She swallowed hard. “Oh.”
“Alban was released with reparations, and we continued on our journey home.” Gray tossed the twig aside and looked straight at her. “And so you see, lady, ’twas the truth and not I that freed Alban. ’Tis a much more powerful force than mere man.”
Catherine’s stomach rolled, and her meal suddenly felt very close to reappearing in a most unpleasant way. She lurched to her feet, reaching out a hand to steady herself against the trunk. “I see. Thank you for telling me the whole tale. But now I—I feel the need to move around a bit. Perhaps we could continue our training.”
Gray rose to stand next to her, and again she was overwhelmed by his sheer size, by the rippling muscle across every inch of him. “’Tis a good sign, your willingness to press on,” he said, shaking out the blanket, then folding it and placing it back in the basket with the remains of their food.
When he faced her again, encouragement and pride lit his eyes, making her want to wither to the ground with shame. “And I have a few more strokes I’d like to teach you, only this time with a child’s wooden sword. ’Twill allow you to practice on your own between our meetings.”
Catherine nodded, weak-kneed, as she followed him back into the clearing. She picked up the wooden sword he handed her and tried to concentrate on the strokes he began to demonstrate. But her mind kept straying, even as her arms performed the motions of the practice.
There’s naught to fear. He knows nothing. She repeated the phrases in her mind like a prayer as she moved through the strokes. For now everyone was safe. As long as Eduard believed that she would carry out his evil plans against Gray, her children would remain unharmed. And as long as Gray knew nothing of the truth—of who she really was, and of what game she played with him—her life could continue secure and unscathed.
And yet somehow she sensed that ’twas not her life that was in danger here at Ravenslock Castle. ’Twas a far more serious risk she took, with each breath, every minute, each day she stayed in the company of the castle’s great lord. Aye, evil plots or no, she needed to tread very carefully…
Because she sensed that Baron Grayson de Camville might well possess the power to steal her heart and soul away from her forever.
Chapter 8
The sun was just coming full above the edge of the horizon when Gray strode up the stairs to his bedchamber the next morn. He felt invigorated by his ride, full of energy and anticipation.
And hope.
For the first time in years, he’d risen from bed looking forward to something other than battle. The new day was fresh with possibilities, not the least of which was another opportunity for private weapons training with his wife.
Memory of yesterday’s lesson with Elise still burned in his mind. Whenever he thought on it, a strange thrill shot through his body and up to his face, making his mouth want to edge up into a smile. Just last evening he’d had to subdue the impulse with force; he’d been overseeing his squires’ efforts at polishing armor, and one of the lads had caught him grinning at nothing while he rubbed down a rusty helmet.
Such strange behavior wouldn’t do, especially around the men. But it had been difficult to maintain a serious expression. Pleasant thoughts seemed to overwhelm him without warning: thoughts of Elise’s eager efforts to maintain her sword stance, or the feel of her graceful body pressed against his when he’d guided her through that series of strokes. Or the sight of her in those breeches…
He grinned again, taking the last three steps to the landing in one bound. When he’d left her this morning, she’d been sleeping peacefully. Now he hoped to awaken her with a kiss and ask her to prepare for another round of training before the sun rose too hot in the sky. A quick lesson in lunges, perhaps, after breaking their fast. Aye, that sounded like a plan.
But as he approached their chamber, a strange noise made him pause. His grin faded under a tingle of warning. He heard crying. Soft, heart-wrenching sobs that made him scowl as he got closer to the room’s portal.
Lifting the latch quietly, Gray nudged the door open with his toe and peered inside. The chamber sparkled with morning light, illuminating a scene that took his breath away. ’Twas the embodiment of a stained glass window he’d once seen in a great cathedral in France, depicting the Virgin Mother, praying as the angel Gabriel descended to tell her of her Immaculate Conception.
Like Mary in the picture, Elise knelt by their bed, a shaft of sun streaming in on her and imbuing her flowing, turquoise robes and rich brown hair with celestial radiance. But unlike the Blessed Virgin, his wife wasn’t praying. She was weeping over something she held clasped in her hands. Something small and oval, compassed in a golden frame.
’Twas the portrait of the twins, the same likeness that had produced such a strange reaction from her when Eduard presented it at the wedding feast.
Gray pressed his lips together, the tingle in his belly intensifying. Why in hell did it disturb her so? This weeping, this grief over something so simple seemed unnatural.
He nudged the door open wider and stepped into the bedchamber. “Elise?” he called.
With a gasp, she twisted to look at him, scrambling to her feet and leaving the portrait lying half-covered by the folds of blankets. She swiped her hands over her wet cheeks. “My lord—I mean, Gray! I did not expect you soon. I—I thought that you would be sending for me at a later hour.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
She looked as though she wished to say something more, but then she only exhaled softly and remained silent, casting her gaze to the floor.
Gray tried to keep his suspicions from overwhelming him as he glanced to the oval likeness still hidden in the bedcovers. After a pause, he asked, “Your niece and nephew, I’ve forgotten what they are called.”
“Ian and Isabel,” she whispered, as if saying their names pained her in some way.
He nodded, keeping his expression even. “Aye. You were crying over them. I wish to know why.”
Elise paled, standing before him as still as a statue. But then she blinked, and her gaze seemed to search him for a moment before veering away to stare again at the floor.
“’Tis nothing but a woman’s weakness, my lord,” she finally murmured, “to weep over what she has left behind. ’Tis the way for every new wife, is it not?”
