She thought she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. He grabbed up his bag and slung it over his shoulder before moving toward the door.
“Where are you going?” she demanded.
Lord Gerard paused, bending to pick up the discarded stake and toss it to Dori. “I’ll find shelter elsewhere on the grounds. Good night, Lady Theodora.”
He pulled the door shut after himself, leaving Dori standing near the cot. The oratory looked just the same as it had before he’d come and yet nothing was the same.
Constantine Gerard had returned.
Chapter 5
Constantine finished lacing the gutted fish onto the slender pike he’d whittled, then stabbed the end of the stake into the dirt before rising from his crouch and collecting his satchel and fishing supplies. The morning sun was at last beginning to warm the ground, and the air grew humid as the bright rays streamed through tree branches thickening with greenery by the moment, it seemed.
He stopped and looked across the peacefully flowing river, its surface sparkling so brightly with silver that he had to squint. His river. His lands. He glanced over at the breakfast he’d procured for himself and Theodora Rosemont.
His fish.
None of it meant a damn thing anymore.
He pulled the pike from the mud of the bank and turned to scale the steep hill below Benningsgate. The smoke from the small fire pit he’d built the night before still curled weakly, showing up in bright relief against the ragged, dark skirts of the woman who stood behind it.
“Could you see the smoke?” he said by way of greeting as he came upon his makeshift camp. He’d prefer not to draw the curiosity of whatever villagers were left below the castle ruins just yet.
Theodora shook her head. “I only smelled it once I was outside the wall. Did you sleep out here all the night?”
Constantine jabbed the staff into the soft dirt again before shrugging out from beneath his satchel and then dropping to his knees to remove the topmost cedar boughs from the fire. Greenery smoldered atop the rocks in the center of the shallow pit.
“I’ve grown used to sleeping out of doors,” he said as he reached behind himself and pulled up the stake of fish. He brought the pole in front of him to lay it across the hot rocks. “It’s fair this time of year.”
“It’s cold,” Theodora argued.
“It’s warmer here than Bavaria in winter,” he rejoined.
“I wouldn’t know.” Theodora swept her hands beneath her seat before squatting on her heels near the warm smoke, stretching out her pale, knobby fingers as Constantine replaced the cedar boughs.
He looked across the pit at her. “Admittedly, not as warm as Jerusalem.”
Her eyes flicked up at him, but she made no comment, and as the sunlight fully revealed the raggedness of her costume, the frailness of her person, Constantine did not press the subject. Her slender neck seemed to be nothing but cord and bone, the hollows at her temples and cheeks deep, the skin covering the undersides of her wrists the palest blue.
Theodora Rosemont was clearly unwell.
“I never wished to wed Glayer Felsteppe,” she said suddenly, and although Constantine continued to watch her, she did not raise her eyes to him again. “I hated him from the moment I saw him. I begged my father to retract the betrothal.”
“What I cannot fathom,” Constantine challenged, “is why your father would have entertained the agreement at the first. Glayer Felsteppe was no match for a woman of your station.”
“Not so,” Theodora argued mildly, turning her hands in the warming smoke. “He had returned from the Holy Land a hero, with letters to recommend him. He was lauded as the man intent on chasing down the traitors of a besieged Christian fortress. His reputation was that of a champion. A warrior who held great favor with the crown.”
Constantine’s frown deepened. “Your father could not have known the man’s character, and yet he bound his only daughter to him? Was willing to bequeath Felsteppe Thurston Hold and his life’s work on the word of speculation and gossip?”
“You’ve been gone many years, Lord Gerard. My father had been . . . deteriorating in health for some time,” Theodora hedged. “I’m sure you know by now how ingratiating Felsteppe can be to those he thinks to profit from. My father was becoming unable to tell the difference between reason and fantasy. Any matter,” she looked up at him, then, “I’m certain much the same was said about another lord father when you became betrothed to Lady Patrice. It was through your marriage that you received the earldom of Chase, was it not?”
Now it was his turn to drop his eyes to the fire, realizing the wisdom in Theodora’s comparison, if the details of the things were vastly different.
“Patrice’s father was not ill. And she and I were agreeable to the arrangement.”
“A love match, was it?” Theodora pressed, and he could hear the needling challenge in her voice.
“There are varying degrees of love.” Constantine felt his face heating, remembering the tearful confessions, the humiliation of the blatant indiscretions, Patrice’s beautiful, bewildered face begging him for forgiveness.
