The Everlasting Covenant Page 2

  “Then soon, Dylan.”

  “Soon, my sweet love.”

  “Ah,” she sighed, leaning her head against his chest. “I curse our grandfathers, Dylan. I would go into hell to curse them.”

  Dylan groaned sadly. There was a heaviness in his breast, like a boulder on his heart. “It has little to do with our grandfathers now,” he said quietly. “The curse of the late-born son is to hear too much, too soon. But I think I have good news. It may come to nothing, but we do have one sympathetic ear. Daphne, my mother.”

  Anne’s head snapped back and she stared into his eyes, stricken for a moment. “You’ve told her?”

  “No, but Daphne has the eyes of a hawk, and, praise God, the heart of an angel. She has seen me watch you. She told me she understands ... and if there is a way to help me without defying my father, she will do so.”

  Disappointed, Anne let her head drop to his chest again. “Oh, Dylan, there is no way for you to claim me with your father’s good will. If I go to the deFraynes as your wife, my family will only start more battles against your house. We must both leave our families. There’s no help for it.”

  “Then we shall.” He lifted her chin with a finger. “If that is what must be, we shall leave them to their stupid war. I am a good fighter, I will do well anywhere. The inheritance my father has in mind for me will be nothing to dismiss ... he would be pleased to add it to Wayland’s or Cam’s small fortune. Your dowry cannot be rich, little second-born lass ... what do they have that we cannot win in a few months from Burgundy or Calais? We mean nothing to the families. Do not lose heart, sweet, for we will have each other one day soon. All that delays us now is the best moment to flee.”

  She giggled suddenly. “My dowry? Oh Dylan, I am to go to the convent. Have you never suspected? It was decided at my birth. Twas not for my sweet disposition that they promised to send me to the church, for I was a horrid child. My mother near lost her life birthing me, and then the midwives could not keep me from crying. Poor Lord Gifford ... three sons to train and two daughters to see wed.”

  A rich, handsome smile broke over Dylan’s face “You? In a cloister? Mon dieu, the sisters would be outraged. You are the most beautiful and the most passionate woman in Christendom.” He kissed her again, deeply, and her response to his touch gave lie to a life as a nun. He chuckled again. “You, a bride of Christ? Impossible! I am hard pressed not to spoil you, and all this time Lady Gifford thinks of you as a nun.”

  “Oh, Dylan, I know you love me. And I will never be a sister. I will be your wife. Or your mistress. I will only be with you.”

  “It is just as well, this plan they have. At least I shall never lose you to another man. And perhaps it will be easier to steal you from the convent than from your father’s house.”

  “Do you promise, Dylan, my love?”

  “I swear. Even though I wish it otherwise for both our sakes, it is you I love, Anne. I fear I always will.”

  ***

  The fair at Lincoln was a fall festival attended by noble and common families, knights, merchants, and monks. That of two years past was etched in Anne’s memory for all time. She was with her sister, he was with his brothers. Anne was allowed to go because she had argued and begged fiercely. She was three and ten. Dylan had a score of years. The streets were narrow and crowded, and as they came upon a leathermonger’s cart, Divina slowed her pace and turned to Anne, directly behind her. “They are deFraynes. Do not look at them.”

  This was said loudly enough so that the eldest deFrayne man turned from the leathermonger’s wares and snorted in the direction of the women, making some uncomplimentary comment about their ugliness. Had they been Gifford men passing deFrayne men, no doubt there would have been a fight. It had happened often over more than fifty years. But on this occasion, there was something rare in the crisp fall air. Wayland deFrayne ignored Divina Gifford as she lifted her nose and her hem to pass quickly, but his younger brother, Sir Cameron, watched her haughtily and with disdain. This induced the youngest deFrayne to turn his head.

  Divina glided past with a superior air, Anne close behind. But Anne could not ape her sister’s manner, though she tried. She had never seen a deFrayne, and she had heard a lifetime of wild and horrible tales about this wretched family who had cost hers so much. She glanced at them curiously, amazed to find them without fangs or horns. It was Sir Cameron who made her blush.

  “The little one has great mettle. Someday I will capture her and bait the Gifford bastards to come and fetch her.”

