Chapter 23
CHAPTER 23
Holly was drowsing in the sunshine of the window seat the following morning when she saw the donkey appear in the distance. She had slept late, overcome with a delicious languor that had yet to subside. As she recognized the robed figure astride the donkey, she sat up on her knees, wincing as her tender muscles twinged in protest.
Even from her dizzying perch, the dejected slump of the rider’s shoulders was evident. Nathanael must know what his freedom had cost her. Even if Austyn hadn’t been so vindictive as to enlighten him, the priest was bright enough to realize that if her husband still harbored the faintest suspicion that he’d been her lover, he would have been carried away from Caer Gavenmore on a burial litter, not a donkey.
As she watched, he slowed the animal and glanced back over his shoulder.
She lifted her hand in a farewell salute, murmuring, “God go with you, brother.”
Nathanael did not return her wave, but stared up at the tower for a long time before plodding on. Troubled by mingled affection and regret, Holly watched him fade to a tiny speck on a vast canvas of moor and mountains still damp from last night’s storm.
“Austyn should never have sent him alone,” she muttered to herself. “The man has a wretched sense of direction. He’ll probably ride straight into the sea or incite some hot-headed Scot to martyr him.”
She had little time to fret over Nathanael’s fate for the dull clatter of the bolt being lifted warned her invasion was imminent. She lifted her chin, unable to stifle the expectant flutter of the pulse in her throat.
’Twas not her husband, but Winifred and a flock of tittering maidservants who entered, each one of them bearing an urn of steaming water. Winnie kept her head bowed, more reticent even than before, but Holly noted that poppies once again blossomed in her cheeks. Her mouth was compressed to a stiff line, as if she might burst into giggles herself at the slightest provocation.
Her darting gaze managed to ricochet off everything in the tower except Holly’s face and the bed. “The master thought you might enjoy a hot bath this morning.” She nodded down at the crisp bundle in her arms. “And some fresh sheets.”
The girls ceased pouring water into the tub long enough to nudge each other and steal sly glances at the rumpled bed. Winnie gave the one nearest to her a warning swat to her generous backside.
Holly stood to greet them, inclining her head as if her chemise was a mantle of ermine and her disheveled curls a crown. If they thought she was going to blush and stammer with shame over the long overdue consummation of her marriage, they were sorely mistaken.
However, she could not quite banish the note of irony that crept into her voice. “How very considerate of him. Do convey my most humble gratitude for his largesse.”
“He thought ye might enjoy a bit o’ my company as well, my lady.”
At the familiar croak, a warm rush of tears blurred Holly’s vision. Elspeth emerged from behind Winnie, her wizened little hobgoblin face one of the dearest sights Holly had ever seen. As the nurse scampered into Holly’s arms, sobbing joyfully, Winnie and her disciples tactfully withdrew. The hollow thump of the bolt falling into place jarred Holly and Elspeth from their tender reunion, reminding them that Elspeth now shared her mistress’s captivity.
Elspeth blotted Holly’s cheeks with a license born of long habit before wiping her own eyes. “Oh, my lady, ye cannot know how afrighted I was for ye. With Sir Austyn stalking ’bout the castle like a madman, ne’er sleeping nor eating for days at a time. All of us tiptoeing ’round him, a-whispering ’neath our breaths, lest he turn his temper on us. When he came for ye last night, I thought to stop him, I vow I did. I would have thrown myself on his blade if need be, but Master Carey clapped a hand over my mouth and held it there until ’twas too late.”
Holly narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. It seemed Nathanael had not been her sole champion at Caer Gavenmore. Even Winnie had appeared secretly pleased that their union had been consummated. Perhaps the woman had not yet given up hope that Holly might be her master’s salvation.
Elspeth shot the decadent disarray of the bed a wide-eyed glance. A shudder rocked her bony shoulders. “Oh, child, was he a terrible beast to you?”
Holly hoped her impish smile would quiet her nurse’s fears. “Quite ferocious. But most bears are when they’ve been cornered in their own dens.” She drew herself from Elspeth’s embrace and wandered to the tub, leaning over to trail her fingers in the steaming water. “I’d almost dare to venture my beast is suffering rather human qualms of remorse this morn. He frees Nathanael. Sends you to nurse my wounded feelings. Provides a luxurious bath to soothe my…um…spirits.” Holly turned to the bed, beset by misty images of the wondrous act that had taken place there in the darkness. A tingling ribbon of delight curled through her belly. “And clean sheets so that I might whisk away all memory of his debauchery.”
