Page 9 of Rescuing the Lady of Sedgeworth (The Ladies of the Keep #3)

“G envieve?” de Chauret rasped. “Did you say our injured guest’s name is Genvieve?”

Garrick straightened, but did not back up a pace. He held his ground. “Aye.”

“What does she look like?” de Chauret demanded in low tones, the edge of his temper taking on a life of its own… a living, breathing entity.

“Dark hair, gray eyes.” Garrick said, pausing to consider. “She was bruised and battered when MacInness brought her here, but now—”

“ Mon Dieu ,” de Chauret ground out, raking a hand through his gray-streaked hair. “Eyreka!” he bellowed, striding across the hall, anger punctuating his footsteps. The sharp sound of his heavy footfall against the dry planked boards echoed in the silence.

He could feel his wife’s presence just a few paces behind him, hurrying to catch up with him; the connection was always thus for them. He gritted his teeth together as he mounted the steps, taking them two at a time. “She’s here,” he said over his shoulder.

“She who?” Eyreka asked breathlessly.

“Genvieve,” he said simply, yanking the solar door open. Relief flooded through him, threatening to rob his legs of their strength. His young cousin sat in a chair next to the arrowslit, plying her needle through a bit of linen.

Her sharp intake of breath told him she was shocked to see him. How was it that she did not know he would be here? Merewood was his, why would she be surprised to see him?

As he watched, the expression on her face changed from bored disinterest to disbelief. She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped and put a hand to her throat. The raspy sound that emerged stopped him in his tracks.

*

Genvieve’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of her handsome cousin filling the chamber doorway. His powerful build always reminded her of their grandfather. Shoulders broad enough to hold the weight of the world upon them. She blinked away the tears, now was not the time.

“We thought you lost to us,” he said, his voice suspiciously husky.

I’m found , she thought. The words ringing loud and clear in her head. She started to move her mouth to speak, the need was so strong, but would not embarrass herself further by making any more wounded animal sounds. She had overheard one of the maids use that very expression when speaking of her just last eve. The realization that words could cut one to the quick and leave one bleeding had not been lost on her.

One moment he was standing, hands fisted at his sides, the next he was pulling her into his embrace, squeezing the breath right out of her.

“But how did you find your way here?” he asked finally, letting her sit down, but still holding her hand in both of his.

She looked down at those hands. The backs were as scarred as she remembered. She ran the tip of her forefinger across the c-shaped scar on his right hand. She looked up and found him staring at her.

“I still remember how badly you wounded my young pride that day.”

She nodded. Bringing his hand closer, she pressed her lips against the scar and laid his hand against her cheek. They had been so young. Augustin twelve summers and she just six. She had not meant to swing the dagger, but her cousin had surprised her by jumping out from behind the stand of evergreens at the back of their grandparents’ garden at Rouen.

Instinct had her slashing out with the blade. Fate had it connecting with the flesh on the back of Augustin’s hand. She still remembered the blood. It had been everywhere. She could still feel the roiling in her gut and the surge of bile that sped up her throat. But Augustin had needed her; he grabbed hold of her sleeve and clamped it on top of the jagged wound.

Through her tears, she saw the color leach from his face. It was then she realized that she must not throw up. Her favorite cousin needed her. After all, it was her fault he was standing there, bleeding all over their grandmother’s cinder path. She nodded, though he had not spoken, and pulled the threads from the shoulder of her bliaut, letting the sleeve slide down her arm. Wadding it against the wound, as she had seen her own mother do when poor Marie had sliced her finger instead of the fresh-baked bread, she prayed as she put pressure on the awful gash.

“I see some things shall remain forever in our minds, cousin,” Augustin said gently.

She had suffered from pangs of guilt long after the threads that held his young flesh together were removed. It had healed quickly, but the unusual shape of the scar would remain forever.

Winslow found me , she mouthed, though he shook his head, not understanding. She tried again, pleading with her cousin to watch her lips closely, so he could try to read the movements of her mouth. I did not know where he was taking me.

