—ache for Christian. Furious at the resurgence of sympathy, she ran from the garden and locked herself in her chamber.

Unfortunately, all these weeks later, she was still unable to regain her indifference. As she watched Christian grow thinner, she felt shame, for part of her gloated over the fact that this man who had hurt her was now hurting as well. She prayed for forgiveness for this sin, and tried to get her husband to eat.