The Everlasting Covenant Read online

  Anne’s eyes were wide as she listened to Brennan. Dylan had escaped. He was not a prisoner of the duke’s, but free. The convent, she thought frantically, from whence Dylan could liberate her.

  “Marry now?” she asked weakly. “Quickly?”

  “Anne, I must attend Edward, it is not a matter of choice. He will be king – I will protect you better than Lady Gifford ... and your father is dead.”

  If Edward did achieve his crown, Dylan would be far, far away. And if there was a child a-borning ...

  “I must bury my father,” she said softly, searching Brennan’s eyes. Dylan was free, but not free to come to her aid. She must give thanks for his life, but protect the life he may have given her.

  “Let us bury Lord Gifford and marry. I can think of no other way, and your father would want this for you.”

  Whether Dylan lives or dies, Lord Forbes is your single hope, Anne. Do you know it?

  If she wed Lord Forbes, her mother would be quiet for a time. Marcella would hold her tongue in hopes of Anne’s cooperation in helping the Giffords achieve greatness.

  “I know you must have had your hopes cast to a more splendid wedding than can be allowed ...”

  “Nay,” she said quietly. All she needed was a few days. If she did not carry Dylan’s child, then perhaps the appearance of her monthly blood would fool Brennan into thinking her a virgin. Lord Forbes, though in the best of health, was not a young man, and though she could wish him no harm, there was hope in what must naturally occur. Perhaps Dylan would not be lost to her forever. She must protect herself, and if need be, a child. “I do not care for a fancy wedding. Yes, Brennan, if you wish it, we shall marry.”

  “Anne,” he said in a breath. He embraced her suddenly, kissing her lips and her neck, crushing her with his passion and love. “Oh Anne, I thought the day would never come. At long last, my love, at long last.”

  “Brennan,” she sighed, returning his embrace, tears stinging her eyes. “I hope I can make you happy.”

  Chapter Eight

  It was difficult for Brennan Forbes to be overly sympathetic with Lady Gifford’s loss, given her reaction to the news. Out of both impatience and distress, he demanded of her a wedding to follow the burial of her husband. Marcella grudgingly agreed, and Brennan remained perplexed. As he observed her grim behavior, her dry, downcast eyes, he continued to wonder if it was the loss of her husband that she mourned, or the failure to execute a deFrayne that she grieved. Either way, he was very eager for Anne.

  Nothing extraordinary was to be done, but the wedding would take place immediately. Anne assured him she would harbor no resentment for the lack of a formal wedding, and Brennan’s reasons for expediency were more than sound. Edward was marching on London and needed the earl to command the gathered Ayliffe army should they meet with the forces of Margaret of Anjou en route. He had only two choices – to leave Anne in the care of Lady Gifford and go to Edward alone, or marry her and take her with him.

  So the burial of the Lord of Raedelle on his own lands was quickly followed by a quiet wedding. The Gifford sons had not yet returned, and the uncertain state of the country beyond Raedelle caused disquiet during the exchange of marriage vows. But even this simple nuptial ceremony was lovely. Brennan wore his white tunic and hose, top sewn with gold thread, and badges of gold for Ayliffe sharing space with the white rose of York on his chest. Anne had donned her best sarcenet gown of a blue so weak it appeared almost whiter than Brennan’s suit. A heart-shaped wimple with a long, sheer veil framed her face. February prevented them from having garlands of fresh flowers, and also absent was a prestigious gallery of guests to view the exquisitely beautiful couple.

  Though battles yet to fight might lie in the back of his mind, Lord Forbes seemed to shine with happiness and youthful vigor as he took to wife the slim, dark beauty he had wanted so desperately. And Anne seemed to glow with bride-like shyness and bliss, despite the sadness she felt due to her father’s recent death.

  The humble bower that Anne had slept in almost all her life was their wedding chamber. A few castlemaids took pity on the lack of preparation given to the wedding and decorated the room with remnants of white silk and fir boughs. A plentiful fire was laid in the hearth and a generous night livery of sweetmeats, comfits, sugared violets and roses, marchpane, and ornate goblets beside a large flagon of spiced wine was provided for them by some kindhearted cookery maid.

