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Chapter Fourteen

“ M y lord, I am ready to leave whenever you are.”

After the dreadful confrontation with Christopher the previous evening, there was only one thing on Sian’s mind.

Leaving Sheridan Manor as soon as possible.

She could not risk another visit from him.

That first one had inflicted a terrible wound on her already damaged soul; a second one might well kill her.

“Of course.”

Her husband didn’t comment on her change of heart and immediately started to make the necessary arrangements. The farewell with her family the following morning was deeply emotional, just as she had dreaded. Promises of frequent visits were made, kisses exchanged, tears shed.

Unable to bear it another moment, Sian climbed on Angel—Matthew and Branwen’s wedding present to her—and trotted away without looking back. A chapter of her life had ended. She was a married woman now, and she would have to act as such.

A week later, the retinue arrived at Clearfield Hall, which was to be her new home.

Situated at the top of a hill overlooking a prosperous town, it was everything Throckmorton Castle was not, warm and welcoming, decorated with taste.

Sian tried to tell herself that her change of circumstances had been for the best and put her heart into becoming the mistress of the place.

It would not be said that Lord Cantle’s Welsh wife didn’t know how to play her role.

At night, she slept alone and sometimes even managed not to cry.

One gray November morning, she found herself breaking her fast with her husband.

It was a rare enough occurrence for her to want to make the most of it.

When she had agreed to marry him, she had not imagined he would spend most of his time away from Clearfield Hall.

Her days, busy as they were, were rather lonely, and she delighted in the prospect of a conversation with Lord Cantle, all the more so that there was something she wanted to discuss with him.

Smiling, she took her place next to him. “I hear from Master Ralph that we are to host a tourney at the end of the month.”

“Yes, my dear.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it with affection.

True to his word, he had never touched her more intimately than that in the weeks since their wedding.

“I was about to tell you myself. We organize one every year, a sort of family tradition. Three days of festivities. ’Tis our way to mark the end of the year.

There will be two days of fighting in various melees, both on foot and on horseback, and then on the last day, a joust.”

A joust …

Sian had often fantasized about seeing Christopher take part in a joust. With his powerful physique, skill in the saddle, and utter fearlessness, he would be the perfect contestant.

Except that, in his current circumstances, he would never compete in a tourney of any kind, of course.

Lord Ashton would have been eligible but not …

whoever he was in reality. Who was that?

With decision, she pushed the question away. Damnation, she was constantly having to remind herself that she had decided not to think about him ever again. And it did not matter who he was since he didn’t want her.

“Would you like to see the list of knights taking part?” Lord Cantle asked once the trout pasties in front of them had been reduced to crumbs.

The food served here was exceptionally good, and Sian often wished she had the appetite to do it justice.

But her despondency made her ignore many of the delicacies.

“Yes, please.” Anything to prolong the moment with her husband, who provided a welcome distraction from her maudlin thoughts.

“Here.” He led her to a trestle table to the side where a roll of parchment was being held flat by four earthenware jugs placed at the corners. “As you can see, we have over one hundred contestants this year. I am pleased to say we are gaining a reputation.”

She nodded, not as excited by the prospect as her husband. Those tourneys, particularly the melees, were violent affairs, and she could not say she was looking forward to it. Then one name at the bottom of the roll drew her attention. Sir Alexander Rathbone. Where had she heard it before?

“Is anything the matter?” Lord Cantle asked when she frowned.

“No.” She pointed to the last line on the parchment. “That name sounds familiar, though.”

“I suspect it will, as the man lives not so far from Sheridan Manor, at Audley Castle.” Audley? Sian shook her head. The name did not ring any bells. “Just east of Throckmorton Castle.”

Of course! Now she remembered. Sir Alexander Rathbone was one of Christopher’s friends, the friend he’d been on his way to visit the day he’d rescued the girls from the river. Her heartbeat instantly picked up.

Was this a simple coincidence? It could be.

After all, she could see that knights from all over the county and even further afield had been invited.

Sir Alexander might just be one of them.

Or had it something to do with Christopher, as she could not help but think?

Had he convinced his friend to take part in the tourney so that he could see her?

Would he be accompanying him? But to what end?

She dreaded to think.

For the next two weeks, Sian barely slept, unsure what to do, unsure what to hope for, unsure how to prepare herself.

Finally, the day of the tourney arrived.

It was only then that she realized she had no idea what Sir Alexander Rathbone looked like, so she had no idea who to look for.

She forced herself not to ask anyone to point her in his direction.

If Christopher really had come with his friend, let him take the first step; she would not humiliate herself by going to a man who only meant to hurt her.

For two excruciatingly long days, Sian had to watch men in armor hack at one another with swords, spiky maces, and sharp axes.

It was not a spectacle for the fainthearted, and, more than once, she wished she could have excused herself, but she was convinced Christopher was here somewhere and she could not resist the opportunity to see whether her instinct had served her well.

In vain. She never saw anyone that could match his height and bulk or rival his good looks amongst the squires and attendants at work around the castle grounds.

She did, however, see her share of blood, sweat, and unconscious men.

Thank the Lord she knew Christopher was not allowed to take part in the melee for she would have gone mad with worry.

The leaden skies above and occasional downpours of icy drizzle only made the whole thing grimmer.

On the third day, as if in honor of the event everyone was waiting for—the joust—the sun finally broke out.

