This Is All I Ask

  “And where did you hear that?”

  “From the kitchen wenches.”

  “Shouldn’t listen to servants’ gossip,” the blanket said firmly.

  “Aye, I know it, but it was truth this time. And you understand why I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to my father.”

  “Aye, girl, I understand.”

  “He will kill me if I return.”

  “I know, Gillian,” the blanket said, very softly.

  “And so,” Gillian continued, “I thought if I could give Christopher an heir, he wouldn’t send me away. I hoped he would want to keep me on as a servant of sorts. I know ’twas wicked to want to obligate him, but I’m skilled at not drawing attention to myself. I didn’t think he would begrudge me a little scrap of his floor to call my own in return for a child.”

  “Nay, Gillian, he couldn’t have.”

  “I couldn’t even muster up the courage to get past Alice’s door, though. Christopher cast me from his hall before I could explain.”

  The blanket called her lord several very uncomplimentary names.

  “I truly cannot blame him,” she said. “I think he has been deeply hurt and I understand how it feels. Do you know I never trusted anyone besides William? Perhaps Christopher has been dealt with treacherously. It isn’t easy to trust when you’ve been betrayed.”

  The blanket was silent for several moments, then it cleared its throat.

  “But,” it said very gruffly, as if it weren’t comfortable expressing the thought, “perhaps you could trust Christopher.”

  Gillian thought about it for a moment or two, then shook her head.

  “Nay, he would send me back to my father. ’Tis best I continue on to London. How far is London, anyway?”

  The blanket sighed. “Much too far away for you, girl.”

  “Then what am I going to do?” she asked, but she didn’t truly care about the answer. She was warm and, for the moment, she was safe. The rest of the world could go to the Devil.

  “You will stay where you are,” the blanket instructed, “and you and Christopher will have a talk in a few days and come to an understanding.”

  Gillian groaned. “I’ve no desire to talk. William promised me my knight would come for me one day and love me dearly. London is the only place my knight will find me. He certainly isn’t going to brave Christopher’s temper to fetch me.”

  “There will be no fetching of you, girl. You’ll stay right where you are and you and your lord will come to an understanding. I’ve made my decision.”

  Gillian was too weary to argue, though she still didn’t care for the blanket’s words.

  “’Tis a pity Christopher couldn’t come to love me,” she said with a yawn.

  The blanket spluttered.

  Gillian smiled, finding the idea to her liking all of the sudden. “He is powerfully handsome, especially when he smiles. I don’t much care for his bellowing, but I could avoid provoking him. Do you suppose he might kiss me someday?”

  The blanket was speechless.

  Gillian sighed. “I suppose not. You know, I met him several years ago, but I certainly don’t remember him being blind. I suppose he knows then just how ugly I am. And, of course, I haven’t his courage. He could never bear a wife who couldn’t be as fierce as he, could he? Nay, Blackmour’s lady should be as firm and immovable as the keep itself. I would likely shame him at every turn.”

  The longer she talked, and the more she thought about it, the more it hurt her.

  “Ah, Blanket, I am in such a sorry state.” She blinked back tears. “You know, I think Berengaria truly is a witch. I wish she could make me beautiful, for then Christopher would want me. Or perhaps she could give me courage. Which would be the more difficult of the feats, do you think?”

  She yawned through her tears and pressed her face against the blanket’s throat. Thinking about it anymore was just too tiring.

  “Hold me while I sleep,” she whispered. “Please.”

  The blanket did just as she asked.

  thirteen

  CHRISTOPHER DRAGGED HIS HANDS THROUGH HIS HAIR and stepped from the kitchens. The chill of the great hall hit him square in the face and reminded him of just how cold Gillian had been for two days while he’d been trying to find her. More and more he wondered how she had survived. Colin had said there had been no one in the hut, just signs of a recent fire. Gillian could have built that herself.

  But then who was this mysterious Berengaria she talked to in her fevered dreams? Christopher shook his head, unable to answer his own question. Whoever the woman was, spirit or flesh, she’d kept Gillian alive long enough for him to find her and he was grateful.

  He was also frightened. There was no use in trying to pretend otherwise. Gillian knew of his blindness; yet she wanted to stay. Or so she’d said. Had she truly been babbling aloud while dreaming, or had she been doing it apurpose, scheming to have him while his heart was softened?

  He groaned silently. Saints, he was an untrusting whoreson! The girl had been out of her head with fever, calling for phantoms of her dreams and he was suspecting her of perfidy? The scars on her back alone should have convinced him that she had neither the stomach nor the heart for betrayal. How could she, when betrayal was what had cost her the most? Her father should have been the one soul she could have trusted and he had abused that trust.

