Chapter Seven #2
She gazed at him steadily before a grin spread across her lips. “Then I shall leave everything behind.”
“Everything?”
“Aye. When will I have another opportunity to purchase fine new things, in London no less?”
He could see she was teasing but he cocked a stern eyebrow at her. “So that’s your plan, is it? Marry me and spend my fortune?”
She laughed softly. “Fortunate for me that you did not suspect my true motives before we were wed. Now it is too late.”
“We’ll see about that.”
She continued to giggle. He reached out, grabbed her behind the head, and kissed her soundly. She tasted so good that he kissed her again, this time long and hard. The warmed milk in her hand almost ended up on the floor; Matthew caught it before it could spill, though some drops ended up on him.
“Sorry,” he set the cup aside, wiping the liquid off his hand. “I got carried away.”
She licked her lips, tasting his passion on her. “You have my permission to get carried away any time you wish.”
He wriggled his eyebrows at her. It was an open invitation and he knew that he was a fool not to take it.
“Would that I could take the time to spend with you right now as we did yesterday,” he touched her cheek gently.
“But the duties of the day are already dictated. I would not rush through our time together and make so little of it. Time spent with you, coming to know you, is time that deserves all of the respect I can give it. And I cannot do that right now.”
She nodded in understanding. “Then it is best that you go about your duties and leave me to mine, for I would keep you here all morning.” She stood up, her cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink as she fumbled for the correct words.
“I cannot explain this, Matthew. I cannot explain why I have no fear or reservation about you and why what happened between us yesterday, which should have rightfully distressed me, did nothing of the sort. I feel as if I have known you my whole life, as if you are something that has always been with me and I feel you as a part of me. I want to spend all of my time with you, whiling away the hours as if nothing else in our world exists. We respond to each other so easily, so readily. Can you not sense that?”
He reached out and took her hand, a warm, soft thing.
“Of course I can,” he said huskily. “Do you think this has been easy for me the past few days, knowing I should be focused on my duties but finding myself unable to think of anything other than you? My brothers think I have gone mad. Maybe I have. But if this is madness, then I happily accept it.”
Alixandrea was coming to realize that Matthew always knew the right thing to say. He wasn’t like her uncle, hard and selfish, or like most men she had come in brief contact with. There was something beyond the surface, something deep.
“As do I,” she said. “Let us be mad together.”
They stood there a moment, grinning at each other.
It was silly and completely wonderful. Matthew knew he had to get back to his duties and did not relish the thought of leaving her, even if only for a few moments.
He was dangerously close to forgetting his duties completely, just as Mark had accused him.
Maybe his brother had been right. Frankly, he did not care if Mark was right or not, but he did know what was expected of him. It was a struggle to focus.
“As much as I would like to stay here and gaze at your beauty for the rest of my life, I am afraid I have more pressing tasks elsewhere,” he said. “I will send Caroline and a few servants to help you organize your cases.”
“Caroline was already here,” she said. “She helped me dress this morning. Which reminds me.…”
“What?”
“Jezebel,” her smile faded. “Have you… what have you done with her?”
His smile faded also, his professional persona taking over. “She is still in the vault under orders that no one but Wellesbourne guards be assigned to her. Strode is not allowed near her.”
“Have you seen him since yesterday?”
“In the stables. One of your carriage horses is lame and he has been tending the animal.”
“I have not seen him since I arrived here, but that’s not unusual. He is not a house servant.”
“He will be going with us to London.”
Her eyes widened. “He will? But… but won’t that be risky? If he discovers that we’ve been married…”
“I would rather have my enemy close than leave him here at Wellesbourne to usurp my soldiers and open the gates for an invasion force.” He could see how worried she was and he took her in his arms, gently.
“Have no fear; your manservant will not last long against me. He will trip himself eventually and I will be there to pounce.”
She gazed up at him, her body warm and fluid as she delighted in his embrace. “But what of Jezebel?”
“She stays in the vault, accused of making an attempt on your life. There she is, and there she will remain until I decide otherwise.”
“And then what?”
His eyebrows lifted. “And then I send her back to Whitewell. She’ll not stay here.”
