White Lion's Lady (13 page)

“ ’Tis about time,” he drawled sullenly.

“Have you a plan for getting us into the castle?” she asked as he turned to face her. “What will you tell the guards to gain us access?”

“That we are husband and wife,” Griff answered. “Common folk, en route to your family in the north when we were caught in the rain.”

He did not miss her slight flinch when he said they were to pose as a married couple. Did she find the idea intriguing or repulsive? He could not be sure, but even in the candlelight he could see the tint of color rise into her cheeks. To her credit, she said nothing of her obvious discomfort with his plan. Instead she turned a thoughtful frown on him. “How do you expect to explain away your own appearance, my lord?”

“My own—”

Isabel gestured toward his face and left side in explanation, and Griffin cursed. He had all but forgotten about the injuries he had received in his skirmish with Odo. He looked down at his arm, inspecting the torn, bloodied sleeve and the messy gash beneath it.

“Here,” Isabel said gently. “Let me have a look.”

Before he realized it, she was at his side. Carefully, she
gathered up the fabric of his sleeve and raised it past the place where Odo’s sword had taken a bite of him. Using the edge of her damp chemise, she dabbed at the dried blood that was now crusted around the wound, her fingers light, tender. In truth, she need not have been so delicate for the cut hardly pained him. But Griff was loath to tell her so; he was enjoying her attention far more than he should have.

Indeed, if the idea of posing as his wife was unpleasant to her, she would have been appalled to know the increasingly illicit path his thoughts had begun to take. The memory of her exquisite body shrouded in wet linen, the feel of her hands on his skin as she touched him now, her unbound hair cascading over her slim shoulders and down the graceful curve of her back—all of it twined together into a potent spell that had him imagining what it might be like to be her wedded husband.

To be the man who would bed her for the first time and teach her about the endless wonders of pleasure and passion.

It was a ludicrous musing—the very last thing he needed to be thinking about—but that did not make the wanting cease. In that moment, as Isabel’s innocent ministrations went from the gash on his arm to the bruises that marred his cheek and jaw, Griffin knew a keen and unabating desire.

She rubbed the soft linen of her makeshift cloth over his brow and cheek, then touched it to the corner of his mouth, blotting away the grime and blood left from the morning’s violence. Her hand seemed to linger there, long enough that Griffin entertained the very compelling notion of reaching up and taking her by the wrist to pull her closer to him. He could tell her he did it as part of their ruse, that to be convincing as man and wife they would have to be willing to touch, to embrace, to kiss, like two people accustomed to intimacy. He could tell her that it was all part of
their game, that she had to trust him. That she had no choice.

He could manufacture a hundred reasons to convince her of his need to feel her body pressed against his, a thousand lies to cover the truth of how he burned for her …

Isabel glanced up suddenly and met his gaze. For a heartbeat, a moment filled with silence and certain, shared awareness, she held his unblinking stare. But then, as if she sensed the danger of his thoughts, she sucked in a small breath and drew back from him. Her gaze darted away, shuttered by the sweep of long lashes. “That should do well enough,” she said in a rush of words. “You don’t look quite so dreadful now.”

Griff chuckled, but his blood was still thrumming in his veins. “Dreadful looking, am I?”

Isabel threw him a shy glance. “No. Not so much … now.”

“Well, I am glad to hear you say it,
wife,
” he teased, surprised at how easily the false endearment tumbled off his tongue. “After all, it would not do to have my bride recoiling each time she looks upon me.”

The moment lost, Griffin pushed up his right sleeve to match the length of the left while Isabel turned away and busied herself on the other side of the small room, folding up her soiled chemise and green silk gown. “Do you really think your plan will get us into the castle?” she asked, her brows drawn together.

“Getting in will not be the difficult part. But keeping our identity secret once we are there may well pose a problem. I suppose it would be too much to hope for that we be left to ourselves the entire time.”

Isabel glanced up from what she was doing. “I could pretend to be sick. We could say I am ill from the weather. No one will bother a woman beleaguered with ague.”

“No one will house her,” Griff corrected. “No, there
must be another way to explain our want for solitude without raising suspicions.”

