LADY EVER AFTER: A Medieval Time Travel Romance (Beyond Time Book 2) Page 15

  On uncertain legs, she stepped near him. She had never looked so closely at him—not even when he had kissed her. Now she moved her gaze from the bearded planes of his face to prominent cheekbones, an attractive nose, dark lashes, and a lightly-lined brow.

  He was not unbecoming. In fact, he had been kindly looked upon. Tempted to touch the black hair springing back from his brow, she curled her fingers into her palms.

  Shoulders and chest broad, hips tapering, long legs muscled, he had presence not even Montagu commanded by the sword.

  Noting his bandaged fingers, realizing they had been gained in risking his life for her, she was swept with memories of him shielding her against the battering waves, pulling her from the sea, and scaling the cliff that should have seen him dead. Through it all, he had bled. For her.

  Too weak to stand any longer, she sank to her knees. Who was this man who was as certain as she that Walther would have killed her? Whose kiss moved her as it should not? Who kept promises made?

  He opened his eyes.

  Though her mouth was as weary as the rest of her, she smiled.

  His brow furrowed, as if he did not believe what he saw, then he sat forward. “I was afraid you wouldn’t awaken.”

  She knew she should not be at his feet, especially in her state of undress, but she did not move. “I have you to thank for that. You saved my life. Again.”

  “Again?”

  She moistened her lips. “How do you know Walther would have killed me?”

  Could he trust her? Collier wondered as he drank in the sight of this woman who twice should have died. Lips softly parted, eyes luminous, damp hair a lovely auburn mess around her shoulders, she was a siren. And like sailors lured onto rocks by those mythical creatures, he might find himself broken if he too soon trusted her.

  “Walther is the kind of man who wields his sword for the blood of it, not the right. But tell me, Catherine. How did you know Walther would have killed you?”

  She averted her gaze. “I did not.”

  She might be grateful to him for saving her life, but she trusted him no more than he trusted her. Hardly the stuff of a good relationship, but now was not the time to question her about her dreams.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Sore and tired. You?”

  “Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t set right.” He prayed it was true, that just as his injured arm had not carved a craving through him, neither would the injuries sustained this day.

  “What did you tell the castle folk?” she asked.

  “As I saw no reason to tell them anything, they have concluded you attempted an escape and would have succeeded if not for the storm.”

  She slowly nodded, then lifted one of his bandaged hands. Though the movement caused the covers to slip and reveal a creamy shoulder, she seemed not to notice. “You have given much blood for me. Why do you care so?”

  “I just do.”

  She drew her lower lip between her teeth. “Who is Aryn?”

  An image of Aryn Viscott as she had appeared the last time he had seen her flashed through his mind. Angry. Hurt. Defeated. “Someone I loved.”

  “Loved?”

  His fingers began to throb, his joints to ache. Yes, loved—when he had been untouchable Collier Morrow, who had not believed he could lose Aryn. How wrong he had been. But he must get past the loss, especially now he had broken through some of Catherine’s defenses and it was possible…

  Was it possible he had a future with her as Tilly believed? It seemed so, but what kind of future? He was attracted to her, but as proven when he had kissed her and called her another woman’s name, he doubted he would ever touch her without his mind and body being unfaithful. And he would never love her as he had loved Aryn. Thus, would it not be better to…

  He didn’t look around, but he felt the portrait’s presence.

  “Will you not answer me, Collier?”

  He stood. “It’s late. We’ll talk more later.”

  She rose so quickly, the covering slipped off her other shoulder, and as she clapped it to her chest, she stumbled against him.

  He steadied her, and feeling the press of her body, wished he had let her tumble into the chair. But when she lifted her face and the still between them told each held their breath, he couldn’t let her go.

  “Stay, Collier,” she whispered.

  Gathering her close, he put his mouth to the soft place between her neck and shoulder.

  She shuddered as he kissed his way upward, and when he reached her lips, she said, “Is it me in your arms?”

  Her or…?

  He drew back and was even more grateful her question had stopped him. Though there were spots of color in her cheeks, she still suffered the effects of hypothermia. Were he not supporting her, she would lie at his feet.

  Silently cursing himself, he swung her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. As he arranged the covers over her, she said softly, “You loved her, but no more?”

  Deciding a lie would do more harm than the truth, he said, “I will always love her.”

  Hurt flickered in her eyes.

  Did it really matter that he cared for another? If so, he had broken through more than some of her defenses.

  “This one you love waits for you?”

  He straightened. “Get some more sleep, Catherine.”

  “Why do you call me by her name?”

  That he didn’t want to answer either, but he said, “You bear a marked resemblance to her.”

  She looked to the fire. “You must love her very much.”

  If only he had realized it sooner. He poured a cup of heavily watered wine from the pitcher on the bedside table and handed it to her. “You need to replenish your fluids.”

  As she raised the cup toward her lips, he said, “I will send Tilly,” and started to turn away.

  “Collier, I had naught to do with Walther’s attempt to murder you. Pray, believe me.”

  Though he had doubted her before, he no longer did. “I do,” he said and withdrew.