“He rode out before dawn,” Elspeth volunteered, “his face so fierce I’ll wager he’s not coming back. And a good riddance to him, I say, for daring to lay a finger on my lady!”
“Oh, he’ll be back,” Holly said softly, but with grave certainty.
She only wondered what his tormented conscience would expect to find. His wife pale and weeping in the window seat, her skin scrubbed raw of his touch, her red-rimmed eyes shadowed by reproach? Or perhaps cowering in the bed with the pristine sheets drawn up over her head?
A slow, dangerous smile curved Holly’s lips. “Elspeth, darling, would you mind helping me with a bit of laundry while you’re here?”
’Twas near nightfall when Sir Austyn of Gavenmore returned to his castle in utter defeat. He had battled his way through steep, stony gorges, forded streams and rivers swollen by the previous night’s rain, and driven his steed over countless leagues of windswept moor. Where once he had sought only the challenges of war to test his mettle, now he sought that most elusive of all prizes: peace.
His quest had been fruitless. The perfume released by the wildflowers crushed beneath his mount’s hooves was but a wan imitation of the fragrant bouquet of Holly’s skin. The wind tousled his hair, sifting through the damp locks at his nape just as Holly’s fingertips had sought to do. The whisper of the breeze in his ears echoed her soft, broken gasps as the silken petals of her untried body had flowered to receive him.
He could not know if they were gasps of pleasure or pain since he had taken neither the time nor the care to find out.
Biting back a fierce oath, Austyn drove the destrier over a crumbling section of curtain wall. Both he and the animal were lathered with sweat and near to trembling with exhaustion. He had hoped he might ride his insatiable appetite for Holly out of his blood, but he feared there was only one way to do that. Desolation tinged his dark hunger. He wondered if his grandfather had dreaded climbing those stairs as much as he did, had known even as he did so that each step carried him nearer to damnation.
Austyn walked the horse past his mother’s grave, refusing to honor it with so much as a glance. He could not help but remember the days when he had returned to Caer Gavenmore in triumph, when not even the specter of his father’s madness could spoil his pride at returning victor from some tournament or bloody skirmish in which he’d been allowed the privilege of proving his worth in battle. His people would line the courtyard, waving green and crimson kerchiefs and cheering his victory as if it were their own.
A ghost of a cheer reached his ears. Austyn jerked up his head, wondering if impending madness had somehow given substance to his memories. But, no, there it was again—a lusty roar of approval, underscored by a smattering of applause. The sound baffled him. There had been little cause for celebration at Caer Gavenmore since Holly’s unmasking and none worthy of such glee since the night he’d brought his ill-favored little bride home to present to his people. His brow clouded at the memory.
He glanced up at the battlements, but all he could see over the roof of the abandoned gatehouse was a thin slice of ivory dangling from a corner merlon. Odd, he thought, narrowing his eyes against the fading light. He could not remember there being a gargoyle perched on that particular embrasure. His eyes widened with astonishment as the gargoyle in question spotted him and went scampering over the parapet to disappear behind a stone chimney.
Besieged by curiosity, he hastened his mount’s steps toward the inner bailey. An excited crowd milled beneath the battlements. As they spotted him, their cheers swelled to a roar of acclaim.
A burly beekeeper clapped him on the thigh as he passed. “The purest honey is always worth waitin’ for, sir.”
An ancient beldame bobbed him a girlish curtsy and crooned, “I’d be pleased if ye’d offer Master Longstaff my regards.”
Austyn didn’t have the faintest idea who this Longstaff fellow was, nor did he appreciate the rogue getting his castle into such an uproar.
As he dismounted, a freckled lad trotted up to relieve him of his mount. “Might I have a strip of it when ye cut it down, sir? My ma says if I sleep with it ’neath my pillow ’twill increase my p-p-pot’ncy.”
Utterly baffled, Austyn followed the direction of the boy’s pointing finger and rapt gaze to a square of ivory fluttering like a pennon from the highest rampart. The cheers died to a wary, but expectant, silence.
’Twas not a pennon, Austyn realized with a nasty shock, but a rumpled bedsheet, its fine linen stained with the unmistakable evidence of his wife’s innocence. He swayed as every drop of blood drained from his face, then rushed back to suffuse it with a blazing heat.
Austyn had been a knight for ten years—long enough to know that the harmless looking sheet flapping in the breeze was not a flag of surrender, but an open declaration of war.