"He did not rape me, not quite." It had been a long and wearying day, and suddenly Meriel felt that her legs would no longer support her. She sank down on a rock, her voice uneven. "He decided that assaulting me would be a satisfying way of striking at you, but Lady Cecily stopped him before he could accomplish his aim."
"God be thanked." Adrian's eyes squeezed shut, as if he could not bear to expose the intensity of his relief. After a moment he opened them again. "That is another debt I owe the lady of Chastain. I am so very glad. You have already borne too much because of me."
Meriel realized that it said a great deal about Adrian that even at his most obsessed, he had never physically harmed her. It was Burgoigne who had taught her what real fear was.
"Don't blame yourself for everything, my lord," she said. "The responsibility for violence lies with the man who commits it."
"True. But you would not have been at Chastain if not for me." He sighed. "It was foolish of me to ask what I did. Even if Guy had... fathered a child on you, you would not know when only a fortnight had passed. "I shall acknowledge your babe as my heir so that its rights will not be affected by the annulment. Will you let me take the child for fostering when it is old enough?"
"Of course," she answered, her throat tight. In his humility, the earl was yet again a stranger, neither the dominating lord nor the tender lover.
Adrian turned away from Meriel, his blind gaze resting on the tallest stone. His voice raw, he said, "When you were dying, I swore to obey your will in all things. Tell me what you want of me, Meriel, so that we can be done with each other."
Watching his still profile, Meriel said softly, "I want to know who you truly are, Adrian. When I was at Chastain, I began to remember what had happened between the time of my injury and when I recovered my memory here."
His whole body went rigid, but still he would not look at her. "What did you remember?"
She flushed deeply as memories of passion darted through her mind. Of how she had cried out his name with love and desire. "I remember recovering from my injury. Our courtship and marriage. Almost everything, I think. But though the events are very clear, it's as if they happened to someone else, not me."
Meriel paused, struggling to define what she meant. "It's as if the woman who married you is separated from the real me by a wall of clear glass, like the window in your chamber. I know that I loved you then, but those feelings are not quite real to me. Just as I was another woman, you were another man. Not the one who imprisoned me in his castle, nor the one who terrified me by butchering Guy of Burgoigne. You were so kind, so gentle." Her voice broke. "I had never dreamed that such love and gentleness could exist."
Too distressed to sit still, Meriel rose and paced away until she reached one of the standing stones. Halting, she leaned her forehead against the coarse gray surface and drew a deep breath. These stones would still be here, a mute testimony to mankind's need for faith, when she and Adrian were gone and forgotten.
Calmer, she turned back to her husband. "Who are you, Adrian? A butcher? A devil from hell, sent to torment me? Or the angel of kindness who loved me and whom I loved in turn?"
"I am neither, ma petite," he said, his bleak gaze finally meeting hers. "I am just a man. Though of the two, I have more of the devil than the angel."
His mouth twisted with self-mocking bitterness. "I have never felt free. I suppose it is my own fault. All of my life I've felt driven, compelled to master my own lower nature, to discharge my responsibilities to Warfield. To fulfill oaths I swore as a boy. Then I met you."
He moved away with the dangerous grace of a predator. "I loved you from the moment I saw you, Meriel, not just because in my eyes you are beautiful, but because you spoke to some deep, aching need in my soul. I think it was because you were so wholly yourself. And so free, as free as your own falcon.''
Adrian stopped facing away from her, the lines of his body taut. "Abbot William said that too often we kill what we love most, and he is right. Being a man and a fool, I tried to cage you, to bind you to me, to destroy what I most loved about you. I did not see that I was trying to kill your spirit until I came so very close to killing your body as well."
Finally he turned, his expression as bleak as death. "But you won, ma petite. Your will to be free is stronger than my ability to break it. So go in peace, beloved. I will not use the law to hold you against your will."
Meriel stared at her husband, tears forming in her eyes at his anguished honesty. She thought of a verse from the Bible, not from the Song of Solomon, but from Luke, the healer: His sins, which are many, are forgiven, for he has loved much.
Only God could know all the dimensions of a man's soul, but finally Meriel understood what the essence of Adrian was. Loving her, he had sinned against her, imprisoning a woman whose soul could not survive without freedom.
And now, loving her, he had set her free to make her own choice. As if she were a falcon to be whistled down the wind, he had cut the jesses of law and custom and obligation. There was nothing to bind her to him now.
Nothing but love, the strongest bond of all.
Finally she had her answer, and it was a very simple one. Though there were fearsome qualities in her husband, she had no reason to fear him. Yes, he had harmed her in the past, but he had learned a bitter lesson and she knew that he would never harm her again.
When injury obliterated her anger and stubbornness, when she had seen Adrian with fresh eyes and discovered the good in him, she had fallen in love. Together they had found passion, trust, and joy, and now that she was finally free to choose, Meriel discovered that there was only one possible choice.
Though she had sworn a vow never to submit to him, some vows should not be made. Or if they were made, they should be broken.