  Catherine sank deeper into the pillows. Why was it so important he knew she had not participated in Walther’s scheme?

  Because, her heart answered, you feel for him something never before felt.

  It went beyond gratitude and kisses burnt into her memory. Just the thought of him loving this Aryn hurt, and more so when she remembered the look in his eyes when he had spoken of that love.

  Would he love again? And as deeply? Or did this Aryn possess all of his heart?

  “My lady?”

  She looked around. “I was surprised to find you absent when I awakened, Tilly,” she said as her maid came alongside the bed.

  The woman pressed a hand to Catherine’s brow. “Sir Collier assured me you were safe with him.”

  “You trusted him?”

  Tilly lowered her hand to her side. “Twice he saved your life. You know that, aye?”

  “I do.”

  Tilly frowned. “Was it the coin that made you risk the sea?”

  Catherine felt as if struck. Collier had assured her he had told the castle folk naught of her purpose in leaving the castle. “What know you of that?”

  “Only a guess. Though the others believe you but tried to escape Sir Collier, I know you would not do that lest it endanger your family.”

  Still, how did she know Catherine possessed Strivling’s wealth? Sir Severn was the only other who knew—though not where Catherine had hid it—and he was dead. “Tell me how you know of the coin.”

  Tilly smoothed back the dark lock of hair. “I know naught of it, my lady. As told, ’twas only a guess.”

  It was more than that, but from the set of her face, there was nothing that would move her to reveal what she did not wish to. Thankfully, she was trustworthy.

  “Sir Collier cares for you, my lady.”

  And was no ravisher as Catherine had first believed. “I should hate him.”

  “’Tis good you do not.”

&n
bsp; She sighed. “What would Hildegard say?”

  “What she should not. Thus, ’tis time you stopped living as if she were here. If you are to find happiness, you must cease trying to please her.”

  Had the maid said the same to her on the day past, Catherine would have been resentful, but now she listened. “Hildegard is all I have known.”

  “Not so, my lady. You knew the mother who labored hard to deliver you into this world.”

  She who was little more than a memory—a face Catherine had not seen since the age of seven. “I barely remember her.”

  “Still, she is with you. When Lord Morrow awards Irondale Castle to Sir Collier—”

  “You think he will?” Catherine exclaimed.

  “Gilchrist is favored, my lady. Did not Morrow entrust Strivling to him? And has not he proved his worth in setting it aright?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Soon you shall go home, my lady. And when you do, your mother will welcome you back.”

  Home. Though Strivling was no longer that, it did not mean Irondale was home.

  “Methinks you will find happiness there,” Tilly said, “and Sir Collier will make you a fine husband.”

  He would be dutiful, but when he took her in his arms, would he imagine it was Aryn he kissed? Aryn he lay with?

  “Is it love you feel for him, my lady?”

  She nearly choked. “He is a Yorkist and I—”

  “Nay, my lady. If you speak with your own voice and feel with your own heart, you will discover you are not defined by who sits on the throne.”

  Whence came such bold words? Catherine wondered.

  “Sweet dreams, my lady.” Tilly crossed to the chair in which Collier had slept, settled in, and closed her eyes.

  Though Catherine’s thoughts were so awhirl she did not expect she would find her own rest, her lids soon grew heavy. Closing them, she prayed for the sweet dreams Tilly wished upon her that were only slightly more attainable than the happiness the maid believed was in her lady’s future.

  Light reflected off the cavern walls and ceiling, revealing how far the water had risen—well above the ledge.

  Collier lowered the lantern. Had he not brought Catherine out of this place, they would have drowned. And had his prayers not been answered when he could stretch no farther, he would have lost her to the sea.

  Recalling the moment his fingers had clenched around hers, he closed his eyes. He had failed Aryn, but not Catherine. There must be some redemption in that, perhaps enough that he could move forward and might, in some small measure, grow to feel for Catherine aside from the vision of Aryn she presented.

  But first he would have to tell her his truth, and she would have to tell him hers. With no more secrets between them, he would have a reason to remain in her world. Recalling when he had carried her down to the meal this morning and seen wariness—but not hate—in her eyes, it seemed to him a good beginning.

  He lowered to his haunches before the chest and sacks he had half expected to be washed away and set the lamp beside him. Lacking a key, he tipped the chest to allow the water to leak out through the lid’s seam—one so tight it took several minutes before the load was sufficiently lightened.

  A half hour and two trips later, he left the chest and sacks behind the grain in the storeroom and went to the hall.

  Catherine sat before the hearth staring into the fire, the needlework Tilly had brought her untouched in her lap.

  He knew what occupied her thoughts. Following breakfast, word had come that Alnwick Castle, followed by Dunstanburgh and Norham, had surrendered to King Edward’s army. Since, she had hardly spoken.

  “Was it still there?” she asked at his approach.

  Then she had guessed where he had gone. “Aye, all of it,” he said and was momentarily surprised to hear himself slip into medieval speak. But then, being immersed in this time, his vocabulary was bound to alter.

  “You will give it to Morrow?”

  He couldn’t, but should he tell her? “When he returns.”

