Page 23 of Perilous (Age of Honor #6)

H e had bandaged her legs after she slept last eve. Of that there was no doubt. What she doubted was what he did after agreeing she would heal and talk of their lines beginning with a woman.

“Mayhap you but wish his lips on your brow and at your ear,” Fira rasped where she stood before the table bracing herself above a basin delivered by the lad Amaury let in while she was still beneath the covers.

Food and drink were brought as well, but she had only nibbled and sipped to ensure it stayed down, then set herself a task that should not be difficult for having first worked a comb through her tangles.

Unfortunately, the coarse soap used to clean her skin resisted being rinsed from her hair, and now what she had unraveled was becoming a different kind of mess. But there was good in frustration, allowing her to push guilt over the novice to a corner of her mind to await a better time to poke, prick, and pierce.

Fira set down the cup used to trickle water over her hair that was caught in the basin over which she bent, then braced her other arm on the table. As she sank into strained shoulders, she heard voices. What was said between Amaury and another was too low to understand, then one set of footsteps continued toward the stairs.

Fairly certain it was Amaury still outside her door, she considered what she should not for awakening this morn with the longing to be in his arms. But she needed help and, being more modestly clothed, would seek it—surely without further shame since he knew the worst of her now.

That I can be childishly willful, she silently confessed as she levered up.

When pressed, I use the excuse of good intentions to reason my way out of keeping my word, she continued as she pushed up off her palms.

I resist those who seek to keep me safe, thereby endangering them, she allowed as she moved dripping hair off her brow.

When all turns against me, I question my faith, ignoring unanswered prayers may be God’s way of moving me in a better direction I do not wish to see—or teaching me a lesson I do not wish to learn, she admitted as she settled the wet mass over her shoulders, dampening the tunic.

Alongside The Gloaming that I cannot pray away nor overcome with great discipline, my failings are woeful, she acknowledged as she turned toward the door.

Then with a shaky sigh, she acceded, As Amaury knows this of me, he shall distance himself soon. After all, were it a kiss, then the pitying kind. For having cause to view me as less than a woman—and not for the difference in our ages—I am safe with him though I wish…

“Naught,” she whispered, then crossed the room and, subjecting her throat to ache, called, “Amaury?”

The door opened just enough to see each other’s face. As she noted the silver in his whiskers was more visible—likely the hair beneath his cap as well—he said with formality, “Lady Fira,” then frowned over her hair.

“’Tis beyond me to rinse out all the soap,” she said. “Could you assist?”

Hesitantly, he inclined his head, and when she backed away, entered. As he closed the door, his eyes swept the room, and when they passed the bed and swiftly returned, she knew his pack had caught his attention.

“I thought it no great trespass to search for a comb, Chevalier. Forgive me if I erred.”

“You did not,” he said, though she sensed unease, whether there were things he did not wish her to see or disliked his privacy being trampled.

“I assure you, it was found without rummaging and was needed to untangle my hair.” She winced. “Of course, little evidence of that now.”

He gestured at the table, and when she reached it, said, “You are moving better.”

She looked up. Wishing she had not for the appeal of his lightly scarred face and the longing to trace the silver beneath his lower lip, she turned into the table so swiftly he had to steady her.

“Whatever was done you, you are safe now, Fira.”

Realizing he thought in addition to attempts to dispossess her of a demon she might have suffered what had to be the worst thing to befall a woman, she looked around. “That was not done me. He—they—truly believed I was possessed. Thus, I suppose there is consolation in knowing it could have been much worse.”

He searched her eyes as if to verify the truth of that, then relief in his own, said, “It seems further I must thank the Lord for answering my beseechings. Now lean over the basin. ”

Heart stuttering, bandaged hands prickling over the longing to trace more than the silver of him—lips, nose, and sun-baked lines at the outer corners of his eyes—Fira said, “I thank you for your beseechings.” Then she set her forearms on the table and her head over the bowl.

I should not have asked for his aid, she thought as he drew so near she felt the heat of his body. Now his hip was against her side, hand curving about her jaw as he poured with the other, fingers working water down to her scalp. Aye, far better had I removed as much soap as possible and let it be.

But The Gloaming… posited the voice within. Surely you ought to feel once what you will not again.