He averted his eyes, as if the very thought of her not being able to speak was painful to him. She gently touched his sleeve. When his eyes met hers, she could see the answer to her next question. He would need time before he could accept her crippling problem. Did he fear the worst, too, that the affliction would be permanent?

“I thought I heard voices, comin’ from yer room, lass,” Winslow’s voice carried across the room to them, sounding low and soothing.

Genvieve’s heart seemed to skip a beat, and the room grew suddenly warm. She placed a hand to her breast, watched his eyes follow her movement.

“’Twas a surprise to me as well,” Winslow said walking toward her. The weight of his step crushed the bits of rosemary and thyme that Lady Eyreka and Lady Jillian religiously sprinkled about the rushes. Freed, the clean scent swirled upward, mixing with the mid-morning breeze wafting toward her from the arrowslit.

Augustin turned toward MacInness and cocked his head to one side. “My cousin did not speak. How is it that you can answer unuttered questions?”

MacInness stopped in his tracks and glanced first to his overlord, then Genvieve. “When the lass is surprised, she always raises a hand to her breast.”

Augustin took a step closer to the tall Scot. Genvieve could feel the waves of tension filling the air around them. She did not want Augustin to be angry with Winslow. He was her friend, her rescuer, the only one who seemed to be able to understand what she desperately needed to say.

One look at Augustin confirmed that he was rapidly losing the hold on his temper. The set of his jaw and the way his hands fisted behind his back were indications he was just short of bellowing. She loved Augustin, but really had no time for one of his outbursts now.

She leapt to her feet and stood right in front of him, placing a hand to his chest. Tilting her head back, she waited until her cousin looked down at her. His jaw was still clenched, but his eyes had lost the lethal stare he had tried to level Winslow with.

“Genvieve?” Though but one word, his meaning was not lost on her. She knew he was only trying to protect her as he had so many times in their youth. He acted more the role of older brother than cousin. It was time to remind him that she didn’t need his help where the tall Scots warrior was concerned.

Her heart clenched in her breast. Winslow had slipped into the role of protector from the start. Warmth crept up her neck; she could feel it staining her cheeks, as if she had stood too close to a brightly burning fire.

She mouthed the words, I am all right , willing Augustin to understand, but she could see his confusion. Not knowing what else to do, she turned to face Winslow. She mouthed the words, I am all right.

MacInness placed a hand to her shoulder and nodded his head. “I think the lass is trying to tell ye she’s safe with me,” he said in a gruff voice.

Genvieve waited one heartbeat, then another, before dropping her hands to her sides and taking a step back away from the seemingly calmer men. She whispered a quick prayer of thanks to her Maker and sat back down.

As she watched, Augustin clenched his jaw and inhaled a deep breath. His massive chest expanded with it. He fisted his hands, twice, then ran a hand through his hair impatiently. “Why should I believe that she feels safe with you?” he demanded, his voice raspy.

“Ask the lass herself,” MacInness said in calm even tones.

Genvieve laid a hand on MacInness’s arm and smiled up at him, before turning to her cousin and nodding.

Augustin raked his hands through his hair again then turned and headed for the door. Leaning against the door jam, he bellowed, “Georges!”

Genvieve wondered what Augustin would want with their cousin, Georges.

He is a warrior of great skill, she thought. Mayhap he means to challenge Winslow.

Her eyes darted over to where the tall redheaded warrior stood, feet apart, arms folded over his massive chest. He did not seem worried. Nay, she thought, he looked very relaxed. ’Twas his easy manner that helped her to calm down while waiting for Georges to arrive.

“Genvieve?” Georges’s shock was palpable. “You are well?” He walked over to where she sat.

She nodded.

He glanced at Augustin then back. “You were never so silent before,” he said, watching her closely. “What happened to you? We’ve been searching for you.”

Augustin answered, “MacInness found her, but not before she’d been injured.” He paused, then added, “She cannot speak.”

