Page 28

Two long, miserable, rainy days. Haydn was unsure if he looked forward more to being dry or having another opportunity to make love to his wife.

He waited for her as she and Holt rode up to the fortified manor, no longer unsure. Despite the incessant rain and muddy roads, along with their overly slow progress, his pulse quickened as she approached. Even knowing how dangerous his thoughts were, he refused to shove them aside but renewed his vow not to reveal anything to her that could be used against his family.

Which means not getting so close.

But since that night, something had shifted. Something they’d not had the opportunity to explore. Their pace had put last evening’s planned accommodations out of reach, so with no other choice, they’d stayed outside in the elements with trees as their cover. With their wool cloaks no longer effective against the rain, they’d spent a long night in the best shelter he’d been able to provide. He’d at least been able to form a makeshift bed under a rock overhang large enough for Phillipa. She stayed dry, of sorts, until this morn. When the rain had finally stopped earlier, none were rejoicing. Not until the manor came into view.

“What is this place?” Isaac asked, riding up to him.

Haydn looked up to the gatehouse, removing his mantle so they might see the tunic he wore beneath it, one which bore the Kenshire crest. He’d planned to reach Caldmoor Priory, which had accommodated him on their journey to London. But again, the weather, as it was wont to do, wreaked havoc on their plans.

“According to the travelers we met earlier, it is the home of a DeBurg. The baron apparently had been a squire for King Henry, who knighted him on Christmas day and made the man his private counsellor.”

“An interesting tale. With luck, he will welcome us.”

“I would see no reason he would not.”

It was considered an affront not to welcome travelers, even ones who might typically be adversaries. Though there was no reason to think of the man as such, Haydn did find it odd that such a manor house would be so far from any village or town, but it suited their purposes. The sun would set on their drenched party, and he did not wish Phillipa to be chilled.

What she and his brother spoke of, he did not know. Hamon rode behind them.

Turning toward the two-story gatehouse, Haydn waited for the gate to rise. Built on slightly raised ground on the river’s basin, its crenellated curtain wall was shaped in a near-perfect circle.

The gate rose just as Phillipa reached him. As she’d done these past two days, his wife looked at him as if. . . as if they’d consummated their marriage. And more. Twice more that night after she gave her virginity to him they were together. Before the sun rose, he’d lifted her head from his chest and dressed, standing over her for so long he was sure she would wake.

As he’d done then, Haydn thought of what to say. How to proceed. He’d lain with enough women to know theirs was no simple coupling. Every time she’d looked at him, that eve and since, it was as if Phillipa wanted to tell him something.

And he was fairly certain what that something was. When she paused that night after he asked if she trusted him, Haydn knew. She had no cause to do so, because he’d been deceiving her from the start. Was deceiving her now. And perhaps he had no other choice, but maybe, he did.

Anything she’d been about to say was cut off by a stablehand who met them in the courtyard. There were less than twenty earls in England, his father and Phillipa’s two of them. So he was not surprised the crest had been recognized, gaining them entry. But Haydn was grateful for it.

“I will take your mounts, my lord. My lady.”

“Many thanks,” he said dismounting. Before he could assist Phillipa, she was on the ground as well. The woman did navigate her way around Lady as well as any he knew, even his aunt Catrina.

The courtyard was small, and mostly empty as light rain had begun to fall again. Hurrying toward the keep, Haydn was grateful when the wooden door was opened as they ascended the stone stairs. A bald man, similar in age to his father, stood in the center. “Welcome to Caldwell Manor, my lord,” he said, bowing ever so slightly. “I am John, the steward here, and glad to offer lodging for the eve.”

“I am Lord Waryn, first baron Waryn and son of the Earl of Kenshire. This is my wife, Lady Phillipa, daughter of Earl Sherfield, and my brother, Sir Holt of Kenshire. These are our men, Sir Isaac and Sir Hamon.”

The steward bowed again to his wife. “My lady. Do come inside.” A modest hall, also mostly empty, sat before them. “God took the lord of Caldwell this past winter. As you can see, we do not often entertain travellers.”

“Is the lady of the manor in residence?” Phillipa asked him.

“Nay, she passed more than ten years ago. Lord and Lady Caldwell left no issue behind. We await the king’s orders.”

That explained much. “We are sorry for your loss, Master John.”

After exchanging greetings with his men, their entire party was brought to the second floor. “We’ve many rooms unoccupied. Shall I show you each to one, or. . .” He looked between Phillipa and Haydn.

All eyes were on him. Haydn didn’t hesitate. “I sleep with my wife.”

While the steward bid Phillipa and the men to follow him, Holt pulled Haydn behind. “I knew something was different after Brookhurst. And then the last two days. You’ve been speaking to her more. The looks between you.” Holt slapped his forehead. “You are well and truly married.”

He did not confirm or deny it. “It was you who told me I was too harsh with her.”

“I never liked your plan but care for it even less now.”

Haydn wanted to tell Holt something had passed between them. That he felt more protective of her than ever. And each day, as she asked less and less for permission to share what was on her mind, her eyes no longer going to his when she was asked a question, he could sense their closeness growing.