admiration for this moment of beauty—then she turned back to Gavin.
He was there, arms crossed over his broad chest, leaning against the shadowy gray stone wall that stretched above him. He watched her, and her stomach lurched like a rusty drawbridge.
“What is it you wish to ask of me?” his voice carried easily to her, even over the sounds of busyness that surrounded them: the ever-present pages and squires, serfs and men-at-arms, going about their duties in the bailey.
“I… ” She stepped toward him, then stopped. Something hung there, palpable, yet enough to make her stomach squeeze again. “Lord Gavin, you said that the king has asked you to find me a husband.”
“Aye. Please do you not ask of me to disobey the command of the king. You must know that is the one thing I cannot—or will not—do for you.”
Her lips tightened. He did not know her at all. She’d thought that perhaps… ah, she was foolish to think thus. “I would not ask that of you, Gavin.” Her throat dried as she realized she’d used his given name.
“Then what is it?” His voice became rougher.
“’Tis only that I ask that you…have no hurry to find a husband for me…and that you have a thought to select a man…who… ”
She did not know how to form the words. His stare was so heavy upon her, so steady, that all coherent thought disintegrated. She could only look at him, into those penetrating gray eyes, clear and open there in the starlight. The world receded and there was nothing but a wide space between them—a space of dirt, and a more cavernous space of violence and bloodshed versus peace and hope.
“Who will…?” He sounded annoyed, and he looked away, breaking the fragile connection. “Who will let you go back to the abbey? Who will not wish to beget an heir upon you? Who will what?”
Madelyne stepped back, straightening her posture. “Who will have some care for me. Who will not hurt me. Who will not order my every action, my every breath.” She pivoted from him, stalking away, her hands trembling and her eyes filling with wetness. She hated that her voice had broken at the end.
“Madelyne.”
She kept walking, ignoring her long skirts tangling about her feet, blinking rapidly, until the shout above stopped her.
“Who goes there?”
“’Tis Gavin Mal Verne.” His voice boomed behind her, up at the guard who looked down from the corner of the wall that surrounded the bailey. He was close to her now, and she stopped, turned to him, her face shadowed by the tall wall. She clutched her light wool skirts, crumpling the fabric up into her palms to keep her hands still.
“You may pass.” The permission wafted down from above, but neither Madelyne nor Gavin cared.
“Madelyne—”
“Please.” She held up her hand to him.
“Nay, I will speak.” Anger wavered in his voice. “Do you think that I would give you to the first man who asked? To a man who would hurt you? Foolish woman. Have I not done you enough damage already? At the least I owe you a husband who will be a better man than your father was.”
He passed a hand over his forehead, as though to wipe away the ire. “Madelyne, the reason you must wed is so that you can be safe from your father. He wants to take you back, and he’ll keep trying—he tried in the wood, during your travel here, and he tried under the king’s very nose! The king and I know that he is mad, that some religious fervor burns within him and he seeks to harm others—mayhap yourself. If naught else, he will be incensed that you were taken from him some years ago, and be most unwelcoming to you.
“I will find you a husband only because the king has ordered it. One who will protect you…who
He stepped toward her, close enough that she could see the rise and fall of his chest and the movement in his cheek as he paused in his speech. When he spoke again, the words softened against her. “I do not believe it will be such a challenge to find one who will care for you—but more of a challenge to find the man worthy of keeping your father at bay. You are a lovely woman, Madelyne, and you will make a fine wife.”
She looked up at him and her heart nearly stopped when one of his large rough hands came to cup her chin, to slide slowly over the side of her face and throat. The memory of the kiss they’d shared blazed into her and she stepped toward him, into his hand, and felt the firmness of his fingers as they closed gently around her jaw. They touched her hair, at the back of her neck, and an amazing shiver coiled around her ear and down the side of her neck.
“Madelyne, you tempt me so… ” he said in a taut voice, closing his eyes. She did not move, just felt the trembling of his hand on her jaw, cupping around the nape of her neck as the rest of the world moved beyond them.
Gavin opened his eyes, and when he did, she saw a steely resolve glinting there in the moonlight. He dropped his hand from her face and stepped back. “I apologize if I have made you uneasy, my lady. I cannot seem to keep myself…in check…when I am with you.” He gave a little, impersonal bow that made her want to stamp her foot in frustration.
What was wrong with him—with her—with this whole situation?
Madelyne drew her brows together and clutched her skirts with both hands. “Gavin, you’ve done naught for which you need apologize—at least, tonight, here, now. I may be a naive, shy woman who is not learned in the ways of the court, but the barest touch of a man is not about to cause me to turn tail and hie back to the castle screaming rape. I know to expect much more than that on the night in which I find myself wedded and bedded.
“You may escort me to my chambers now, my lord.” She pushed past him, purposely brushing against his rigid arm because her patience had been lost and she didn’t understand why she felt so frustrated and disappointed.
Eighteen
The morning air hung damp with dew and alight with the risen sun. Gavin breathed deeply as Rule trotted across the drawbridge toward the forest. Once past the guards at the entryway, he gave the horse his head and the stallion leapt into fluid motion.
Hooves pounded and the fresh air blasted into his face as Gavin urged his mount on. Over a creek and around the bend of a pathway they flew, startling pheasants and gray hares from their hideaways. His bow and quiver hung over his shoulder, but he was not yet ready to put them to use. For now, he needed to ride…to put distance between himself and Whitehall and all that it held.
He rode at breakneck speed, but it was not enough to put the images from his mind. He’d nearly kissed her last night. He’d wanted to touch her and he had…but it had taken every bit of restraint to keep himself from pulling her to him and into his arms.
How could he dream of touching her when he knew she preferred a life with the Lord…and certainly would not relish a life with the man who’d taken that right from her. Madelyne deserved better than a man who lived only to kill, who dreamed only of violence upon another…who could not fathom a life without the need for vengeance.
He would never marry again. He’d remain alone, wreak his punishment upon Fantin, and then retire to Mal Verne to live until the king would call him to arms again. And thus and so it would be until he was too reckless and was himself killed.
And Madelyne…
Gavin pulled back on the reins. Rule trotted to a halt and they stood, silent and still in the wood that was devoid of birds singing and the crackle of animal movement. Silent and still, it surrounded him and closed his thoughts in upon him as he slipped his fingers into the pouch that carried the rose prayer beads.
Madelyne would find herself wed anon—as soon as he could find a suitable husband for her and the king gave his blessing. She would wed and bed him, as she so bluntly reminded him last night. Gavin’s heart iced over as the images formed in his mind: of the apprehension that would be on her face, of large hands on her pale body,