She hesitated, then telling herself she could enjoy his ministrations as one should fleeting beauty and he need never know, she yielded. Still, it was hard not to sigh and shudder over hands working water through her hair. And more so when he offered throaty apologies for his fingers becoming entangled and straining the roots.

Too soon for her—likely not soon enough for him—he gathered her hair and settled it down her back. “As the clean water is exhausted, it is done as near as possible. Would you have me…towel it?”

Though the voice reminded her again of what The Gloaming would deny her, she straightened. “I can do it.” Or so she believed until her hand quaked in reaching for the towel. The swelling in both had lessened, but the healing flesh pained nearly as much as her beaten knuckles.

“Best I do it,” he said, urging her forward.

For grudging in his tone, she nearly refused, but knowing she might require more aid if unable to reach the bed where she could rub moisture from her hair, said, “I thank you.”

Lowering to the mattress, she put her chin down and once more savored attentions her sisters surely enjoyed in the privacy of their nuptial chambers.

Do not think there, she chided as he pressed moisture from her hair. He but performs a task. Better to expend thought on real matters like ? —

“Not Edgar,” she breathed. But he was behind her lids, and when she raised them, still she was flashed with memories of his pain, pleading, and such fear that hers seemed exaggerated.

Forgive me, she silently beseeched.

“Fira!” The breath of her name swept her brow, then Amaury shook her.

She snapped up her head. Seeing he was more blurred than in the absence of her spectacles, she realized she wept.

“Was I too rough?” he asked.

Dragging a bandaged hand across her eyes, she shook her head. “Much aches, but more from regret—or perhaps a cracked conscience.”

“Why?”

“For doing what I did, though I did not mean to.”

“What did you do?”

She breathed deep. “Though the novice who aided Drumfiddle in abducting me also believed me possessed, while the others tried to escape the fire, he released me and got me to the rear of the chapel.” Her throat feeling how she imagined a field put to the plow would feel were it a living thing, she cleared it gently. “He thought the back room could provide a way out, but after we cleared a path to the window…”

“It was barred,” Amaury finished for her.

“Aye.”

“That is when you went for a candle stand.”

“Nay, that is when he left—abandoning me, I thought, to find a way out without being hindered by one unable to move with speed.” She suppressed a sob.

Now Amaury was putting an arm around her as he should not, and she was turning into him as she should not.

“I am sorry,” she gasped as she tucked her head beneath his chin, “but what I did…saw…him…”

“I do not fear a woman’s tears, Fira. If it salves your heart, cry.”

Those words and the feel and scent of him were her undoing.

After the sounds of her misery faded and her breathing leveled, he said, “Would you have me tell what was learned from one who survived the fire long enough to reveal what was done you—though not all for being sent away when he protested the means of forcing your demon to speak?”

Fira tilted up her face. “You refer to Brother Eldon.”

“Oui, one of two ordered from the chapel for questioning what Drumfiddle and Angus did.”

“You know of the other?”

He inclined his head. “When we encountered him fleeing the abbey, he claimed heretics tried to convert him.”

She frowned. “He did question why the Free Spirits resorted to beatings and immersion without first entreating a saint’s intercession.”

“Rest, and I will explain that,” Amaury said.

Fira settled again, but did not close her eyes. Lest I sleep and awaken alone, she thought.

“After I brought you out of the chapel, I learned that my men, having answered a cry for help, found Brother Eldon just back from the entrance pinned beneath the collapsed portico. His body crushed, he could not be saved, but there were things he wished to impart before passing.”

She nodded for him to continue .

“He told six months ago his bishop had him infiltrate that sect so he might be the means by which they ceased spewing ungodly beliefs that were losing salvageable souls to the evil one. Though not yet positioned to act against the heretics, when the Lord compelled him to protect you and he was ejected, he believed he had no choice but to move against them. Thus, when two departed the chapel after him and he suspected their destination was the refectory to prepare for your immersion, he followed and locked them in. Then he gained a staff with which to defend you and, hopeful of aid from one quietly moving back to the Catholic faith, returned to the chapel. There he saw his convert securing the doors and heard a clamor from within.”

“I recall the din,” she said.

“When Brother Eldon demanded an explanation, the man said after he was expelled for pressing to call on a saint, he stole back inside and overturned candle stands to catch the rushes afire.”