  “It lacks the grandness I would have had for your sake,” Brennan told her.

  “Pomp does not suit me so well as this, Brennan,” she replied from behind her screen. There was no ritual preparation of the bride by a host of giggling maids. Nor were there dozens of drunken knights and nobles to bear the groom, amidst rounds of coarse jests, to their chamber. Anne dressed herself in a sheer nightdress that had been purchased for her by her husband. ‘”Take food, my husband,” she said quietly. “And wine. A hearty hanap for us both.”

  “Are you afraid?” he asked as he poured for them. He felt more confident because of this intimacy. Brennan, having been twice married, preferred these circumstances, the absence of people attending them, the quiet of being completely alone with Anne. She was so young – he hoped to ease her into her new role.

  “Oh nay, Brennan,” she said. “I know you would never hurt me.” Her mother had not uttered one word about her predicament since the morning Dylan escaped. She came around from behind the screen and stood before him.

  The sheer cloth clung deliciously to her curves and alluded to the naked loveliness beneath. Brennan’s blue-gray eyes came alive like steely fire as he looked at her. Her black hair hung straight and thick down to her thighs, and it took all of his control to pass her the cup before he ravaged her. Never in his life had he known such lust, such wanting. He thought he had overcome that selfish impatience to be satisfied that plagued young men. But since first meeting Anne, he had been beset by a sizzling, intense desire that at once alarmed and delighted him. He checked his eagerness when he noticed that her hand trembled as she accepted the ornate goblet. She caught his notice and laughed nervously. “Uncertain, perhaps, but not afraid. Brennan ... ,” she began, and quickly lost her nerve.

  He touched his goblet to hers and they drank. He kissed her lips lightly, overwhelmed by his desire to crush her to him.

  “Brennan, there is something--”

  “Nay,” he said in a breath. “If you come to me willingly, there is nothing.” He took her goblet from her, placed both of them aside, and took her into his arms, this time to claim her lips with all the desire he felt.

  Anne gave herself freely and returned his ardor to the best of her ability. When she felt the pressure of his tongue, she relaxed and opened her lips under his. She felt his fire – she knew how badly he wished to possess her. She embraced him and caressed his back. And when she was lifted into his arms and taken to her childhood bed, she attempted once again to excuse the matter of her chastity. “Brennan, there is something--”

  “Anne,” he said, laying her down and placing soft kisses about her cheeks, eyes, and neck. “Will you accept a husband’s touch? By your own choice as well as your father’s?” he asked.

  “Oh yes, Brennan. I assure you.”

  “Then that is all I wish to know.” And he proceeded to slowly strip away the nightdress and his own clothing. His hand, trembling, slowly moved over her breast, down to her waist. “I want you to learn to trust my touch, Anne. This need not be a chore, a ritual, but a pleasure. Yours ... mine ... ours. Close your eyes, love takes time. You must never think love painful in any way.”

  “Brennan ...”

  “Close your eyes, my love, and let me show you ...”

  He did not wish to hear her words, and so she did not labor to form them. She allowed his every touch and tried to anticipate his desires, though shyly. It was not as with Dylan, when passion thrust them together with all the power and desperation of two merging thunderheads. Brennan took his leisure of her body, gently, slowly, delib
erately – touching each place with fingers and lips. She knew Brennan’s trembling was from restraint, which he employed for her sake. She almost gasped when she felt the warmth of his tongue on the inside of her thigh, but he hushed her again, and slowly caressed her, urging her to trust.

  Although he was well past his fourth decade, Anne found in him all the physical attributes of a much younger man. His body was well tended, muscled, and firm. His touch was delicate and thoughtful. He was clean and handsome, down to the last detail. There was no fault with Brennan, and he aroused many pleasant sensations in her, sensations she had not expected to come. It was not the same passion, but she soon did more than simply yield. She could not have asked for a more tender, patient, and caring lover. It pained her to know that what he would find would hurt him.