Alixandrea was about to ask another question when shouting from the ward caught Matthew’s attention. Her window faced the main gate of the castle and the sounds easily traveled, even four stories up. He released her and went to the window, peering into the void below.
“What is it?” she asked.
His blue eyes were focused, like ice. In fact, his entire body seemed frozen as he viewed the scene below. Then, he suddenly shifted on his big legs and made haste for the chamber door.
“Visitors,” he held out a hand to her. “Come along, love.”
She jumped to do his bidding. “Who is it?”
The corner of his lips flickered. “An old friend.”
He did not say any more and she did not ask.
*
Gaston de Russe was known as The Dark Knight. Along with Matthew as his “white” counterpart, he was the most legendary knight in the realm during these ominous times of royal turmoil.
Whereas Matthew had been given his name in reference to his widely known benevolent character, The Dark Knight was aptly named for a demeanor that sparked nothing short of blind terror.
The man wasn’t cruel; he had never crossed that line into such darkness that men feared him for his brutality and vile conduct.
But he had been known to rip a man apart with his bare hands on the battlefield and other horrific tales that were fit only for the heartiest of soldiers.
The name Gaston de Russe struck fear into the hearts of all men, Lancastrian or York.
Alixandrea knew of him only by reputation.
As she’d heard tales of The White Lord all her life, so had she heard tales of his dark counterpart.
Matthew had mentioned Gaston’s name as they had quit the keep and entered the bailey, but she truly had no idea what to expect.
When the mighty gates of Wellesbourne swung wide to receive her guests, the first thing that caught Alixandrea’s attention was a knight astride a coal black charger.
But it wasn’t just any knight; as large as Matthew was, and he was enormously large, the knight astride the black beast was even larger.
He wore well-made, horrendously heavy plate armor and a helm that sported massive spikes jutting from the sides of it to not only intimidate the enemy, but to prevent them from grasping him about the head.
He had hands that were easily twice the size as a normal man’s, wrestling the fire-breathing charger with one hand while directing his men into the keep with the other.
She watched him with something of morbid fascination, this extraordinarily massive man who spoke no words yet ordered his troops about more efficiently than most. All he did was point and his men leapt to do his bidding.
There were two more knights accompanying him, one man astride a large gray charger and the other aboard a roan.
They were knights of the highest caliber, their weapons expensive and their armor well used.
The knight on the roan headed straight for Matthew, flipping his visor up as he approached.
Alixandrea could see that the very handsome young man was smiling at her husband.
“Wellesbourne,” the knight boomed. “Tis good to see your ugly face again.”
Matthew grinned. “Your cousin should have drowned you at birth,” he growled. “Who let you out of your cage?”
The young knight snorted. “We received your urgent missive. Gaston thought it was important enough to ride at full speed from Kidlington.”
“That is a forty mile trek since last night. Your men must be exhausted.”
Sir Patrick de Russe, the young and dashing cousin of Gaston, passed a glance over the troop of men that was pouring into the bailey. “You forget that these are de Russe men,” he said. “They have been driven harder than most. Forty miles over several hours is not unusual for them.”
The knight on the gray charger rode up, dismounting.
He was tall and slender, with an indefinable elegance in the way he moved.
He unsheathed a gauntlet, used the free hand to unlatch his visor, and then pulled the helm off.
His blond hair was flowing to his shoulders, his hawk-like face bordering on unhandsome, though not unkind.
He looked right at Alixandrea; she swore the man’s eyes were so blue that they were white.
But his gaze just as swiftly moved to Matthew.
“My lord Wellesbourne,” he greeted; his accent was heavy and Nordic. “We came as fast as we could.”
Matthew put out a hand and clapped him on the shoulder. “’Tis good to see you, Arik.” He indicated Alixandrea, standing next to him. “Meet my betrothed, the Lady Alixandrea Terrington St. Ave. My lady, this is Sir Arik Magnesson, de Russe’s right hand.”
Arik’s gaze was an appraising one. The man missed nothing. He bowed elegantly. “My lady. Sir Matthew is indeed fortunate.”
She smiled, somewhat timidly. “A pleasure, my lord.”
Patrick was still nearby on his roan. Hearing the introductions, he dismounted swiftly and approached Alixandrea.