The shocked expression on Georges’s face was not unexpected, nor was his next question. “Will she heal?”

Winslow spoke up, “Aye, she will.”

His absolute surety of that fact brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away.

“Georges, I need you to take a company of men and ride to London,” Augustin said. “I need you to deliver a missive to my uncle, with all haste.”

With one last look at her, Georges nodded. “We should be ready to leave within the hour.”

Augustin nodded his agreement and watched the warrior stride purposefully from the room before he turned his penetrating gaze upon Genvieve’s self-proclaimed protector.

Lady Eyreka had been quiet through the entire exchange of words between the two warriors; she must have decided she had waited long enough. Genvieve watched her walk toward Winslow.

“Thank you seems so little, Winslow,” Lady Eyreka said, a small smile gracing her fine-boned features, “when compared to the result of your actions.”

She holds herself like a queen, Genvieve noted. Her bearing is so royal.

While she watched, Lady Eyreka took one of Winslow’s massive hands in her own and squeezed it. He shifted from one foot to the other, oddly disconcerted by her show of affection. As Genvieve watched the by-play, she realized the true reason for Winslow’s reaction. Lady Eyreka pulled the warrior closer, stood up on the tips of her toes and brushed a kiss on his cheek.

Genvieve’s gaze slid over to where her cousin stood, rigid as an ancient cairn of stones marking a battle site.

“Reka,” Winslow began, backing away from her embrace.

“Lady Eyreka,” Augustin bit out.

“I have given him leave to address me thusly,” she chastised him. “Winslow and I have long been acquainted, husband,” she said smiling warmly. “Lady Jillian and I owe him our lives.”

“How is it that I have heard this said on more than one occasion to more than one of your son’s guard?” Augustin demanded. Genvieve recognized all the signs of his temper starting to simmer, knowing that it lay just beneath the calm surface he allowed the rest of the world to see.

Winslow threw back his head and laughed aloud. Genvieve wrapped her arms around herself and shut her eyes tightly, waiting for her cousin’s temper to erupt. After a few moments of utter silence, she heard the loud intake of breath. She opened one eye, hoping that somehow the inevitable had been avoided.

To her shock, her cousin had moved to stand by his wife and had his arm wrapped about her. His facial expression was still thunderous, but he had relaxed his battle stance.

“You will tell me later, wife,” she heard Augustin say.

Her cousin no longer allowed his temper to get the better of him. Augustin had changed since the last time she’d seen him. When had this happened? She looked over at the couple and saw the look that they exchanged. It spoke volumes; they communicated without words, a single look and each had understood the other.

A bone-deep sorrow swept through her, leaving her weak. Francois and she had been able to speak without the need for words. A look, a touch, a mere twist of the lips, had been far more effective than words. An uncomfortable edginess accompanied her sad thoughts. She missed him, after three long and lonely years, she still ached for his touch, still reached for him in the darkness.

And yes , she thought bleakly, she still loved him. What she felt for Winslow was not love, could not be love… it was need pure and simple.

Genvieve had hoped to be able to put the past behind her and move forward with the arrangement of her second marriage to Guy du Lacque. But Guy had given his life for the Norman cause during the Saxon Uprisings that swept through Northumbria. She was not one who usually dwelt on the past, but hers had been happy… but for the lost babes.

The fact that her cousin had managed to pull his life together, and in fact had found someone to love again, disturbed Genvieve. She did not know if she were capable of taking the chance of loving someone…and losing them. The cost outweighed the gain. She would never love, or marry again.

“I think Genvieve needs to rest,” Lady Eyreka announced to those still crowded in the chamber.

With a pointed look, they left, one by one. All except for Winslow who glared at the lady of the keep. “I dinna think ye mean to boot me out as well.”

Genvieve wished she could ask Winslow to stay with her, but was afraid to strain her throat. She slowly stood and walked toward him. The expression on his face was guarded and she could not guess his thoughts. Mayhap that was a good thing, considering his bone melting kisses.