  When the truth became known to him, he hesitated in only a moment of surprise, but did not utter a sound. After that brief pause it seemed to increase his longing as he realized she was not intact. He began to move more desperately, rapidly. His caution ceased and his hunger consumed him. He took all of her, and she met him and moved with him as much as she could, until breathless and satisfied, he collapsed.

  She could not be the first to speak, for it was obvious that he knew. She could parley the questions only so well, and it was better that he question her than to offer an inadequate explanation. She did not wish to lie to him. It seemed a very long time before he released her body, and when he did so, he left their bed. He refilled the goblets and carried them back. He handed one to her and looked into her eyes. Brennan might have wished it otherwise, but if ever Anne had seen fatherly disapproval, it was then.

  “Perhaps you should have insisted, Anne, when I would not hear you.”

  She looked down into the deep red wine. “I would have told you sooner,” she said, “but I was sore afraid you would not take me.”

  “Had you told me sooner, it would have been better. Had you told me when it happened, it would have been better still.”

  “But Brennan, I could not,” she said, looking up at him.

  “It was long ago, then?”

  “Oh ... so long ago.”

  “You were forced?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she said, though in her mind the only force had been the circumstances. But indeed, for a woman in love, such circumstances.

  “Lady Gifford is neglectful and deceitful. She protected you ill.”

  “If you take her to task for my care, Brennan, I fear she will only try to discredit me.” She gulped hard and said a silent prayer. “No one knows but my mother,” she lied. “And I do not know why, but my mother does not love me. She wished for this union and I think she hoped you would not guess.”

  “Your father was unaware that you came to me thus?”

  “Only my mother ... and ... I am certain she blamed me. ‘Twas an errant knight in our household for less than a fortnight, then gone. Brennan, I swear, my chamber door has been locked since then.”

  He saw a tear collect on her lower lid and, with a gentle finger, wiped it away. “Poor Anne,” he said. “Even in your misery did your mother not see to you?”

  “Can you possibly forgive me?” she asked. “My silence misled you.”

  “I am amazed that you did not shake in pure fright at the thought of this night,” he said.

  She reached out a slightly trembling hand and touched his cheek. “Oh Brennan, I knew you would not treat me as he did. I never feared you. I only feared to shame you.”

  “If you can tell me you love me, if just a little, all thought of shame flees from my mind.”

  “I do love you,” she said with great sincerity. “I love you deeply, my lord and husband.” And it was far from a lie she told. Brennan was her salvation, her hope. And if she used him, it was her most ardent purpose to serve him well and honorably. She wished nothing more than to shower him with her gratitude.

  He set the goblets aside again, moved by her words. “Then perhaps it is better thus – for me at any rate. I am an old man without the time and patience for skittish virgins. I prefer a wife, in truth--a wife.”

  “Let it be me, Brennan,” she said, putting her arms around his neck. “I wish only to please you.”

  ***

  Their baggage was loaded on a cart, almost entirely Anne’s belongings since Brennan did not keep much at Raedelle. He traveled with a soldier’s baggage, light in clothing and heavy in gear. Anne would ride a docile mare and there was no female servant to attend her. Brennan alone would serve her needs.

  The Gifford sons, reunited, returned to Raedelle on the very morning that the earl and his bride were to depart. Brennan was in a hurry for London and could barely pause long enough to speak to the knights. Anger still shook him when he thought of Ferris and the way he died, without his sons to return his body. But they were all gathered in the bailey, the earl leaving, the Giffords returning.

  Quentin saluted him and approached, the others hanging back. “Have you had word of your father’s death?” Brennan asked.

  “Aye, my lord, to our shame. We will do a long penance for our neglect. Though Trenton tried to locate Father before Bart and I even left Raedelle, it was not to be. We found Trenton in the aftermath of Saint Albans – you had already carried Father here by then.”

  “Your penance will not bring him back, nor give him the burial he deserved, with his sons crossing swords over his body. It should come as a painful lesson to you.”

  “A sure and painful one, my lord,” Quentin said.

