When he straightened again she was standing before him.
“Radulf.” Lily’s voice trembled. “My lord.”
She was soaked through, her hair dripping, her skirts clinging to her legs, her face without color.
He could see in her gray eyes the suffering she had endured while she watched him fight. Radulf put out his hand, and then seeing the state of it, pulled back with a grimace.
“You won?”
A weary smile tugged at his lips. “Aye, Lily, we won. Now we can go home to Crevitch.”
Lily did not remind him that, to her, this place had always been home. The truth was, it was only home if he was there.
“You are hurt?”
He shook his head. “No, Lily, I am whole. A scratch or two, but nothing to concern you.” His wonderful mouth curved into a smile. “You will heal me with your salve, mignonne?”
He is safe, he is alive!
With a glad cry, Lily flung herself into his arms.
He caught her, half laughing, half wincing. “Lady,” he murmured against her hair, “I am not fit . . .”
“You are here with me,” she replied fiercely, “and that is all that matters.”
He gave in and rested his cheek upon her damp hair, stroking the silver strands. She was soft and sweet, and it mattered not that he was neither.
They would bathe together, wash the dirt and sorrow of this place away, and turn their thoughts to a better future. The red gleam of the hawk’s-eye ring caught his tired gaze.
I give thee my heart.
Lily would never betray him, he knew that now with solid certainty, and if he did not declare his trust of her, then they could never be truly free of Anna or Vorgen.
“You gave me much before the battle,” he said softly. “In return, I give you all that I am. I give you my wealth and my estates, I give you my might and my sword—and I give you my heart, Lily, for now and all time.”
She lifted her head, her gray eyes swimming with tears. “Your heart will be safe with me, my lord.”
He bent to kiss her, and just as he did, the rain stopped and the sun shone out. Around them, the weary army cheered. Aye, thought Radulf, here was an omen.
Lily, glancing up from the shelter of his arms, found herself the center of attention of a great many muddy, weary men. “Radulf,” she whispered, “can we not go somewhere more private?”
With a laugh, Radulf swung her up into his arms. “Your pardon, men! My lady requests privacy to give her thanks . . . properly.” And with Lily’s flushed face pressed to his heart, and the amused shouts of his men in his ears, Radulf carried his wife from the field of battle.
Epilogue
The following year
Crevitch Castle, usually such a lively place, was surprisingly hushed. Radulf stood alone in the great hall, staring into the fire, two hounds lying at his feet. No one had approached him since breakfast, when he had almost bitten Jervois’s head off for offering him a mug of ale.
He hadn’t meant it, and Jervois, pale and shaken, had accepted his apologies, even offering his heartfelt sympathies to his lord. Jervois knew exactly what Radulf was going through—Alice was also with child.
Radulf ground his teeth. Sympathy just made it worse. He should be rejoicing; his wife was giving birth to their first child. So why was he not rejoicing?
Because he was sick with worry, that was why.
Radulf sighed. He loved the lady too much. She was his joy, his heart, his life itself. If anything should happen to her, if she should be taken from him . . .
This was all beyond his experience, beyond his control. Radulf was used to giving orders and seeing a thing instantly done, but he could not order a babe not to hurt its mother, and he could not order Lily not to scream. Frustrated and powerless, Radulf could do nothing at all.