“Lady Eyreka,” Winslow began, but before he could finish the older woman nodded. She glanced at Genvieve as she crossed the room, then swept through the door, closing it behind her.

“Dinna be surprised,” Winslow said as if reading her mind.

Was her every thought plastered on her face for all to see? A whisper of a memory speared through her head. You’re right to fear us, wench! The voice in her head had a shiver racing up her spine, remembering her captor’s words.

“You’ve naught to fear, lass,” Winslow whispered, taking her in his arms. “I promised not to hurt ye, and I mean ta honor that promise.”

Instead of kissing the breath out of her as she hoped, he pressed his lips to her forehead and slid a hand up her back and into her hair. With a deft movement, he eased her head onto his shoulder where she fit perfectly.

The heat pouring off of him eased the tension and fear that threatened to overwhelm her. She sighed and turned her head to press her lips to his collarbone.

He jolted at her touch, but when she looked up at him, his mouth was grim and she wondered if it had been something else that caused the movement.

“’Tis only right that ye’ll be with yer family soon, lass.” He dropped his hands and took a step back. “I must get back to my duties.”

Was he saying goodbye? No, she reasoned. It would be at least a fortnight before Georges reached London and could make the trip back. Winslow wouldn’t leave before then, would he? She stepped forward and his eyes narrowed.

“I’ve work.”

She reached out a hand to him and instead of the reaction she expected, he stood his ground and waited. Genvieve couldn’t stop herself from brushing her hand across the strong line of his jaw. Her heart tumbled in her breast, such a handsome face.

Her Scotsman shivered at her touch. Ah, she thought, his body tells the truth. A glance at his tortured expression and she had the answer she sought. What she would do with the answer, she had no idea.

“I’ve—”

Work , she mouthed, rising to her toes and pressing her lips to his.

Winslow’s arms wrapped around her and pulled her close, right where she wanted to be. She tilted her head back to look up at him, and her heart began to pound in her breast. Desire warred with the agony etched on his handsome face.

He lowered his mouth toward hers then paused, as if waiting for permission. She reached up and grabbed him by the hair. His lips captured hers in a kiss that demanded her full attention. Warm firm lips molded hers, drawing feelings she’d buried back to life.

An ache blossomed in her belly, spreading upward toward her heart. He slid a hand down her spine, until he cupped her backside and pressed her intimately against him.

His kiss deepened as his tongue took possession of her, boldly tangling then withdrawing, making her moan with need.

Pinned against him, awareness mingled with shock. His warrior’s body tensed, and the part of him nestled against her body grew rock hard and began to pulse. Her body hungered and her heart ached. She ignored her heart and arched her back.

He broke the kiss and dipped low tracing her collarbone with his tongue. Need screamed through her as her sleeping gown slid off her shoulder and his head dipped lower. He latched onto her breast as if he’d die without the sustenance only she could offer.

He switched to her other breast, his hands still gripping her backside. His tongue traced a circle around her nipple, teasing her, tempting her with tiny licks and flicks of his tongue that had her whimpering with need.

His head shot up and his look of desire changed to one of shock. “I’m sorry, lass,” he rasped. “I didna mean—”

To kiss me?

His eyes widened, reacting to the movement of her lips, understanding perfectly.

A heady feeling filled her, and she dared to ask, To make me want you?

But his reaction was not what she anticipated. His eyes narrowed.

She turned away, bereft. He’d made her ache for fulfillment and now he drew back from her, withholding what her body craved. She was no maid to be teased and left wanting. She knew the paradise that could be theirs if Winslow hadn’t stopped. But how could she tell him?

He placed his hands on her shoulders. The weight of those hands reminded her of how they felt cupping her backside, kneading the fullness of her bottom as if he enjoyed what she’d always thought was too fleshy.

She wanted to ask him why he stopped, but sensed he wouldn’t answer. He dropped his hands, and she turned around in time to see the back of him as he walked out the door.

“Winslow?” her words came out as a garbled rasp.

He stopped and looked over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, lass.”