Fira’s head came up. “’Twas no accident?”

“So said Brother Eldon, and when his convert claimed permanent dissolution of those Free Spirits was more important than a…possessed woman’s life, he tried to open the doors. Being of slighter form, he was overpowered and rendered so senseless he had no recall of the portico coming down on him.”

“Lord, his life lost for seeking to return another to the faith.” She shook her head. “And now the convert—a murderer no matter the beliefs of those he burned alive—may return to the Church and counsel men and women more godly than he.”

Amaury looked from veined eyes to her prettily freckled face. “Perhaps once he has reflected on what he did, he will see the sin of it and accept that without genuine repentance, he is unworthy of guiding others.” He frowned. For struggling with his beliefs and feelings about God and His representatives on earth, it surprised he voiced that.

I but speak what she needs to hear, he excused what had gone soft in him.

“What if he does not see it as sin?” she asked.

“For how long Brother Eldon was among those Free Spirits, the Church must know its members’ names. Thus, surely they will be cautious in allowing one to return to the fold.”

Some moments later, she said, “All the more reason the Church must be told Brother Eldon gave his life in service to his bishop, those deaths being heinous as I myself—” A sharp breath sliced off the rest of her words, then she breathed deeply as if to calm herself.

Amaury waited, and when she eased, said, “Would it unburden your conscience to speak of the novice?”

Though she tensed again, she said, “Rather than abandon me as believed, he went for something to use against the bars. Because of the smoke, I did not know it was him running toward the room with a candle stand. For fire trailing him, I thought it a Free Spirit who sought to ensure I perish as well.”

Amaury frowned. “You are saying he was afire?” At her nod, he said, “Then as his fate was sealed, you could do naught.”

She shook her head. “I secured the door moments before he began beating on it.” Her voice was so strained it bore little resemblance to hers. “So I not hear his screams when fire devouring his robe started in on his flesh, I covered my ears. Had my knees not buckled and I threw out my hands to break my fall, I would not have known it was Edgar. Recognizing his voice, I got the door open and found him on the floor where he had rolled to extinguish fire that made a torch of him. Dear Lord!” She gulped. “When I bent near, I saw what the flames had done and knew had I not locked him out, I could have aided in putting out the fire before it was too late.”

“You cannot think like that, Fira. Had you known it was him and let him in a room full of fuel, you might have shared his fate.”

Her tears shimmered. “After his final words entreating me to use the stand against the bars, I told myself the same, but mayhap I lied—could have saved him as he tried to save me.”

“Fira, his suffering and death resulted from choices he made that put you in a position to fear the one coming toward you intended further harm.”

“But—”

“Trust me in this, for I am versed in what can—and often does—befall one who knows he does wrong and yet…” He trailed off, resistant to expanding on his past and baring more of his soul to one who moved him as only his wife had done. And might move him more if he allowed her nearer a heart that needed no distractions beyond his son.

Fira blinked, brightening her tears and further tempting him to alleviate her guilt by revealing some of his. Then in a deeply scratched voice that made him long to kiss her aching throat, she raised a bandaged hand to his jaw and said, “Prove my wrongs are not as great as they feel.”

Though he captured her hand to lower it, she turned her palm into his and curled her fingers over the back of his hand. “Prove it, Amaury.”

He yielded, as much for believing what he shared would help her as for the need to distract his body from the temptation he had placed in its path. “Much I gained for wrongs done in my younger years, but greater the losses come of them. Though I did not pay with my life as Edgar did, many the terrible deaths I survived.”

“How?”

Recalling the long, cruel days followed by nights whose passing felt like minutes though he struggled to still his mind and emotions so he could sleep, he hesitated to continue. However, remembering what had helped once he accepted his prayers were to go unanswered, he said, “One of my defenses was reciting my family’s ages-old creed.”

“Tell me.”

“Never forget—ever embrace—you are a De Chanson. Strong of mind…” He trailed off when she caught her breath.

“Go on,” she beseeched with more interest than warranted. Unless…

He let his lips curve. “Strong of mind, body, and spirit. True to the blood, the bone, the marrow. Familiar, oui?”

