Nicholas shook his head. “I do not know.”
He left the chapel and went to his private solar. When he entered, he bolted the door behind him and leaned against it.
She had been Phillip DeAvoy’s wife. Out of all the men in England, why his worst enemy? For money? For title? He felt ill. He doubted he would ever feel well again.
DeAvoy had struck her. She hadn’t said how bad it had been, but she didn’t have to. Nicholas was sorry he was dead. He would like to have been the one who killed the son of a pig who dared to touch her. Thoughts of Phillip doing to her what he’d done to young William Stone enraged him and made him want to hurry back to her, pull her close, and protect her from anything else this world held in store for her.
He felt lightheaded from the truth. She was back. She was here, taking care of his son. She had been married to Phillip DeAvoy.
How could he move on when, after four years, a wife whom he loved, his wife’s death, and a baby, he’d still had to go to Berwick to get Julianna Feathers out of his thoughts?
Now here she was in his life again. Half of him felt as if he were dreaming, the other half wanted to run as if from a nightmare. How quickly he’d fallen back into the ease of being with her, telling her about his brothers and the places he’d been, meeting her in the chapel, his place of solitude and comfort.
He was being careless, spending too much time with her. He wanted to trust that she wouldn’t leave him again, but he couldn’t.
He was sure she hadn’t loved her abusive husband. But then, she hadn’t loved Nicholas either. What did she know of it? That was the question he’d been asking himself for years, wasn’t it?
Love meant little to Julianna—even to Berengaria because it wasn’t real. It was a forced emotion used to breed guilt and feelings of inadequacy and a host of other horrors when it was gone.
He stepped into the light pooling in from the window above his table. He looked at the parchments, letters and invitations from other noblemen that had been arriving since he came home, piled in disarray. He gazed at the door. Should he go get her—to pen his missives?
He rubbed his hand down his face when he thought of his brother, Torin. How the hell should he tell her that his brother had not only killed her father, but had infiltrated Berwick and began killing men an hour before the Scots arrived? That the invasion was all Torin’s doing for the glory of King Robert? And that when it was over, he escorted her to St. Peter’s without her knowing a thing? Nicholas couldn’t tell her. He wouldn’t. She wouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter.
He walked around the large chamber and finally sat in his chair to think about all the reasons she couldn’t stay. Torin was one of them. Another was that she called him William because that’s who he was to her. But he wasn’t that boy anymore, or an orphan with no real identity. He knew who he was now. A MacPherson.
He wanted to get on with his life. To live again. He’d gone across the world to do it. But he’d still felt dead. He lamented and raked his fingers through his hair. Until she came to Lismoor. Until he saw her face, heard her voice, her laughter. He looked toward the door. He heard her laughter outside his door. Julianna. He heard a man’s voice next, muffled by even more laughter.
He stormed toward the door, ready to…? What? She wasn’t his. He didn’t want her. He didn’t want anyone. He had no right to be jealous of anyone in her life. Still, it pricked him in the guts.
He unbolted the door and yanked it open. He was surprised when he sawRauflaughing with Julianna. His son was holding on to Julianna’s hand and looking bored.
“I’m trying to rest,” Nicholas barked out from the entrance.
“Oh?” Julianna queried with a light air about her. “I thought I was going to help you pen some letters.”
“Now?”
She smiled. “Why not? Dear Rauf—”
Dear Rauf?
“—has offered to sit with Elias in the great hall, but I think the babe needs to get to know his father. Do you not agree, my lord?”
Nicholas agreed that his son needed to get to know him, but he’d had no time to prepare. “I—”
“Do you have parchment? Ink? Quill?” she asked. “I have my own but my ink is…getting dry.” With his son in tow and without another word, she moved past him and entered his solar.
Nicholas watched her move about in his chamber then cast Rauf a “what the hell do I do now” look. His friend shrugged, smiled, and walked off.
“Ehm.” He stepped into the room feeling suddenly like he was entering a web—willingly. “Julianna, you should not be in my chambers alone.”
She went to the table and picked up a few of the parchments from the pile and looked them over. “I’m not alone, my lord. Elias is here. Also, I do not care where I should and should not be. I will be where I’m needed.” She pulled out the chair beside his table and sat. “Where would you like to get started?”
“With my son,” he told her. “What is to be done with him while you write?”
She eyed the boy while he toddled toward the bed, bent his knees and looked under it. “I was thinking you could play with him while you tell me what to write.”
“Me?” he asked. He knew he sounded terrified. Of a two-year-old boy. He didn’t give a damn.