  “If you touch her, I will kill you,” another voice said. Anne, young and only curious about these evil men, looked directly at Dylan’s beautiful face. He was a handsome youth, the most handsome she had ever seen. His eyes sparkled like jewels, turquoise and deep, his lips parted to reveal bright, even teeth, and his thick hair was wheat and rye, touched by the fire of the sun. “She is an angel,” he said in a voice that was both playful and seductive at once.

  Anne had smiled spontaneously. She met his eyes for only an instant, and in that first instant she was so filled with him, her life would be changed forever.

  “She is only a Gifford brat,” Cameron remarked.

  “Nay. She was stolen as a baby and only awaits rescue,” Dylan replied. “Look, she sports not the pale and gold of her sister and mother, but the ebony locks of the raven. She is not one of them. She is an angel.”

  “Anne!”

  Divina had broken the spell, brief though it was, when she realized that her younger sister was transfixed by their banter. Anne instantly lifted her nose, tried to copy Divina’s regal bearing, and followed. But she looked over her shoulder to find Dylan smiling at her. Later, she was lectured and disciplined for pausing before any member of the deFrayne household, and Bart offered to kill the deFrayne bastard who had dared to insult her. Bart would have been doubly distressed had he known that Anne’s heart still beat wildly, excitedly, every time she thought of her brief pause to receive a smile from Dylan deFrayne.

  A year exactly passed and it was again the Lincoln fair when a sudden downpour sent everyone fleeing to shelter. Anne’s arm was grasped by a young courtier who would help, and she was pulled under the cover of a gardener’s pavilion. Standing there amidst the hoes, scythes, and pots for over an hour of dreadful rain, she became acquainted with Dylan, her would-be archenemy.

  Anne was only fourteen during her second harvest fair, but behind her was a full year of arousing imaginings that revolved around a dangerous intrigue with this handsome young man. He was exciting and forbidden, and little more was required to inspire a maiden’s curiosity. That, and closer attention to her family’s discussion of the Gifford-deFrayne feud, had begun to mature her. Her little-girl daydreams were changing into a woman’s desire.

  Had Dylan been his family’s spokesman, he’d have laid the long-running feud to rest in an hour, for he won her heart in less time. He was kind, witty, charming, and courteous. He cared nothing about the old aches and accusations that had separated their households, and he was not even quite sure who had begun the dispute or how. “Perhaps I would feel differently if I were the eldest son, as does Sir Wayland, my brother. He has been schooled all his life on protecting Heathwick from the wicked Giffords. But I am unimportant and have not been reared with this hatred as the older boys have.”

  “It is said that your great-grandfather killed my great-grandfather,” Anne pointed out.

  Dylan laughed handsomely. “At my home, your great-grandfather killed mine. But if, indeed, it is the other way around, I apologize,” he had said with a deep bow.

  “And I accept,” she giggled, giving him a curtsy, equally deep.

  They enjoyed an hour, but the rain would give them no more. As the downpour lightened enough so that the other side of the street could be seen, Dylan grew more serious. “I have thought about you for a year,” he told her.

  “Have you? I can’t guess why. ...”

  “Have you thought about me?” he asked.

&n
bsp; “Once or twice,” she lied, her cheeks pinkening.

  “Do not tell your family you have spent the hour with me, petite. Your brothers will hunt me down and have me hanged.”

  “Would they?”

  “It is a pact of honor. My brothers would do the same. Let us deny their battles, cherie. Will you? With me?”

  Excitement filled her and her heart began to pound. To think that her own family would begrudge her this charming friend was deplorable. “If they knew you, Dylan, they would ...”

  He shook his head and his eyes hardened. “They will not sheath their swords long enough to know me, Anne. I have risked much. Do not tell them, I pray.”

  “Will you tell your brothers?”

  He laughed suddenly. “No, petite, but not because they would harm you. The only honorable thing between our families is that the men do not abuse the women of their enemies. But they would take you from me and boast of the feat. You must not trust them either.”

  “I will not tell, Dylan.”

  He grasped her suddenly by the upper arms and covered her lips, kissing her deeply. “I must see you again.”