  She picked up her needlework. “It will not be long, will it?”

  Though word of the defeat of the Lancasters’ last power base in the north—Bamburgh—had yet to reach Strivling, Collier knew it had also fallen. By cannon. “It won’t be long.”

  She looked up. “Then we shall be married?”

  “I would think so.”

  “And afterward?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tilly believes Morrow will award you charge of Irondale.”

  She named the estate held by her family which, in that other past, had been given to Walther. It was a possibility, but what effect might it have on time? Perhaps little, considering Walther had fallen into obscurity—a significant figure only because he had killed Catherine.

  “I suppose he might confer Irondale on me. Would you like to go home?”

  She shrugged. “Though my family is there, I hardly know them.”

  Moved by the vulnerability in her eyes that made a lie of her indifference, he touched her cheek. “I will be with you.”

  A sad laugh parted her lips. “And yet I hardly know you.”

  “You will,” he said. And it was true, providing she wished to know him. Now to address the reason he sought her out. Bending near, he said low, “Where was your hiding place?”

  Her eyes widened. “What does it matter now you have Strivling’s wealth?”

  “Humor me, hmm?”

  “Do what?”

  “Where was it hidden?”

  She pursed her lips as if weighing the advantage of keeping that place secret against what might be lost in the telling. Finally, she said, “The lower storeroom. In the far right-hand corner there are stones in the floor that lift out. But why do you need to know? There is naught there anymore.”

  But would soon be again. “Curiosity,” he said and strode from the hall.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “That which hath been is now. That which is to be hath already been. And God requireth that which is past.”

  Of all Scripture, the priest had chosen the same verses Collier had recalled the night he found Catherine—not Aryn—in a kiss. The night he had moved from being certain this was a dream to accepting it as reality.

  “May God forgive us our trespasses and sins,” the priest continued, “and gather to Him those who gave their lives for what they believed a just cause.”

  Hearing Catherine draw a sharp breath, Collier looked to where the press of dozens of soldiers and castle folk caused her shoulder to ride against his arm. Seeing her head was bowed and feeling sorrow run down her like tears on a child’s face, he had the urge to take her in his arms. But had he acted on it, he would have held only air.

  Turning aside, she pushed her way through the gathering toward the doors at the back of the small chapel.

  He nearly followed, but reason prevailed. Though she had arranged for the mass to speak the names of Strivling’s fallen and pray for mercy on their souls, it could not be easy to stand through it. And was surely all the more painful since occupation by the enemy necessitated Montagu’s fallen also be prayed into heaven.

  When the mass ended, Collier was grateful his size—and station—accorded him the respect required to open a path to the door.

  He didn’t expect to find Catherine in the bailey, certain she had retreated to her chamber, but as he strode toward the keep, someone on the wall motioned to him.

  Having caught Collier’s eye, Peter Duby jutted his chin at a section of the inner wall to the right of the chapel.

  Catherine stood amid the shadows, skirts flicked by a wind so lazy it was little more than a breeze within the walls.

  Ignoring the curious looks of those departing the chapel, Collier approached her directly so he wouldn’t startle her and felt her gaze before he saw her eyes. Leaning against the wall, face tipped up as though she had been in conversation with God, she looked down her nose at him, the only movement about her a blink when he hal
ted a reach away.

  Though the shuffle of feet and talk of the churchgoers ensured none would hear what was spoken between them, Collier said low, “Are you well?”

  Her shoulders moved slightly. “I am alive.”

  And deeply felt the loss of those who were not.

  “Catherine—”

  “And yet…” She pressed a hand to her breast. “…I can hardly breathe.”

  He stepped closer and cupped her cheek, and when she did not shrink from him, said, “Tell me what you need.”

  Though the shadows concealed the violet of her eyes, they betrayed her tears. “I…” Her breath warmed his palm. “I would leave here.”

  He sighed. “Catherine, I cannot—”

  “That is not what I ask.”

  “Then?”

  “Respite. ’Tis weeks since I was outside Strivling’s walls.”

  “You wish to go riding.”

  “Will you take me?”

  Collier Morrow would not be Collier Morrow if he did not question the wisdom of granting her request. Not only might the legendary Catherine Algernon be setting him up for a fall, but even were she acquainted with the extent of damage outside Strivling, it would further disturb her to ride through it.

  “Please.” She moved her hand from her breast to his on her cheek. “That is what I need, and I vow I shall give you no cause to regret showing me this kindness.”

  “I would be a fool to agree without stipulating an armed escort.”

  “Then do not be a fool. Bring however many you require to ensure you do not risk Edmund Morrow’s wrath.”

  That did not worry him as much as losing her—the possibility the third time would be the charm for the Lancastrians—but he said, “I’ll take you.”

  Her mouth quivered upward, but as if a smile was too much effort, lowered. “I thank you.”

  He released her. “You will want to change into appropriate clothes. Meet me at the stables in a quarter hour?”

  “A quarter hour,” she said and straightened from the wall.

  As he turned to watch her progress across the bailey, his gaze was drawn to the sky. “Let me not regret this,” he murmured.