“Indeed. The original imparted to your ancestor, Lady Mercia, who had a claim to the English throne when the Normans invaded England is recorded in our family’s chronicle. The only difference is Mercia was not to forget she was a Saxon.”

Amaury inclined his head. “Rather than the De Chanson she became when she fled with one of the conquerors, Ma?l D’Argent, who took his mother’s name to ensure her safety and the family made with her.”

“Quite a tale that.” Her own lips curved. “As I do not doubt is yours—perhaps more so.”

Certain she wished details, he returned to her question of his survival. “As told, recitation of my family’s creed was among my defenses, another being something recited more often—Be oak, be stone, be iron.”

“I know that!”

He frowned. “As it is of my own making, that is not possible.”

“You spoke it at the inn before freeing yourself from a disturbing dream of which you believed me a part.”

In Richarde’s room, the dark of Amaury’s past leaching into the present. “I nearly did you great…harm. ”

“Unintentionally,” she said and started to move her hand off his.

Lest she set it on his jaw again, he closed his fingers over hers.

“Amaury, since you know so much of me—The Falling Sickness and what I did to protect myself in the chapel—will you not tell what was done you whilst you were lost to your son?”

He shifted teeth beginning to grind. “As details will not relieve your guilt over what you had little choice in doing, best not spoken of.”

She sighed. “I suppose it should be enough to know what was done you was so heinous it was nearly unto death.”

Her acquiescence making him ease his hold on her, she was able to pull free and turn into him.

Amaury meant to stop her, but then a finger was on his lower lip, next traveling down his silvered chin.

“I never saw the appeal of this,” she murmured. “I thought it strange that the silver of a man too young to sport such drew women. But then, I had only ever seen it on kin.”

Shamefully defensive for having the power to end this and not doing so, he said, “I am your kin.”

Now she traced the silver bracketing the left side of his mouth. “Aye, but so distant we are well within acceptable degrees of consanguinity.” It sounded she considered marriage to him, but hastily she added, “I but wish another kiss.” Then she came up on her knees and pressed her lips to the silver on the opposite side of his mouth.

Distance yourself as she will wish you had if this progresses from unseemly to sinful, he told himself, but when he started to move her aside, she shifted her head and touched her soft, sweetly uncertain mouth to his.

You regretted the last time you permitted this, he tried again, but hunger for fare long denied his body had him returning her kiss and coaxing her mouth open. She yielded, though so tentatively it should have returned him to his senses. Then she turned her head aside and half whispered, “I should not have done that. Pray, cease before we must do the honorable thing as you do not wish and I ought not.”

Realizing he had moved her onto her back, he growled, “Almighty!” and pulled away. Discovering how near he had come to trespassing on her innocence, he averted his gaze from legs that would be much bared had he not bandaged them, whipped down the hem of her tunic, and sprang off the mattress. “Order yourself, Lady,” he said, keeping his back to her.

As his thoughts raced ahead to the consequences of this were he as honorable as she believed, he heard the covers rustle, then the creak of ropes woven through the bed’s frame to support the mattress.

“I am as presentable as possible, Chevalier.” It was said with formality as if that resolved what nearly happened.

“Good.” Still he faced the door. “Now have you…need of anything?”

“A confessional would not go amiss,” she said low, and when he strode to the door, called, “Chevalier?”

He did not look around “Lady Fira?”

“What happened to the brethren locked in the cellar?”

He saw again a portion of the chapel crash down on the aged timber building before he and his men could act on what the dying Brother Eldon revealed of those sent to prepare a cask for immersion. “Also victims of fire,” he said and peered over his shoulder. “The refectory abutted the chapel.”

She pressed a hand to her breast. “Oh.”

Amaury thought that the end of the discussion, but she said, “’Tis horribly ironic that just as Brother Eldon’s convert locked the multitude in the chapel so they burn, he locked in those two—albeit the result was unintentional.”

Trying not to see what his hands had done to her hair that would require more work to make it presentable, he said, “The novice’s death was also unintentional—and unavoidable. Find ease in that.”

Certes, not in this man who would be far more to blame had you given what I desire, he silently added . Of course, now the question of what I am willing to pay for my trespass.

“I shall try, Chevalier.”

He nodded and, in parting, said, “Never forget—ever embrace—you are a Wulfrith. Strong of mind, body, and spirit. True to the blood, the bone, the marrow.”