  An unaccustomed feeling of frustration washed over Christopher. He wanted Gillian to trust him, to look to him for comfort and aid.

  Or did he? Did he want to open his heart to her, just to have her turn on him and rend him to pieces?

  What he wanted was to sit down and rest until his poor head stopped turning in such circles. Saints, he’d never been so confused in his life.

  A scream tore through the babble in the hall and Christopher jerked his head up. He ran to the stairwell, then sprinted up the stairs and down the passageway to his bedchamber.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  Gillian was screaming that at the top of her lungs. Christopher burst into the chamber and rushed over to the bed.

  “My lord, ’tis the fever,” Jason panted. “She was thrashing about so violently I had to stop her before she hurt herself. I vow I’m holding her down gently!”

  Christopher pulled Jason away and found Gillian’s shoulders. He pinned her to the bed, then put his knee over her legs.

  “Gillian, stop it,” he commanded. “You’re dreaming. Nothing will harm you here.”

  “Stay away from me,” she wept, flailing her arms and legs wildly. “Not again, Father. You’re not going to hurt me again!”

  “Gillian—”

  Her knee caught him full in the groin and he gasped out an oath.

  “Stop it!” he bellowed.

  A blinding pain in the side of his head was followed immediately by the feel of cold liquid splashing over his chest and arms.

  “My lord, she snatched the pitcher before I could stop her,” Jason said quickly.

  Christopher gritted his teeth, ignoring Gillian’s continued screams. “Am I bleeding?”

  “Nay, my lord, but you are very wet.”

  “Thank you, Jason,” Christopher said tightly. “I daresay I couldn’t have divined that on my own.”

  “Not again,” Gillian sobbed. “You can’t touch me again.”

  “Gillian, calm yourself,” Christopher said, trying to sound soothing. He found her arms and pinned them to the bed. “Calm yourself!”

  “I have a s-sword,” she said, ceasing to thrash. Christopher felt the fight drain out of her. “I know h-how to use it,” she hiccupped. “I have a b-bloody sword.”

  Her will dissolved into hoarse sobs. Christopher released her shoulders and she rolled away from him. He sat on the edge of the bed and felt for her, finding that she had thrown her arm over her head, as if to ward off a blow.

  “My lord, forgive me,” Jason said, his voice hoarse. “I never meant to distress her.”

  Christopher sighed. “It wasn’t
your fault, lad, as you well know. You told me yourself that it would take time to win her trust, and I can see now how true that is. We’ll go slowly and prove to her that she has no reason to fear us.”

  “Then you’re keeping her?”

  “Of course I’m keeping her. She needs me,” he added, surprised at how boastful his tone was. “She needs me desperately and I’m not about to send her away.”

  Aye, that was truth indeed. What he didn’t add was how pleased he was over it. For the first time in three years, someone needed him. He’d spent so long relying on others, first on Colin and Jason to watch over him until his body was healed, then on them both to help him find his way about in his world of darkness. He relied on Jason to be his eyes, on Colin to be his ears and his strong arm, even on his garrison captain and personal guard to see to the rest of his rotating guardsmen and not reveal his secret. Never once had anyone needed him for other than their daily bread and a marginally comfortable place to sleep.

  But now it was different. Gillian needed his name to hide under, and his strong body to hide behind. She needed him to protect her and he wouldn’t fail her. He would be quiet and still and wait for her to come to him. And he would hope to heaven that she could endure his foul temper and occasional bouts of impatience, for he very much doubted he could amend either flaw.

  “I’ll see to her now, Jason,” Christopher said, finding that merely saying the words made him want to stand up a bit straighter. “And I’ll fetch her something from the kitchens a bit later.”

  “Shall I wait, my lord? To see if you need anything?”

  “Nay, lad. Hie yourself off to the lists and tell Sir Colin I sent you there to humiliate him. I’ve no need of you now.”

  “Oh,” Jason said. “Very well then, my lord. But I’ll return soon, aye?”

  “After supper, lad. I’m equal to caring for Gillian myself until that time.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Christopher bolted the bedchamber door behind Jason, then returned to the bed. He stripped off his wet tunic, then stretched out over the blankets and put his arm around his wife. She was still feverish, but that was to be expected.

  “Blanket?” Gillian mumbled sleepily.

  “Nay, Gillian, ’tis Christopher, not your blanket. Blankets do not have arms.”

  “Mine does,” she insisted.

