Chapter 7 #3
Radulf turned and looked at him. Whatever the abbot saw in his face startled him so that he jerked back, his lips working.
“My lord . . .” he muttered. “My lord, I meant no offense.”
Radulf had already turned away, and a heavy silence ensued while the abbot struggled to regain his composure.
Radulf’s anger dissipated slowly, and with it went the red mist from his eyes.
He reminded himself that the old abbot could not know of the rift between him and his father.
He should apologize, make all right, but he found the words difficult.
The wound inside him had still not healed; perhaps it never would.
But it was his wound and he did not share his pain with many.
Over the years, the hurt had become an old, familiar companion.
No, it was Lily’s quiet argument that had really infuriated him.
All but accusing him of lacking fairness in his decisions, instructing him on how to deal with the rebels!
No woman had ever dared meddle like that before, and he would not allow it now.
He might desire Lily with a raging, insatiable hunger, but she was a woman.
He could not start trusting her now, especially not after what Jervois had discovered.
And what if she is right?
The voice in his head was very like Henry’s.
Teasing, questioning, the devil’s advocate. Radulf stiffened. How could she be right? he argued silently. He had known Vorgen; he did not know Wilfreda. Should he slander the man he believed loyal for a rebellious, treacherous woman?
So you are not biased in your thinking?
Of course not!
Then . . . why did Lady Wilfreda resemble Anna in his thoughts? Had he allowed his hatred for the one to cloud his judgment of the other?
He tried to remember Vorgen more clearly, pushing past the knightly bravado and comrade-ship they had shared at Hastings.
A memory came to him, sharp and somewhat unpleasant.
Vorgen had won a sword. It was a handsome thing, the handle decorated with emeralds and rubies and gold filigree, the blade as sharp as a scold’s tongue.
Vorgen claimed he had won it fair, but Roger, the man who had lost the sword, claimed foul play.
He had complained loud and long to any who would listen.
Until he had died at Hastings—not in the main battle, but in a minor skirmish elsewhere.
Afterward, the mutterings of Roger’s friends had not gone away.
They said that Roger hadn’t died at the hands of Harold Godwineson’s troops, but by his own sword, held in Vorgen’s greedy grip.
Their accusations had continued on so long, Radulf had heard of them and investigated.
In the end, his ears ringing with Vorgen’s strenuous denials, he had dismissed the matter. And indeed, there had been no proof.
Only now he remembered the incident, and wondered.
Radulf shifted in his chair, flicking a restless glance toward the abbot. The old man was asleep again, mouth agape, wrinkled face slack.
Radulf’s lips twitched as he turned to his other side.
Lily was watching him, her gray eyes wary, as though he were a stranger again. The mighty and fearsome Radulf, who ate English children for his dinner.
Radulf’s heart contracted.
Tomorrow they would reach Rennoc, and tonight . . . well, tonight was already in hand. He could not call a halt to his plans, even had he wished to.
What would be, would be.
Whatever tonight’s outcome, this might well be the last time he sat with her, looked upon her— apart from in his dreams. He could not lie with her in his arms, here.
Lust was another sin the abbot would frown upon.
Perhaps that is to be my punishment for bringing her to the monastery and weaving my deceit. I can look, but I cannot touch.
He lifted her hand, which rested beside her goblet, and kissed her fingers, then turning it, pressed his lips into the soft hollow of her palm.
His eyes were dark and intent, his voice an intimate, husky murmur. “Tomorrow I deliver you safe to your father.”
Lily kept her eyes on his, not daring to speak.
Her throat was thick with tears.
“My lady.” He clasped her fragile hand in his large one, leaning even closer. She saw her reflection in his dark eyes, a pale ghost compared to his earthy solidity. “My lady, I know you have secrets.”
Still she refused to speak, gray eyes wide in the flare of the candles.
“Lily, will you not trust me?”
It was foolish to ask it. He knew that as soon as the words were spoken. How could she trust him, when he had just shown himself incapable of listening to her without turning on her in fury? Yet he wanted her to trust him. His pride demanded it!
His heart yearned for it.
For a long moment dark eyes gazed into gray, and then Lily gave a breathless laugh. She reached up with her free hand, hesitated, and then stroked his temple, smoothing back a lock of short dark hair.
“My lord, I have trusted you. More than you know.”
Her lips trembled as she smiled. It required all of Radulf’s self-control not to lean forward and taste them, to lose himself in the sweetness of her mouth. A terrible ache filled his chest.
This was more than want.
Madness, whispered the bitter skeptic inside him, but Radulf didn’t care. At that moment he would gladly have drowned himself in Lily’s eyes.
The abbot cleared his throat loudly.
With a sigh, Radulf leaned back to put some space between them, although he retained her hand. Lily’s eyes sparkled with tears.
“The hospitaler has come to take you to your room, lady,” the abbot said coolly. “You must be weary after your journey and in need of sleep. I have set aside a private room in my house for your use.”
“Thank you.” Lily glanced sideways at Radulf.
“The guest quarters will be our billet,” he answered her unspoken question.
Lily bowed her head and spoke calmly, only the slightest tremor betraying the depth of her feelings.
“I am very tired. I would be glad to retire now.”
As she rose, Radulf also stood. He brought her hand to his lips with a murmured, “Sleep well, mignonne.”
Lily gasped at the feel of his warm mouth once more against her skin.
The gleam in his eyes spoke of desire and possession, and of longing.
This might be the last time she ever saw him, and the tears filling her eyes threatened to spill over her lashes and fall.
His face blurred, and she blinked to clear her vision before she replied huskily.
“And you, my lord.”
As the hospitaler led her away, she did not turn.
Trust me, Radulf had said. And the strange thing was, she had almost been prepared to do so. Until his anger, his inflexible stance on Vorgen, had made her see the danger of such an action. Like a game of chance, she would not know the outcome until it was too late.
And Lily could not afford to dice with her freedom, or mayhap her life.