Her heart screamed at her to do one thing, while her mind and her honour told her to seek another path. In the end, she said nothing. She watched as his mouth became a grim, tight line across his face and every part of her husband disappeared as the bastard knight from days before came forward once more.
‘Damn you, Fayth of Taerford,’ he whispered to her as he passed her and left the chapel.
Chapter Eighteen
Fayth was released from her chambers later that day only because the bishop wished to examine the manor’s rolls of tenants, villeins, supplies and goods and no one else could explain them to him. Not certain of his aims or his temperament, she spent the first hours just answering his questions about the lands, the crops, the woodlands, the river, the mill and the peasants who lived and worked for Taerford.
Giles walked through several times as the bishop questioned her there in the hall, but he didn’t look in her direction and didn’t stop. When it grew dark and it was time for their meal, she asked to be excused to her chambers, for she could not bear to see her husband so and know she was the cause. Worse, with a word she could alleviate his pain, but that word would destroy her lifelong friend, as well as her soul.
She sought her bed, their empty bed, earlier than her usual custom that night. Her litany of prayers offered no comfort and no hope to her and she gave up trying to repeat them. Climbing into the bed, she reached over to where Giles should be and rubbed the pillows as she fell asleep.
She did not remember what woke her from her sleep, but a candle sat on her table throwing shadows around the room and she leaned up to see what stirred there. The sound of his breath was the first thing she noticed and then she saw his figure outlined in shadows cast by the flickering light. How long he’d been there, she knew not, but he simply stood over her, watching her.
He’d done that before—when she was hurt during the attack on Taerford, he’d visited her in the night to see how she fared. Emma had told her of those times once she had recuperated from the injury. This was not that kind of visit, though, and as his breath grew ragged she could almost feel his anger pouring out over her.
He’d sworn never to take her in force or anger, but now she’d driven him to madness. The thought that she loved another so deeply that she would risk everything they had together tore his heart into pieces.
Ignoring her did not make it easier.
Confronting her had made it worse.
And drinking the bishop’s potent spirits, offered in brotherly compassion, made him want her even more intensely than before.
Now he stood over her, wanting her, needing her and hating her at the same time. If she’d remained asleep or pretended to sleep, he would have found the strength to leave her alone, but not Fayth.
Nay, when she found him staring at her in the night, she lifted the coverings and invited him to take her. He did not even take off his clothes, only loosened his belt and lowered his breeches and climbed in on top of her.
His anger moved him then, increasing his desire for her even as he reached out, took hold of her shift and tore it down the front, baring her breasts to him. Then using the edges of it, he drew her up and possessed her mouth, touching his lips to hers, entering with his tongue. He gave no quarter as he moved over her, nipping the skin on her neck and shoulder and sucking on it to soothe and to mark it, so she would remember his touch when she saw them.
She made no sound except the soft gasps of passion—damn her! She should not allow this, but she did. Every moment he pulled himself back under control, she touched him or stroked him or kissed him back, inciting both more anger and more lust within him. Fayth whispered gentle words as he plundered her body, making her whimper under his touch.
When he gave in anger, she accepted it with gentleness. When he spread her legs and joined with her, she opened to him, softening under him and allowing him everything he wanted. When he tried to ignore her pleasure and see only to his own, riding her as deeply and as hard as he could, her body tightened around him and she cried out her release even as she milked him of his seed.
He collapsed on her, empty and still angry. Giles wanted in that moment to beg her forgiveness for such an act, but he was unable to even think of the words he would need. As he pulled out of her body he saw the tracks of tears streaming down her face.
He could stand no more.
Climbing from the bed, he tied his breeches and tightened his belt as he walked to the door. He glanced back at her, alone in their bed, and realised she had taken his anger and refused to let him hurt her. His hand was on the latch of the door when she whispered to him.
‘I do not love Edmund,’ she said, taking in a ragged breath.
He knew what she would say next. She’d just shown him by allowing him his anger, but he did not want to hear the next words, yet prayed for them.
‘’Tis you I love, husband.’
He leaned his head against the frame of the door and closed his eyes. At another time, he would have sought out those words from her, even begged her to say them. But now?
‘Damn you, Fayth,’ he replied and he stormed out as angry as he’d stormed in.
Giles made his way back to the hall where Brice sat waiting for him. Another cup of the bishop’s spirits, brought with him for medicinal purposes, he’d claimed as he shared the brew with them, waited on the table. He lifted it to his mouth and drank it without pause.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.
She was praying for forgiveness as he took her.
Giles closed his eyes and pressed his palms against the pain.