  “It is impossible!”

  “I will think of a way. Keep our secret, sweet angel. Until next I find you--and I will find you, Anne--I will dream of you.” And he had dashed away, disappearing into the sheet of rain, leaving her alone in the little shelter until the sky cleared and Minerva came frantically searching for her lost ward.

  Good to his word, Dylan had found her again. She had gone with her mother on a pilgrimage to a nearby convent, escorted by a few men-at-arms. As their horses were taken, the handsome stableboy glanced her way, his turquoise eyes twinkling with mischief. She almost gasped aloud, but quickly realized that she alone recognized him. As her mother slept, she crept from their loft and went to the stable, although his only invitation had been his brief grin and shining eyes. “I am fortunate you are so young and innocent,” he had said. “You have none of the teasing, wily ways of these noble dames and you do not make me beg a kind word.”

  “Were you any other man, Dylan deFrayne, I would make you come through my brothers to get the smallest smile, but, alas, you are my enemy and I cannot even practice all the clever allures I have watched other maids use. But how did you ever find me here?”

  “I followed the troop from your home, traveling through the wood and keeping my distance. When your mother mentioned the convent to her escorts, I overheard and rode ahead to bribe the stablekeeper. A few silvers in his hand made the stable mine for the night.” He had grinned brightly. “But at dawn I have to curry the horses.”

  “You are indecent, the sisters are shamed.” Her tone, as she well remembered, had been teasing and bright, for she not only liked Dylan a great deal more than she should, but the sheer adventure of sneaking behind her mother’s back to be with him was most exhilarating. Marcella was so caught up in the knightly accomplishments of her sons and a sound marriage for Divina, she had ignored Anne almost entirely.

  Anne had been nursed by a servant and consigned to Minerva when she was weaned. Divina had followed her mother around the keep, while Anne remained closer to her nurse than her mother. It seemed to Anne, sometimes, that her mother looked at her as though she did not know who she was. She was all the more ripe for love when Dylan appeared.

  Although Anne believed she had loved Dylan from the first moment their eyes met, it was that night in the cloister stable that the adventure turned from the youthful games of naughty children to the torment of forbidden lovers. And Dylan had been the first to see it through grown-up eyes. He touched her cheek with his hand and his warm lips touched hers briefly, lightly. His lips trembled and his voice was soft. “I have fallen in love with you, Anne. And I am afraid I will ruin your life. Leave me quickly. Never come back to me again.”

  “Oh Dylan, nay. I cannot! I love you, too!”

  He sighed deeply. “They may find a way to tear us apart, my Anne. Promise me that no matter what we have to endure, you will not let a beautiful love make you bitter and angry. Let it be your joy, even if it is a brief, secret joy.”

  A dozen times had been theirs since that rainstorm in Lincoln. Each encounter was more dangerous than the one before. That they had not been caught was one miracle, and that Dylan had not given in to temptation and compromised her virtue was another. The first miracle was nothing more than luck, and the second, a true test of his strength, for Anne was so in love with him that she could never have denied him anything. She wanted nothing so much as to be his in body and heart. A little girl on her first outing had smiled at him; a woman was molded in his arms.

  Every night before she slept her head was filled with each small memory, brief moments they had stolen to be together. This night after the joust was no different. She had crept into the bower that she shared with Minerva and her sister. Minerva’s snores were uninterrupted and Divina was peacefully dreaming of some knight who had flirted with her at the feast. Anne let her memories turn into dreams as she drifted off to sleep, the sun already struggling to rise as she laid down her head. This tournament was the finest thing God could give her, for five days would be spent here. And if she were clever and careful, each night she could spend precious moments in Dylan’s arms.

  Her eyes had barely closed when she was rudely jostled. “Anne, wake up. Wake up.” The snappish demands could come only from her mother, and Anne opened her eyes slowly, the early morning light searing.

  “Madam?” she questioned sleepily, confused. “Is it ... have I missed mass?”

  “No, silly wench, it is early. Dress yourself carefully and come to my chamber. Hurry now.”

  Anne sat up unsteadily. “Is something amiss? Is there some trouble?”