He glanced at the folded bulk of Isabel’s gown and suddenly had an idea. He strode over and picked it up, rolling it into a round bundle, which he then presented to Isabel. “Place this under your skirt. Your girdle should hold it in place at your waist.”

She gave him a skeptical look as she accepted the ball of rumpled silk. “Very well, but I don’t understand how my being plump will serve us.”

Griff shook his head. “Not plump, Isabel. Pregnant. Sick with our first child.”

Without affording her the chance to protest, he grasped her by the hand and hauled her out of the room, ready to begin their ruse and praying they would be able to pull it off.

Griffin was right about the ease with which they gained access to the castle. His story, along with a silver coin passed discreetly to the gatekeeper, earned them a stall for their horses and space among the folk in the castle’s great hall. They were directed up the wide motte that led to the tower keep, instructed to follow the other travelers seeking shelter there that eve. Rain still slanted down from the darkening skies, turning the path to mud and slowing the group’s ascent to the castle.

Warm and dry under Griffin’s mantle, Isabel hardly noticed the continuing deluge.

Her mind swam with anxiety for the many untold perils that likely yet awaited them on this journey. This stop for shelter was but a pause before they would be back on the road, a short reprieve before they would be back on the run from Droghallow’s men. And there was another danger worrying Isabel, too.

The danger of what she was starting to feel for Griffin.

As much as she tried to hold on to her anger and wariness, Isabel had to admit her mistrust of him was beginning to thaw. Indeed, when she thought of him, she felt as if her whole body was slowly melting from somewhere deep inside, warming to the man she should despise.

Heaven help her, but whenever he was near, she experienced the queerest sensation in her belly, a fluttery anticipation, a mad sense of hopeful expectation that Griffin
might find her attractive, that he might want to touch her. When she’d found herself staring into his eyes in the seclusion of the tavern’s back room, she’d had the unshakable feeling that he might have wanted to kiss her.

But he had not, and she knew she should be relieved.

She should be thinking of Sebastian of Montborne, of her sister’s welfare, not contemplating her growing attraction to her captor and enemy. Except Griffin was feeling less of an enemy with each passing hour. Now that they were both declared fugitives, he seemed more of a partner in some strange way, and she his witting accomplice.

More vexing to Isabel’s mind was the fact that she found it entirely too easy to pretend to be his wife. It took precious little effort to imagine them partners in life, to make believe that the ruse of her pregnancy was instead real, that her belly swelled with their child and not a bundle of damp silk.

Chagrined for her sinful, wayward thoughts, Isabel lowered her head, pulling the hood of Griffin’s mantle low over her brow.

“We’re almost there,” he said softly beside her, startling her when he reached over and placed his hand on hers in a soothing gesture. “I’ll have you out of this rain as soon as I can.”

She could not help smiling at his consideration. That he would be concerned for her well-being when he was still soaked to the bone confused her as much as it comforted her. Or was this sudden kindness part of his act? she wondered. Was he merely beginning their ruse of man and wife before they entered the keep? If he pretended now, he did so without the benefit of an audience, for no one in the group of pilgrims traveling with them on the path to the castle paid them any mind. Isabel glanced from his reassuring expression to their joined hands, which were wet from the rain but warm for their mingled contact.

Far more belatedly than was prudent, she felt guilty for
enjoying the polite intimacy of his touch and withdrew her fingers from his grasp. From the corner of her eye, she watched as he slowly retracted his hand and settled back on his mount, his gaze finally leaving her, returning to the flinty coolness she had first known.

His mood remained brooding and aloof even after they settled into the great hall of Hexford Castle. At a trestle table near the back of the enormous chamber, Isabel and Griffin took their places among the common folk. The room buzzed with activity and conversation, a scene as welcoming to Isabel as a thick wool blanket after several days on the run.

