He still didn’t know how he’d made it to the finish of his wedding ceremony. Somehow he’d even managed to walk from the chapel to the castle’s main chamber, where happy feasting was already under way. But from the moment he’d lifted his new wife’s veil, he’d lost any desire he might have had to celebrate.
“I don’t know what else to say, but that I’m sorry,” Alban murmured, taking a step further into the chamber. Gray met his friend’s gaze. Their shared history, the blood they’d shed for each other’s sake in the Crusade, was the only thing making this turn of events a little more bearable.
“I did my best when you sent me ahead to seek information about her. But Montford kept her so secluded within the keep, ’twas impossible for me to gain an audience with her. I told you the only information I could gather from the people of the village. They described Elise de Montford as small and fair-haired. One of the villeins even likened her to a tiny sparrow.”
Gray choked back a laugh. “Was the poor wretch blind as well as addled?”
“After having seen her myself, I would have to say he was, though he appeared as sound of mind and body as either of us.”
Gray’s mouth stiffened, and he felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. “Aye, well mywifeis more akin to an warrior queen than a sparrow. She barely needed to lift her eyes to meet my gaze. And that face…”
His fist clenched as the image of her came to him again, lush and vibrant. Her unusual appearance had struck him like a blow to the chest. She was tall and solemn, her midnight blue eyes staring up at him, her face framed in rich brown waves that spilled from the circlet on her brow to fall below her waist.
“Damn Montford. The bastard played another farce, allowing me to think her a delicate Court beauty.”
“He’s more the fool then,” Alban said. “You’ve never cared for the fashions of Court, especially when it comes to women.”
“Aye, and yet I still lose. You of all people know why. God help me, but Elise de Montford is all that I vowed never to touch. Never again.”
Alban shook his head. “Let it go, Gray. You’ve served penance long enough. Accept your lady wife for the boon she is and move forward.”
Swallowing his retort, Gray reminded himself that his friend saw the world through clear eyes. Sir Alban Warton had no sin to hide, no rage churning relentlessly in his breast.
He clenched his jaw and looked away, glancing around the richly appointed solar of Ravenslock Castle—his castle—the most grand of the many strongholds he’d won through bludgeoning opponents in countless battles and tournaments for King Henry. He’d worked hard for all he’d gained. Spilling his blood was but a small part of what he’d suffered in the past seventeen years. He’d gone through hell and back before managing to earn this measure of success and prosperity.
And yet for all his efforts, for all his sacrifice, it had all almost slipped through his fingers only a few months ago. He’d almost lost everything, thanks to his new bastard of a brother-in-law.
As another of King Henry’s champions, Montford had envied Gray’s success. He’d wanted the same rewards, the same honors as Gray, whether he deserved them or not. And so to bring him down, Montford had ferreted out and exposed Gray’s darkest secret. He’d told everyone at Court that Gray had killed his own twin sister nearly two decades ago—that he’d murdered his own sweet Gillian.
Gray breathed in sharply, the pain of Gillian’s death still fresh even now. Montford’s accusation had merely piled shame atop his misery, because he couldn’t deny it. Not in essence, anyway. ’Twas true. He, Baron Grayson de Camville, King Henry’s High Champion on the field of honor, justice and truth, had been culpable in his own sister’s death.
Eduard’s public accusation had disgraced him. It had pushed him to the brink of personal disaster. But it had also sparked volatile disputes at Court. Sides had been chosen and alliances made, lighting the wick to political unrest that had threatened to lead England’s barons into Civil War.
Peace had finally been restored by the king, but not without a price…and Gray had paid it today in his marriage to Elise de Montford—the all too tempting sister of the wretch who’d tried to destroy him.
He cursed aloud. “I can’t do it, Alban. I can’t stay bound to her. I was a fool to think I could.” Gray walked to the end of the heavy table, searching beneath its edge to retrieve the silken pouch with its iron key. Pushing aside the tapestry on the wall, he exposed the door that would lead him into the tilting yard and away from the rage and the agonizing memories that haunted him. “I’ll seek an annulment.”
“No you won’t. There’s too much at stake,” Alban said. “King Henry commanded this union, and if you deny it now, you’ll only awaken his wrath anew, which at the very least will mean losing your chance to be appointed Sheriff of Cheltenham come Christmastide.”
That undeniable fact sank into Gray’s bones with the swiftness of an executioner’s blade. Alban seemed not to notice. Looking away, he added, “Of course, if you no longer wish to gain the position, or any others that might come along—”
“You know I do.” Gray leaned against the door. His head ached, and his shoulders tightened until it seemed as if his muscles must shred from his bones. Christ, why couldn’t he quench this constant need? Why couldn’t he be satisfied with what he’d already gained? But he couldn’t rest. He craved more power, more influence, more security, like his body thirsted for water or air. And he knew that when it came down to it, he’d do anything necessary to achieve his purpose.
Right now that meant being married to Elise de Montford.
Gray cursed softly again. “You know what this will mean, Alban. I’m not made of stone.”
His friend didn’t reply at first, but his quiet expression told him more than words ever could. “It might not be so bad,” Alban offered. “’Tis not as if you need to fall in love with her to enjoy her. I know of many men who see their wives seldom at best. They needs only be alone with them when they wish to, ah…” Alban’s face reddened, and he coughed. “Well, what I mean to say is that you need only forsake your privacy when you wish to get heirs on her.”
Get heirs on her?Gray fisted his hands as tight as the knots in his stomach. God’s bones, he’d never allowed himself to think that far ahead. He’d always taken precautions to ensure that his seed never took hold in any of the women he’d bedded. There had been many of them, but he’d never made a mistake.
After Gillian died, he’d known that he wasn’t worthy to bear the responsibility of being any child’s sire. He didn’t want to be a husband, either, especially not to the bewitching creature who was his rival’s sister, but it appeared that he’d have no choice in the matter. Not unless he wanted to risk losing all he’d worked so hard to gain.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, running his hands through his hair. When his arms fell to his sides, it was with a sense of defeat greater than any he’d ever known on the battlefield. ’Twas no one’s fault but his own. He’d gotten into this mess by himself. He and his damned ambition. If he’d done as instinct had prompted, if he’d stood firm and refused the king’s outrageous plan for peace from the start, he wouldn’t be in this chamber, drinking water like a parched sea sponge and avoiding a woman.
A woman who now shared his name and his life.
With a growl of frustration, Gray picked up his empty goblet and hurled it against the wall, not caring that the emerald-encrusted vessel would be ruined from the impact. It was inescapable. With or without his liking, his marriage to Elise de Montford was achieved, and he needed to accept it.