  “I am for London. I am taking my wife,” Brennan said, indicating Anne over his shoulder. She stood a short distance away, heavily cloaked in a hooded mantle that reached the ground, patiently waiting beside her mare. A look of relief crossed Quentin’s features – Bart came forward with a smile on his lips. Their families had united despite the sorry behavior of the Giffords. Bart was most grateful for that.

  “I would lift a cup with you, my lord, but it is clear you are bound for the road. I am well pleased my sister has wed you,” Bart said, looking over Quentin’s shoulder.

  “No doubt you are,” he said shortly. “There may be fighting along the way, but you could join Edward in London.”

  Bart came around his brother, standing beside him. He smiled confidently. “Perhaps less fighting than you expect, my lord. We have heard that London is barricaded against a possible attack from Margaret’s heathens, but the word along the road is that her Scottish soldiers are deserting--running home with all the booty they can carry. She thought to entice them with her permission to pillage what they would, but now that their load is heavy, they do not desire more. They care not who is king here. The city should prove to be no problem. I, for one, would be honored to travel with you. Would you allow us enough time to make fresh packs for travel? We still have to find the sixty men we left with Edward’s forces.”

  “Fewer than sixty now, but you’re welcome to ride with this group. Your presence in London might help Edward forget that you left Mortimer’s Cross with his hostages. And you might lend your arms to your sister’s protection as we travel. That may help me forget how poorly she has been protected here.”

  “The deFrayne captives? Are they dead now?” Quentin asked with some hesitancy.

  “To the contrary, they all escaped. Some trickery with costumes that appeared to be sewn for Ayliffe men-at-arms.” Brennan’s brow furrowed as he saw Quentin’s lips tugging at a smile. Bart cursed under his breath, and Trenton, who had been digging in his pack, looked up expectantly. “You do not seem displeased by the fact,” Brennan said to Quentin.

  “My lord, I was late in coming to good sense, but we yielded in the end – Father was right and we had no excuse for what we did. I am glad there was not an execution. It is the king’s business. I am for meeting them in fair contest, whether on tourney grounds or in battle.”

  Brennan lifted a brow and considered the others. “And you, Bart?”

  Bart looked at Quentin briefly. He was not the foo
l to ignore the earl’s reaction. “ ‘Tis a well-known fact that we hate deFraynes,” he said, shrugging. “The argument has engaged our families for a long time, and will endure a long time still--but I let it stand in the way of gaining a good reputation with Edward’s army for long enough.”

  “Perhaps there is some hope for you after all. Let’s see how fast you can ready new mounts.”

  Quentin gave a sharp nod, walking toward the hall, Bart close behind him. Trenton followed, pausing beside Lord Forbes. His eyes were red and his voice quaked. “I will go with you,” he said grimly. “I would avenge my father.”

  “You may not find a chance for that if what your brother says about Margaret’s forces is true. Just the same, you must pledge yourself to Edward now, or be too late. Many, I trust, will sing his praises when the fighting is done and he wears the crown. There will be little advantage in that.”

  “I do not care for advantage, my lord. My father died poorly, we should have been there.” He glared past the earl at the backs of his brothers. Then slowly he looked back at Brennan. It was clear the boy struggled with unshed tears. “If there is no fight, then I will see my sister safely settled.”

  Brennan was touched and clamped a hand on Trenton’s shoulder. “She will be well pleased, son. Get ready then.”

  Bart and Quentin already stood before their mother. Marcella was in the doorway, her hands hidden within the folds of her dark gown, her face grim. Trenton joined them and all three faced Marcella. To watch three grown men fidget in discomfort as if they wished to pass her discreetly told Brennan even more about Marcella’s hard hand. He did not listen as the Gifford sons quietly offered their condolences and apologies and explained the need for their quick departure.

  Brennan had said nothing at all to Marcella since his wedding. When she was free of her sons, he faced her, still angry with her, but cautious as he noticed the deep, dark circles under her reddened eyes. He neither trusted nor understood her, but he could not deny a strong curiosity. Had her outburst over the escaped prisoners been an inexplicable, irrational response to sudden shock and pain? And what about Anne?