Page 52 of The Falcon Laird
As he spoke, he leaned closer. She glanced at him, her gaze dropping to his mouth, and again she recalled deep, fervent kisses last night. “Nor will I pay for Henry’s behavior here, or King Edward’s either. I will not be every Englishman to you, for you to vent that boundless temper on me.”
Her heart thumped. His face drew close, his breath soft on her cheek. She wanted to kiss him; she wanted to shout and rail at him. Something stirred fierce in here that needed desperate release. She felt as if her heart, torn this way and that, was spinning into madness. Then she remembered his remark.
“Another wife?” she repeated.
“She died, two years ago now.” He drew back, his mouth grim, a muscle quirking in his jaw.
“Was she French, that you were there?”
“Jehanne, Comtesse de Fontevras. She was nineteen when she died.” He looked out the window. The tilt of his head, the set of his jaw, told her that he tamped down genuine pain.
“Do you have bairns?” she asked. He shook his head.
Suddenly she felt ashamed of ranting on about English knights and invaders. She had been selfish and thoughtless; she had her child and her home, and she was healing. She could be whole again. She was not only one who hurt. She could see the shadow of it over Gavin.
He must have loved his young French wife as she had never loved Henry. She felt a quick twinge of jealousy. And felt sympathy for him too, deep and sincere. Something calmed in her.
She laid a hand on his arm, then withdrew it. “I—am sorry,” she whispered.
He stared over the loch. “You change like quicksilver, virago to angel and back again. I know you are hurt and resentful. We both are. I will rein in my temper if you will cobble yours.”
She nodded wordlessly. He turned away abruptly and went back to the door. He looked at her.
“If you are concerned about crossing this floor, keep to the walls. It is safe, though you may not believe it.” He disappeared down the steps.
She left the room with caution and went downstairs too, brow furrowed as she thought. In the bailey yard, she watched as he strode across the yard without looking back for her.
The deep desire stirred within her then, fervent and strong, that the promise Gavin had made in the underground chamber would always hold true: he was just a man here, and no English knight. Then she could be just a woman, and no Scot.
The pull she felt toward him increased in power each time she was near him. Somehow, he had touched her soul as no one had done before. She was seeing that hearts could heal as well as bodies. And she wanted no more barriers between them. Her anger rightfully belonged with Henry and King Edward. Not Gavin Faulkener.
She looked up as the sunlight brightened the castle walls. Even damaged, Kilglassie was strong and beautiful. The castle could be repaired. But now she feared that she had not only destroyed Kilglassie’s hidden legend, but had ruined something else of great value—her future. Her chance to love fully.
Gavin Faulkener had a kind of treasure deep within him, she realized. There was far more to him than what she had seen, more than the sum of the man so far. She wanted to find it.
Chapter Thirteen
On a frostymorning, Gavin stood up on the parapet with John and Will, mortaring loose stones into the battlement wall with a mixture of mud and straw. Hoarfrost slicked the stones and made them difficult to handle, and the cold water in the mix made the mortar lumpy and reluctant to adhere.
His hands were chilled and reddened as he gripped a large stone. Swearing in frustration as he tipped the stone into place, Gavin hardly glanced up when William shouted.
“Pardieu! My lord! A host of churls advancing this way!”
“How many churls would that be?” Gavin asked distractedly.
“Do not jump about, lad,” John muttered as he stirred a handful of straw into a wooden bucket filled with cold mud. “You will make your mother nervous down in the bailey yard, there.”
Tussling with the recalcitrant stone, Gavin slammed the block into place. Then he picked Will up and set him on top of the stone, which formed the upper edge of the wall. He held him around the waist. “Hold that down with your great weight, boy, and show me these visitors.”
“Just there, see! Hundreds of ’em!” The boy pointed beyond the castle grounds.
John peered over the parapet too. “A fierce group, God save us all. We will hope they have peace in mind and not war.”
Seeing the motley group of people advancing toward the unprotected drawbridge, and recognizing Fergus in the lead, Gavin grinned. “The priest is as good as his word, John. Here come our workers.”
“You dinna have enough cheese and grain to trade as daily wages for that lot. Thank God we brought a good bit o’ coin when we traveled north.”
Gavin waved and called a shout of welcome. Fergus waved back, while his two young sons ran looping paths around him, excited. With them came several women, two with babes, others with cloth sacks. One, a tall dark-haired woman, spoke to Fergus’s boys and pointed, sending the lads ahead to reach the drawbridge first.
