door.
Dear God, what have I done?
Susanna flung herself across the chamber and grasped his arm as he stepped into the corridor. “Forgive me, Lord Wulfrith. I am but frightened for my nephew.”
He looked at her hand upon him. “Another spectacle, Lady Susanna?”
Whatever it took… “If you truly loved her”—she winced at the shake in her voice—“you would save her son, even if ’tis true you could not be his father.”
His lids narrowed. “It is true. No matter your pretty words about a past that is best left buried, I am under no obligation to Judas de Balliol—or you—to stand before the queen and declare myself incapable of having cuckolded one of King Henry’s barons.”
Pride. Of course that was it, though it certainly was not all. Susanna gripped his arm tighter. “I beg you, do not turn your back on Judas. He is only ten!”
“And he is not my problem.”
Feeling her color drain, Susanna released his arm and gripped the door frame lest her knees gave out from under her.
Something like concern lined his face, but then it smoothed away. “Eat something.” He jutted his chin in the direction of the table. “You are too gaunt and shall need your strength for the morrow’s ride.”
Gaunt. As Alan himself had been fond of pointing out once “plump” no longer served.
“Good eve, Lady Susanna.” He started to turn away.
“I will do anything,” she whispered, “whatever you ask of me.” And however he wished to interpret that…
Not well, she saw when he looked across his shoulder, then he was striding opposite.
She closed her eyes, gripped the doorframe so hard her bones ached.
Do not buckle. Deep breath. Now turn. One foot before the other. Close the door. One foot before— Very well, rest. Only for a moment.
When she finally opened her eyes where she leaned back against the door, they fell upon the untouched viands Everard Wulfrith believed would give her strength, which was true if she could keep it down. Still, it would not be the kind of strength she needed. And she resented it where it sat cold and stale and stomach-turning.
It was not plump Susanna de Balliol who lunged across the chamber. It was not gaunt Susanna de Balliol who wrenched the platter from the table. It was Susanna de Balliol who had only one thing in the world to lose—Judas. It was that one who threw the platter across the room. That one who did not flinch when it and the goblet of wine and foodstuffs crashed against the door. That one who sank to her knees, hunched forward until her head nearly touched the rushes, and tried—so very hard—to pray to God who seemed in no mind to heed the groaning and cries of a soul as sinful as hers. Not even for the sake of His beloved Judas.
CHAPTER EIGHT
He did not expect to find Sir Elias within an arm’s throw of his fist, but the man was near the base of the stairs, reclining against the wall, pressing the back of a hand beneath his nose as he watched those in the hall.
Regardless of whether or not the woman abovestairs had spoken true about what had gone between her and this knight, still Everard felt the prickle of dissatisfied knuckles. Fortunately, it was such an unfamiliar sensation that he recognized it as unbecoming of a Wulfrith knight, especially in light of the distance that now stood between Sir Elias and Lady Susanna.
Not until he was two steps removed from the knight did the man look around, his lack of startle evidencing he had heard Everard’s descent. Though there was a wary light in his eyes and tension about his shoulders, he did not appear to have retreat in mind. Of course, they were within sight of those in the hall, and there was a measure of safety in that. A measure.
Everard halted alongside him. “Certes, you take chances you should not, Sir Knight.”
The man lowered his hand, revealing the damage Everard had inflicted—swollen and purpling nose and lip—and shrugged. “I have heard that before.
Dear God, what have I done?
Susanna flung herself across the chamber and grasped his arm as he stepped into the corridor. “Forgive me, Lord Wulfrith. I am but frightened for my nephew.”
He looked at her hand upon him. “Another spectacle, Lady Susanna?”
Whatever it took… “If you truly loved her”—she winced at the shake in her voice—“you would save her son, even if ’tis true you could not be his father.”
His lids narrowed. “It is true. No matter your pretty words about a past that is best left buried, I am under no obligation to Judas de Balliol—or you—to stand before the queen and declare myself incapable of having cuckolded one of King Henry’s barons.”
Pride. Of course that was it, though it certainly was not all. Susanna gripped his arm tighter. “I beg you, do not turn your back on Judas. He is only ten!”
“And he is not my problem.”
Feeling her color drain, Susanna released his arm and gripped the door frame lest her knees gave out from under her.
Something like concern lined his face, but then it smoothed away. “Eat something.” He jutted his chin in the direction of the table. “You are too gaunt and shall need your strength for the morrow’s ride.”
Gaunt. As Alan himself had been fond of pointing out once “plump” no longer served.
“Good eve, Lady Susanna.” He started to turn away.
“I will do anything,” she whispered, “whatever you ask of me.” And however he wished to interpret that…
Not well, she saw when he looked across his shoulder, then he was striding opposite.
She closed her eyes, gripped the doorframe so hard her bones ached.
Do not buckle. Deep breath. Now turn. One foot before the other. Close the door. One foot before— Very well, rest. Only for a moment.
When she finally opened her eyes where she leaned back against the door, they fell upon the untouched viands Everard Wulfrith believed would give her strength, which was true if she could keep it down. Still, it would not be the kind of strength she needed. And she resented it where it sat cold and stale and stomach-turning.
It was not plump Susanna de Balliol who lunged across the chamber. It was not gaunt Susanna de Balliol who wrenched the platter from the table. It was Susanna de Balliol who had only one thing in the world to lose—Judas. It was that one who threw the platter across the room. That one who did not flinch when it and the goblet of wine and foodstuffs crashed against the door. That one who sank to her knees, hunched forward until her head nearly touched the rushes, and tried—so very hard—to pray to God who seemed in no mind to heed the groaning and cries of a soul as sinful as hers. Not even for the sake of His beloved Judas.
CHAPTER EIGHT
He did not expect to find Sir Elias within an arm’s throw of his fist, but the man was near the base of the stairs, reclining against the wall, pressing the back of a hand beneath his nose as he watched those in the hall.
Regardless of whether or not the woman abovestairs had spoken true about what had gone between her and this knight, still Everard felt the prickle of dissatisfied knuckles. Fortunately, it was such an unfamiliar sensation that he recognized it as unbecoming of a Wulfrith knight, especially in light of the distance that now stood between Sir Elias and Lady Susanna.
Not until he was two steps removed from the knight did the man look around, his lack of startle evidencing he had heard Everard’s descent. Though there was a wary light in his eyes and tension about his shoulders, he did not appear to have retreat in mind. Of course, they were within sight of those in the hall, and there was a measure of safety in that. A measure.
Everard halted alongside him. “Certes, you take chances you should not, Sir Knight.”
The man lowered his hand, revealing the damage Everard had inflicted—swollen and purpling nose and lip—and shrugged. “I have heard that before.
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