Torches burned in black iron sconces affixed to the walls no more than ten paces apart. In the hearth at the center of the hall a fire blazed, its warm glow and radiant heat chasing away the persistent chill of the damp outdoors. If the comfortable climate inside the hall was not enough to make one forget their troubles for a while, the aromas of roasting meat and fresh baked bread being borne to the tables on large platters certainly was. Isabel’s stomach growled as the food and wine was served to the high table and then the rest of the hall. She could hardly wait to partake of the steaming viands, her eyes widening in delight as she and Griffin were given a trencher filled with lamb stew and boiled cabbage. They shared their meal and drank from the same cup of wine, observing the eating custom that was commonplace among married couples of all ranks.

While Griffin’s grim countenance dissuaded anyone from engaging him in conversation, Isabel was not so fortunate. The other ladies at their table chattered on about one thing or another, making every attempt to include Isabel in their gossip and idle talk. Isabel obliged as courteously as she dared, nodding and smiling when appropriate and keeping her own comments limited to the awful weather and compliments for the hearty fare presented them by Lord and Lady Hexford.

The titled couple sat at the dais, flanked at the high table by their children and an elderly priest from a neighboring parish, who said sacrament over the meal. Throughout the supper, Isabel found herself staring at the Hexfords’ little daughter, a cheerful, freckle-faced waif of perhaps six summers. She laughed easily, charming everyone in the hall with her gaiety and bubbly demeanor. Isabel giggled aloud when the girl stole a cherry from the old priest’s dessert and popped it in her mouth. When he realized his plate had been vandalized, the white-haired clergy merely slanted a chiding look at the impish thief and wagged his finger at her in mild reproach.

“That one’s going to be trouble,” one of the women at Isabel and Griffin’s table remarked.

“Aye, she’s a handful already,” another agreed. “Pray ye don’t have a girl, leastwise not as yer first child. Boys are much easier to raise.”

It took a moment for Isabel to realize that the woman was speaking to her. “Oh,” she said finally, glancing down at the still-surprising bulge of her stomach. “I’m sure it will make no difference whatsoever. I will be happy either way.”

She made the mistake of looking at Griffin as she said it and felt herself grow warm all the way to her scalp. He was staring at her intensely, his green-gold eyes unreadable and impossibly steady, refusing to release her gaze. Isabel wondered what he was thinking in that moment, wondered what to make of his serious expression and the hard, contemplative set of his mouth. Did he feel as awkward as she? He certainly did not seem uncomfortable, staring at her so pointedly, almost indecently. Isabel’s face flamed an even deeper shade of red.

The women seated around them began to titter with amusement.

“Heavy with child and still blushing like a virgin,” a
middle-aged woman seated across from Isabel commented. “Isn’t that the sweetest thing ye’ve ever seen?”

The man beside her chuckled. “ ’Twas not so long ago that ye were a winsome bride yerself, Gert. And I can still make ye blush on occasion. Especially when I do that thing with yer—” He whispered something in his wife’s ear and the matron burst out in a flurry of scandalized giggles.

“Beast!” she gasped, slapping him playfully on the shoulder.

The table dissolved into a round of shared jests and good humor, but Isabel scarcely noticed. She finished the rest of her meal quickly, feeling terribly conspicuous as Griffin fed her from his poniard. She shared his goblet of wine, drinking more than she was accustomed to in her sudden thirst and continued state of anxiety.

The mellow warmth of the mulled wine and the droning buzz of mingled conversations in the hall made Isabel grow reflective. The community of her surroundings made her think about the life she once knew, a life outside the isolation of the abbey and not so unlike the one Hexford’s lord and lady enjoyed with their family and friends. She could recall gatherings such as this, with her mother and father seated at the dais, laughing, sharing drink and company with the many people who would come to call. She recalled other, quieter gatherings, too, when she and her parents would retire to the family’s private chambers for prayer and storytelling.

It had all been lost in a flash, yanked away just as quickly as the floor was pulled from beneath her father’s feet when he stood on the gallows in London, an aging traitor seized by Henry II’s soldiers and sentenced to die for his old crimes. That Richard Plantagenet was now king—one of William de Lamere’s chief co-conspirators in his treason against the crown—seemed as salt ground into a wound still raw and festering. Her father’s death had been
such a waste. Nothing would ever make it right, not even the king’s apparent gesture of sympathy that would join her with one of his most trusted vassals.