Trembling a little, Meriel walked to her husband, stopping an arm's length, away. He tensed at her approach, his expression a blend of undisguised longing and despair.
"When I came here, I didn't know what I wanted of you, Adrian, but now I do." Meriel gazed into his eyes, wondering how best to speak her heart. The Song of Solomon came to her tongue once more. Softly she said, "By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth. I sought him, but I found him not."
Adrian's face flared with unbearable hope, but he did not touch her. Instead he answered, "Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away..."
"For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone." Meriel completed the quotation, then caught his face between her hands and pulled his head down so she could kiss him. Even now she felt a shiver of fear, until her lips touched his. The wall of doubts that had separated her from the woman who was Adrian's wife shattered like glass and she felt the full force of her love in every fiber of her being.
"As God is my witness, I love you, Adrian," she whispered, weeping and laughing together. "I don't know how I could have forgotten, even for a moment. Perhaps deep down I knew that if I admit how much I love you, I can never be wholly free again."
Adrian's arms came around her with the force of a dying man seeking salvation. "It doesn't matter that you forgot," he said, his voice shaking. "All that matters is that now you remember."
The hungry intensity of his emotions ignited Meriel's own yearning. Words were not enough. Only passion had the power to express such joy and need. They had married and separated, and now they would renew their vows forever.
Though Meriel's memories of lovemaking were dreamlike, desire was now achingly real. Every sense in her body responded to the pressure of Adrian's mouth and seeking hands, every nerve tingled as taste, touch, scent, and sound intoxicated her. And she knew that she was beautiful because she saw her beauty reflected in his eyes.
Meriel never after remembered mundane details such as disrobing and spreading a mantle to make a bed of the grassy turf. Passion was the only reality, for her desire was as feverish as Adrian's. She wanted—needed—to join her flesh to his, as their hearts and spirits were already joined.
And at the he
ight of their divine madness, their spirits soared to the gates of heaven, together, yet free.
* * *
Afterward they lay twined together on the mantle, utterly content. Adrian drew a caressing hand down Meriel's sun-warmed body. "I thought I had lost you forever, ma petite, " he said quietly. "I did not think I would ever be happy again this side of the grave."
Meriel's lashes swept up to reveal the full force of her sky-deep eyes. "God works in mysterious ways," she said with a smile that very nearly melted his bones. ''When I was sore of heart about whether I should take the veil, I prayed for guidance and had a vision.
"I saw that two possible roads lay before me. One led to the religious life and was straight and clear and narrow, while the other was dark, mysterious, and rather frightening. Yet there was no true choice, for the religious road was barred by an angel with a flaming sword. He had silver-gilt hair and was the most beautiful and dangerous being I had ever seen."
She smiled and slid her fingers through Adrian's hair. "He was the very image of you, beloved. I think we were destined to be together. Yet I did not realize that until you set me free to choose."
Adrian untied and loosened Meriel's braids, then proceeded to spread the silken veil of hair across her body. "Why did you lie about your background when I first found you in the forest?"
"It seems foolish now," she said ruefully, "but I was afraid that you might endanger Avonleigh. You looked so fearsome, and I had heard evil things about the Earl of Shropshire."
"Richard guessed that might have been the reason. I shall have to cultivate a milder demeanor." His expression turned serious. "Though I was joyful when we first wed, there was always fear of what would happen if you remembered the past. Only now do I feel that we are truly married."
"I'm sorry, beloved," she whispered, "for the wasted time, and for the grief I caused you."
Adrian stretched out beside her and propped his head on his hand. "You needn't apologize," he said wryly. "The last few weeks have been so wretched that even I think I have suffered enough for my sins." He lifted her hand and kissed the palm, then brushed a soft trail of kisses along the fragile skin inside her wrist.
Meriel's fingers tingled with pleasure at his caress. "I think it would have been a very great waste if you had become a monk."
"Abbot William was right," Adrian agreed. "I lacked a true vocation, for I can think of no higher earthly calling than loving you." He leaned over and kissed the gentle curve of her abdomen. "You are so slim. It seems hard to believe that you carry our child here."
Meriel smiled with wry amusement. "You will believe it in the morning when I turn a delicate shade of green."
Laughter was the final gift, and laughing, Adrian drew his wife into his arms again. They had made love once with wild abandon. This time passion would be slow and thorough and infinitely tender.
I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine.
The End
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Historical Note
In 1153 Stephen's older son and chief heir, Eustace, died unexpectedly. Stephen's younger son, William, had neither the training nor the inclination to be king, and Stephen was persuaded to adopt Matilda's son Henry as his heir. Stephen himself died in 1154. He is generally regarded as a good man but a disastrous ruler. His successor, Matilda's son, has gone down in history as Henry II, one of England's finest kings.
Between them, Stephen and Matilda created twenty-seven earldoms as bribes for support, and the situation of two earls competing for the control of one county was repeated several times. At this period Shropshire did not have an earl; probably Henry I had assigned the revenues to his young widow, Adeliza, and neither her stepdaughter Matilda nor Stephen would have disputed the grant.