As the knights started to enter the field, Sian looked on with avid fascination. This, at least, she might be able to enjoy.

The first contestant to come greet her and Lord Cantle wore a flat-topped great helm, and she found herself wondering what type of helmet Christopher would have favored had he been allowed to take part in the tournament.

The second knight seemed impossibly broad, even broader than Christopher, and even more muscular.

The third one’s horse was covered with a blue caparison, the color reminiscent of Christopher’s left eye.

The next one seemed young and barely able to control his mount, unlike Christopher, who had always had complete mastery over Warrior.

The one after that carried his lance with as much aplomb as she had imagined Christopher would.

By the time the sixth contestant appeared, she had lost all hope of stopping herself from comparing the knights to the man occupying her thoughts despite her resolve to forget about him. They were smaller, less imposing. They lacked his presence and skill. They could not?—

Sian froze.

Tall, broad, and lean, with a rounded top helm and his lance held proudly aloft, astride a copper-colored charger caparisoned in gold, the last contestant thundered onto the field, causing the mud to fly from under his horse’s hooves.

No .

Her heart started to drum impossibly loud in her ears. Surely, he could not be who she thought he was? Lord Ashton no longer, he had no right to be here. Was she dreaming?

“Who is this?” she asked her husband, who was standing next to her.

“Sir Alexander Rathbone, the last of the knights competing today,” he answered, consulting the list in front of him.

“He’s eager! This promises good sport. My cousin Lord Spelling is convinced he will be the victor.

Maybe he will be, but it seems to me he will have to fight harder than he anticipated to claim his victory. ”

The dashing knight stopped in front of them, as the others had done, to offer his salute.

All the bones left Sian’s body when their gazes met even if, through the narrow slit of his helm, she could barely see his eyes.

There was no need. She already knew one would be brown and the other as blue as the winter sky stretching above them.

This was not Sir Alexander Rathbone at all.

It was Christopher. And it was not just any copper-colored horse.

It was Warrior. Somehow, the wretched man had convinced his friend to let him compete in his stead.

And why not? No one knew Sir Alexander round these parts.

With his face hidden from view, who would know the difference?

She would.

He remained in front of them, holding his stomping horse in an iron grip, daring her to expose him, or so it seemed to her.

She could do it easily. One word from her, and everyone would know he was not who he was supposed to be and had no right to be here.

Once again, he had usurped someone else’s identity.

Was his friend, Sir Alexander, aware of the deception, or was he even now at Audley, oblivious to the fact that he was supposed to compete in a joust?

She had no idea.

“Is anything wrong, my dear?” Lord Cantle leaned toward her solicitously.

Could she reveal the treachery? It was now or never. Once the joust started, it would be too late. Did she want to expose Christopher? Was she brave enough? Would it serve any purpose?

“No.” She forced a smile. “Everything is fine. Let the joust begin.”

The first opponent, a youth who seemed barely able to seat his horse, was easily disposed of, but the victory afforded Christopher little satisfaction.

He could have beaten him with one arm tied behind his back.

The next rider, though older and sturdy enough, was sent sprawling to the ground on the second run.

The third one’s skill in the saddle made no difference; he soon joined the other defeated knights in the camp erected on the other side of the walls.

Christopher’s heartbeat had barely picked up. He was amazed he could focus after seeing Sian next to her husband on the stand built especially for them.

Every inch the lady of the castle in a heavy, embroidered gown that made her look at least a decade older, with her mane of hair hidden under a demure veil, she had looked barely like herself, pale and quiet.

Had she recognized him—or Warrior—when they had gone to offer their salute before the first contest?

Though she had no reason to think he would compete today since he was no longer Lord Ashton, it had seemed that her behavior had changed when she’d seen him.

If she had recognized him, she had not revealed his true identity, which was all that mattered.

And now, he had another contestant to beat. A tall, dark knight had appeared at the other end of the field, his black stallion champing at the bit. At least, this one might pose a bit of a challenge …

A moment later, the seemingly unconscious contender was dragged away by his men.

Christopher rode away to the tent where refreshments were being served.

Just like he had the two previous days, he refrained from removing his helm to drink the ale and eat the pie until he was back in his sleeping quarters, away from everyone else.

It would not do for anyone to see that Sir Alexander was not who he was supposed to be.

Not that he expected many people to know his friend, but with his distinctive eyes, he could all too easily be identified as Christopher Harrison.

It was not worth taking the risk, so he had drunk and eaten only in private since he’d arrived.

The afternoon was spent in much the same way as the morning had been, a succession of contests easily won. No one seemed able to touch him. At any other time, he would have rejoiced at his good fortune. In that moment, he felt nothing but cold and hollow.

Why had he come? He was not sure. But there had not been any other choice. As soon as he’d heard a tourney was being organized at Clearfield Hall, Sian’s—Lady Cantle’s—new residence, he had known he would compete.

At last, dusk started to descend. Only he and one other contestant remained.

Lord Spelling, who was none other than Lord Cantle’s cousin.

Unfortunate, that. Christopher would have liked to humiliate the man just because of his connection to Sian’s husband, but he would have to let him win.

He shrugged. Let Lord Cantle have that small satisfaction as well. He had taken everything else anyway.

Lance at the ready, Christopher took a deep breath and kicked Warrior into a gallop.