She needed to know.
The tie of his chemise was yet undone and a generous expanse of golden flesh bare to view. Anna could see the pucker she had noted earlier. It was right over his heart, and her memory stirred with an old tale entrusted to her years before.
Surely it was but coincidence. Knights must have many scars, and surely any opponent of sense would strike at the heart. It must be a common location for a scar.
Still, her mouth was dry. Anna leaned closer, so the light played over him. Bartholomew did not stir. The mark was about the size of the last phalanx of her thumb and roughly oval. It was an old wound, to be sure, for it was not red and the hair on his chest had grown around it. She bent low and peered at the wound.
When she discerned the familiar wyvern rampant burned into his flesh, Anna was so shocked that she nearly dropped the candle.
She gasped and turned her back upon him. She tugged the lace that hung around her neck and in the candlelight, studied the token that she carried there. The same wyvern rampant graced the signet ring, save that it was the mirror image of the one impressed in Bartholomew’s flesh.
He could not be the lost son returned.
But he was.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, awe flooding through her as she surveyed him anew. The rightful heir was returned to Haynesdale.
And she had been so bold as to bed him.
Anna’s own audacity made her cheeks heat.
What should she say to him? What should she do?
Naught, she realized, feeling flustered as she had not been just moments before.
As much as she wished to run from the cavern and shout the truth to any who would listen, Anna knew the secret was not hers to share. She extinguished the candle and eased back into the space beside Bartholomew, a curious pleasure stealing through her when he gathered her close against his side.
She must hold his secret fast, just as she held all the others, and wait for his decision. The rightful baron must choose the path.
But she would do whatever he requested to see his rightful legacy restored. She closed her eyes and felt a tear on her cheek, relieved beyond all that the ordeal they had endured was soon to be ended.
The seed of Nicholas was returned and he was as valiant and just a man as they had all hoped he would be.
*
Bartholomew awakened to find Anna nestled on his one side and Cenric on the other. It was an improvement over their sleeping arrangements at Haynesdale keep, in his view, for he liked having Anna close.
But he knew what he had to do.
The dog wagged its tail as soon as Bartholomew sat up, and he rose carefully from the nest he and Anna had made for themselves. She must have been exhausted for she did not stir, even as he dressed. He cast the hauberk over one shoulder, knowing he would have to find some soul to assist him in donning it.
He watched her sleep, not wanting to leave. His urge to take her with him was folly, though. Doubtless they could have no future together and she would only be endangered in his company this day. He had no holding as yet, and thus no right to claim a woman’s hand, and if he did manage to secure Haynesdale, it would be his destiny to make a strategic alliance. Indeed, the king might demand to make the match, as part of his agreement to bestow the holding upon Bartholomew. He thought of Lady Ysmaine’s conviction that marriages were not based upon love, or even attraction, but good sense alone. Bartholomew reminded himself of all of this, and yet, he wished to linger with Anna.
He knew that if he awakened her to say farewell, he might lose himself in her charms once more.
What if she conceived his child? The notion made his chest clench, although he knew it was unlikely after just one night together. The possibility gave him more impetus to leave soon, for he could not be tempted to seduce her again. He would have to leave coin with someone who could be trusted to grant it to Anna in a way that she would not find insulting.
Bartholomew smiled, for that would be a feat.
He felt torn, but it was time to save Duncan, and thence to seek a way to earn the king’s favor. Bartholomew would not achieve either by spending a day abed with Anna. He turned to leave, knowing what must be done.
Perhaps he had changed her view of knights. Perhaps he had achieved something of merit in this short interval in her company.
Perhaps it should be enough.
He left her wrapped in his cloak, tucking it around her so she would be warm. He took the crossbow and laid it on the cloak beside her.
He had promised its return when their paths parted.