Names and titles were much more fluid then, and a nobleman might be styled in several ways simultaneously: Adrian de Lancey, Adrian of Warfield, Adrian of Shropshire, or Adrian of Shrewsbury (the principal town of Shropshire). Surnames were only just beginning to come into use (in Wales they did not become common until the eighteenth century), but for the sake of simplicity I have given family names to the protagonists.
The years from William the Conqueror to the end of Henry II's reign were generally a good time for the English Jews, who were protected by the kings and valued for their economic contributions. The Jews were considered fairer and more consistent in their moneylending practices than most Christian moneylenders. (There were a number of Christian moneylenders in spite of the Church's prohibition against usury.)
The Jews were taxed heavily and unpredictably, but everyone was then. (One of the accomplishments of modern society is that taxes are now somewhat more polite and predictable, though there are those who will disagree with that statement!)
After Henry II died, the position of the Jews deteriorated as Henry's sons Richard and John treated their Jewish subjects as resources to be wrung dry. Also, the rise of crusading fervor sometimes led to anti-Semitic persecution and violence.
In 1290 Edward I expelled the Jews from England, and they did not return in any numbers until the seventeenth century. Interestingly, it was the Puritans, who were great believers in reading the Bible for themselves, who developed respect for their Old Testament brethren and allowed the Jews to come back.
Page forward for an excerpt from
DEARLY BELOVED
Excerpt from
Dearly Beloved
by
Mary Jo Putney
New York Times Bestselling Author
DEARLY BELOVED
Reviews & Accolades
NJRW Golden Leaf Winner
"Marvelous characters and excellent plotting... charming and wonderfully romantic."
—Affaire de Coeur
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—Romantic Times
Isle of Mull, Scotland, 1799
The young man in the corner of the smoky taproom drank alone. It was not just that he was solitary: a nearly palpable wall separated him from the islanders. It had been over fifty years since Bonnie Prince Charlie had led the clans to destruction on Culloden Moor, but Scots have long memories. Though their hospitality was legendary, none felt compelled to seek out a man who was obviously rich and English, particularly not a man whose cool gray-eyed glance conveyed no welcome.
Being alone bothered the Honorable Gervase Brandelin not at all; he preferred it. He swallowed the last of his raw Scotch whiskey, feeling it burn even though it followed numerous earlier drafts. There was nothing subtle about either the spirit or the effect it produced, but after a month in the Highlands and Islands he'd begun to develop a taste for it.
The tavern was replete with the signature scents of farmers and fishermen and the acrid, eye-stinging bite of burning peat. Glancing across the low-ceilinged taproom, Gervase caught the eye of the barmaid and signaled for another whiskey. He was drinking too much, but after a day of riding through Mull's relentless rain he was in the mood for warmth and comfort. This inn was an unexpected find, its English owners having created an un-Scottish air of conviviality.
The barmaid sauntered over to him. She could have left a bottle at the beginning of the evening, but then she wouldn't have had an excuse to parade her wares. Every time she poured a new drink, her bodice was pulled lower and the swing of her hips was more deliberate. "Will yer lordship be wanting something more?" she asked, her tone suggesting a wealth of possibilities.
Gervase responded with a half-smile, enjoying the warmth spreading through his loins. Their courtship, if it could be termed such, had been progressing for the last two hours. Gervase's man Bonner would have mentioned that the master was heir to Viscount St. Aubyn. The remark ensured the maximum in deference and service for both man and master. It would also add a few crowns to the price of bed and board, but both were still cheap by London standards.
"What more do you have to offer?" he asked
lazily, brushing his dark hair back, grateful that it had finally dried. He had begun to wonder if anything in the Hebrides was ever dry.
Taking her time, she leaned across him as she poured more of the dark amber whiskey into his glass. Her full breast brushed his cheek and shoulder, and he could smell the musky, not overclean scent of her body. Gervase preferred a more refined kind of doxy, but he hadn't had a woman in weeks and this one was clearly available and willing. The girl was roundly attractive and he ran an appreciative hand down the curve of her hip.
Confident of her allure, she smiled provocatively. "We have anything you might want."
His gaze fell to her low-cut bodice, where half-exposed breasts were ripe for the plucking. "Anything?"
"Anything." The barmaid clearly had experience and enthusiasm for this sort of private business, which should make for a rewarding night.
Under the clatter of tankards and conversation, Gervase asked softly, "Do you know which room I'm in?"
"Aye."
"What time will you be through here?"
"Another hour, my lord. Will it be worth my while to visit you then?" Her tone managed to imply that while tall, dark, and handsome fellows like him were exactly to her taste, she was a poor working lass who needed to be practical.
Expecting this, Gervase had a gold coin ready to flip to the girl. She caught and hid it expertly before anyone else in the taproom could have noticed. "Will that suffice as a... token of my esteem?"
Her smile revealed strong, irregular teeth. "Well enough... as a beginning."
The price of the barmaid was inflated even more than the whiskey and the room, but since he was in a mood to buy, he raised his glass with a half-smile. "Until later, then."