Her smile vanished. “’Tis yours. I know it.”
“How can you be sure? I was in your bed every day for two weeks, but immediately after, you were married to Ferrars. How can you be sure?”
“I am sure!”
Geoffrey knew better than to believe her. It was impossible for her to be sure—wasn’t it? In this instance, either he or Ferrars could be the father, and the child’s actual birth date would prove nothing, for a child could be born early or late.
And as Ferrars was also fair, unless the child’s looks were unmistakable, that also would prove nothing—and if it did, it would be many years from now when the child was well into adulthood.
Adele had come to stand behind him, one of her hands upon his shoulder. “You are the father,” she said seductively. “I am sure of it. Your seed could only be powerful and potent, as you are.”
Geoffrey hardly heard her. In that instant he realized that in all likelihood he would never know the truth. And it was also the moment when he realized that the child would bind him to Adele forever, in a way far more important than mere lust ever could.
And for a moment, a moment of insanity, even knowing Adele as he did, he coveted her as his wife.
“I will have you escorted to the abbot. If you wish, I will send him a brief missive.”
“Geoffrey!”
His gaze was opaque, unreadable. “The child changes nothing, Adele. ’Tis over between us.”
“But I love you,” Adele cried. She flushed, the telltale color betraying her words as the truth.
“Then I am sorry,” Geoffrey said. “Then I am truly sorry, sorrier than you will ever know.”
Adele was not a woman who cried. It had been many years since she had shed tears of grief, and that had been when she was a ten-year-old child who had just learned that her parents had been killed by outlaws, leaving her orphaned. She did not cry two years later after her corruption by her stepbrother, Roger Beaufort, a corruption her wicked body had eagerly participated in. But that night, alone on a hard pallet in St. Augustine’s Abbey, she wept, brokenhearted.
Now that she had said the words, she knew they were true. She loved him. He was powerful, pure, and good—unlike her. He was the epitome of manhood, and despite his lapse from celibacy, he was virtuous in a way Adele could hardly understand, but could somehow admire.
For the first time in her life, Adele wished she were a virtuous woman. She wished she were someone else, someone worthy of Geoffrey de Warenne, a woman he might want not just in his bed, but as his wife. For the first time, she regretted her nature, her affairs, everything. But she could not regret him.
She knew her child was his. It could not be Henry’s; every instinct she had told her that. It must be his! If not, she had truly lost him.
Adele was suddenly dry-eyed. She had spent the past six years since her parents’ death alone, scheming in order to survive—and not just to survive, but to survive well. She had hardly ever lost a single battle in that span of time—she would not lose now.
Geoffrey was not unmoved by the news of the child. Adele was determined. This separation could not be final. She wanted Geoffrey back.He belonged to her.
There was time, she decided finally, wiping away her tears. As she had concluded long ago, ’twas fortunate that he was of the Church, so she had nothing to fear from another woman. And she did not fear his virtue. He still desired her, and she was an expert at seduction. Tomorrow she would try again. Tomorrow she would succeed. And if not tomorrow, then the day after that.
She would never give up.
Adele was shown by the young deacon to the chamber where Geoffrey worked. Even though she was announced, Geoffrey did not move. He stood by one of the open windows, drenched in sunlight. His beautiful, golden profile was stark, ravaged.
Adele was frozen. Something was terribly wrong.
Geoffrey turned his head slightly towards her. His gaze was strangely flat. “What now, Adele?”
He was weary, and Adele longed to hold him. Then she realized that he held a scroll in his hand. The scroll’s seal was broken. And it was unmistakable, for it was royal.
Adele tensed, knowing that Geoffrey must have received another summons from the King, and knowing as she did how he had fought Rufus for control over many matters pertinent to both Crown and Church alike, she was afraid. How often she had wanted to warn him to cease his mad war against the Crown, but had refrained, not wanting him to comprehend the depth of her passion for him. “Geoffrey—what news do you have?”
His mouth curled slightly. “Why, I have just attained all that I have dreamed of.”
His tone was strangely mocking. The hairs upon Adele’s nape rose. “Darling,” she whispered, forgetting the open door, “what has passed?”
Then his eyes glittered and his expression changed, his jaw flexing, as if a threshold had been crossed, a decision made. “The King has appointed me Bishop of Ely.”
Adele gasped. A thrill swept over her. “Bishop of Ely!” she cried. “My God, that’s wonderful!”