  Marcella’s brow was furrowed unhappily as she looked at her daughter, but her eyes were alive with intense concentration. Anne had seen this look in her mother’s eyes before, for Marcella was adept at plotting. The fear that she was caught and in trouble fled while she wondered at her mother’s new conspiracy and how it could possibly include her.

  “Naught amiss for you, lass. It seems you’ve caught the eye of one or two contestants in the lists and it happens a man of some wealth who is a friend to the Duke of York is interested in you.”

  “Me? But--”

  “I have already confirmed that it is not Divina he seeks. Hurry now. He will come to our chamber this morn and you will meet him.”

  Anne’s eyes grew round. “Madam?”

  Marcella rose above her pallet, her glittering eyes bearing down on her daughter, her smile strained. Anne tried to understand the expression. She assumed that the prospect of a marriage to this friend of the duke’s pleased Marcella, but that the betrothed would be Anne and not Divina did not. “I said, dress yourself prettily. Your father has a suitor for you to meet.”

  “But madam, the convent! The sisters!”

  “It appears you will be more useful as a bride. Now hurry. And do not be impudent. If all goes well, you will soon be married, and our family will profit by the match.”

  Chapter Two

  Ferris Gifford looked as though he had been dragged too early from his rest by the same impatient demands that had aroused Anne. Dark circles from a night of high revelry hung under his eyes and he slouched in his chair with a horn of cool ale to ease his head. He straightened slightly as Anne entered, and as he looked at his youngest child his eyes began to glow. He patted the stool beside him, and with a nervous smile she perched there.

  “Could you have chosen no better gown?” Marcella questioned.

  Anne looked down at the mauve velvet. A trousseau is not sewn for a girl preparing to enter the cloister, and the dress was a year old and tight-fitting. Her hem was too high and her breasts strained at the bodice. The sleeves rose above her wrists. “It is one of my best, madam,” she said quietly.

  “Could you have used one of Divina’s, then?”

  “But, madam, you told me never to touch her things. And she does not sh
are them freely.” A girl destined to the convent did not need fancy clothes, but a girl in search of a husband required a more elaborate wardrobe. Anne’s wardrobe consisted of old dresses handed down from her sister and taken in to fit, for Divina was much larger; a new gown was rare.

  “Well,” Marcella huffed, “in this instance--”

  “Leave the lass be,” Ferris gruffly ordered. “There is no more beautiful woman in all the world, as the Earl of Ayliffe’s notice will attest.”

  “The Earl of Ayliffe?” Anne whispered, looking at her father.

  Marcella was busily searching through her coffer, her back to her husband and daughter, and Ferris’s words were soft and almost consoling. “He is a rich man, petite. And powerful. It is fortunate that he has noticed you, but that does not a perfect husband make. He is also good and kind, a man I admire.” With that final endorsement, Ferris squeezed her hand.

  “But Father, the convent ...”

  “You are too good for the convent, Anne. And the earl’s offer is too good for this family to be ignored.”

  “Then ‘tis done?”

  Ferris looked at her sympathetically. “Nearly done, lass. Your mother has been busy.” His eyes drifted toward Marcella, and Anne could see that her father was unhappy. Marcella was accustomed to taking control whenever she pleased, and she often assumed tasks that should belong to her husband, though she had failed to completely control Ferris. Lord Gifford’s influence was at test here, for Anne was the only one of their five children who did not hang on Marcella’s every word. “Your mother did not consult me, but it is true that the earl’s influence is important to us all.”

  Marcella rushed toward Anne and swiftly draped a gold necklace laden with diamonds around her neck. “At least you have a comely figure, if a little thin.”

  “She is not thin, madam. She is young. And the gown is too small for her growing bosom.”

  Anne flushed scarlet as a knock sounded at her parents’ chamber door. Marcella lifted a brow as she considered Anne’s chest, then grabbed the tight waist of Anne’s gown and tugged it down with a sharp yank, exposing more of her breasts. Ferris’s face slowly grew purple. Marcella turned to open the door, and Ferris’s rough fingers pinched the fabric of Anne’s gown at her cleavage and yanked it up. Anne looked at her hands in her lap, helpless tears smarting in her eyes.