“I am,” she agreed, though with less conviction than was her due.

Brazen.

That she had been, and not only to escape memories of Edgar and guilt Amaury said was not hers. She wanted to be nearer the man who was ever coming to her aid, and not only to experience intimacies her affliction would deny her. What she felt was more than attraction, as evidenced by what roamed the vicinity of her heart, perhaps even sprang from it. If so, this Wulfrith was not merely brazen. She was in love, which was worse for being without hope of love returned.

“Heaven forfend,” she bemoaned and, stilling her hands on the braid she worked, glanced at the door on the other side of which Amaury stood to ensure no further delay in passing the problem of her to her guardian. Were that to be their last encounter, she might welcome it. However, as he was Mace’s sire, he could be in and out of her life for years. And if he wed again…

“Then he weds again,” she snarled and was ashamed she who experienced little strife before The Gloaming should be angered by hurts that did not compare to what her siblings had to overcome.

Recalling Amaury’s words, she affirmed she was strong of mind, body, and spirit. Regardless of disappointments, unanswered longings, this affliction, and that to which the Free Spirits subjected her, she would not crumple. For living a real life, she would be stronger.

“Real, not gilded,” she murmured, then told herself though it was right to hurt over being unable to save Edgar, of greater importance was praying for his soul and learning from mistakes born of pride, disobedience, and guile. That she would do.

“And you that love”—she pressed a hand to heart—“will sow feelings elsewhere that benefit others of fewer blessings.”

Though easier said than done, she sat taller for the resolve to add more Wulfrith steel to her spine, then tied off the braid whose weave was possible only after much plying of Amaury’s comb that made her healing hands hurt.

Shortly, she heard footsteps. As it was near the nooning hour and likely most of last eve’s guests had secured only a single night’s lodging, Fira attended to long-reaching strides likelier belonging to a man than a woman.

Now a break in the stride and a deep, French-accented voice was answered by Amaury’s.

One of his men, she thought as she crossed to the door to attend to their exchange, but they moved farther down the corridor. For her lack of stealth, Amaury knew of her interest.

Shortly, a door opened and closed down the corridor and one set of booted feet returned. Was Amaury still her protector, or had he chanced entrusting her to his man? Though fairly certain of the answer, she secured the door.

“Best overly cautious,” his voice came through. “Now rest. The morrow has no choice but to be longer.”

Meaning? she nearly asked, but fairly certain the rest provided her this day was to ensure she travel better on the next—wherever that might be—she turned away.

More I have made her my problem than she has made herself mine. Over and again that thought wrote itself across Amaury’s conscience. Though he tried to reason it away, he failed, and not only for it being indisputable. Because there was something about Fira that made what was long-buried in Amaury seek the surface.

He could tell himself it was only desire fed by a taste of intimacy long denied him. He could tell himself it was equal parts pity for what she called The Gloaming. But he was making excuses for poor behavior and choices, and especially unwanted feelings.

You made her your problem, his conscience pushed again, and though he accepted it, he could not accept what would be the obvious solution if not that the dark of him could further dim the light of her. Too, were he to commit to her—and the Wulfriths allowed it—resolution of the threat of Les Fléaux could be hindered, perhaps so far that all toward which he and his allies worked would be leveled.

Feeling nearly as caged as he had those seven years he thought if purgatory existed it could be no worse than the torment he suffered on earth, he paced before the lady’s door, then halted and made fists of his hands.

Much was due Fira Wulfrith, but not the sacrifice of his men and endangerment of his son—not even for she whom he dishonored in letting the animal of him take advantage of her innocence and need for solace. Thus, he would do what was necessary to protect her while preventing harm to others for whom he was also responsible.

Thoroughly destroying Gert and her underlings was his goal, and not only for eliminating the threat of retribution that could lurk for years awaiting resurrection. But if plans to move against Les Fléaux must be further delayed or altered and expectations of the outcome adjusted, so be it—within reason.

Hopefully, soon he would know how best to do right by his son, Fira, and his men without greatly affecting the plan and outcome. “Be quick, Georges,” he entreated his man who must have reached the Port of Grimsby by now. “Put heels to your horse and deliver tidings of what goes there.”