  He smiled. This was the Gillian William had told him about, the one who teased with enthusiasm and countered his verbal parries with sharp thrusts of her own. It was a pity she couldn’t wake from her fever and retain her lack of defenses. Then again, perhaps that would be part of the challenge, to see if he could teach her to trust him, to let him see this side she had shown to no one but her brother.

  “Come closer, Blanket,” she commanded. “’Tis bloody cold in here.”

  “I’ll have to take off the rest of my clothes and come under the sheet with you if you want to be warmer.”

  “Don’t be a dolt. Blankets do not have clothes.”

  “Of course not.” He pulled away, stripped off his remaining garments, and slid under the coverings. She turned instantly and burrowed against him, squeezing as close to him as humanly possible.

  She was very warm and Christopher immediately became that way too. He groaned. Three years of celibacy had been three years too long and his body was reminding him of that.

  “You’re not very comfortable,” Gillian complained, seeking a place for her head on his shoulder. “Much too hard.”

  Perhaps it wasn’t such a fine idea to teach her to trust him. He had the distinct feeling that the Gillian of Warewick who lay buried under all the layers of living would be a very outspoken Gillian indeed.

  “But even though you are so uncomfortable, you suit me,” she whispered. “Will Christopher let me keep you, do you think?”

  “Aye,” he whispered, pressing his lips against her hair. “I daresay he will at that.”

  He pushed away the terror that nagged at the edges of his soul. She was an innocent child who could do nothing to hurt him. Teaching her to trust him was a far cry from giving her his heart. In time, he might even bed her, but that would require nothing but his body. He could keep his emotions at bay, not let her close enough to hurt him. He would keep her safe and he would try to be kind. He had kindness for Jason and for Wolf; that much at least he could give her. She would make no demands on him. His defenses would remain intact.

  Not even Gillian could breach those.

  • • •

  GILLIAN WOKE, DRENCHED IN SWEAT. SHE OPENED HER eyes to darkness. It was then that awareness of her surroundings came to her in a rush. She was in a bed. Her head was resting on a muscular shoulder, the palm of her hand was lying on a broad, smooth chest and her forehead was pressed against a whisker-roughened jaw. There was a heavy arm around her back and over her waist.

  And she was naked.

  Her breath began to come in gasps. Her worst fears were coming to pass. She had been taken prisoner and her captor was just waiting for her to wake up so he could torture her.

  With a mighty jerk, she rolled away and continued to roll.

  “By the saints—” a man exclaimed.

  She shrieked and scrambled to her feet. She found herself suddenly caught up in bedcurtains and she went down to the floor with a great rending sound and a hearty thump.

  “Don’t move!”

  If she could have disobeyed, she would have, but she was trapped in voluminous folds of cloth and couldn’t tell which way to exit them so she could breathe. She heard the sound of feet coming closer to her and in panic she kicked out.

  “Gillian, by the bloody saints, cease! ’Tis me, Christopher! Can you not recognize your own husband?”

  Christopher? Gillian froze. Christopher had come for her, just as Berengaria had said he would. But what was she doing in his bed? And draped over him like a whore, no less!

  Snatches of dreams returned to her, pouring her heart out to the woman with silver hair, praying Christopher wouldn’t send her to her father, talking to a blanket with such incredible warmth.

  She jumped as she felt hands groping over the bedclothes.

  “Damn me, but you’ve tangled yourself well,” Christopher said. “Can you move at all?”

  She tried, and failed. “I fear I am sitting on whatever end there is to the cloth.”

  “Give me your hands then, and I’ll pull you to your feet. Then we’ll unveil you.”

  “Oh, please, nay,” Gillian said quickly. “I’m not wearing anything!”

  “I hardly see how that would be a problem.”

  Of course not, as he couldn’t see her at all.

  “Oh, my lord,” Gillian said quietly, “forgive me.”

  Christopher grunted. “I’ll give it some thought, depending on how quickly you obey me. Now, give me your hands and let me help you up. I won’t steal all your covering.”

  Gillian pushed her hands out and felt Christopher take them. The next thing she knew, she was on her feet, stumbling, then falling against him. He put his arms around her and steadied her. Then, keeping one arm around her, he pulled the bedclothes from off her head. He felt her hair, then smoothed his hand over it.

  “Can you breathe now, my lady?”

  Breathe? While standing in the embrace of a man who frightened her while she was awake and haunted her dreams while she slept? Nay, breathing was beyond her.

  “Gillian?”

  “Aye,” she managed.

  He put his hand against her brow. “Your fever has broken, it seems. You must be hungry. I’ll wrap you up in my dressing gown and put you before the fire, then I’ll fetch you something to eat. Have you a preference?”

  She shook her head. “Nay,” she said.

  “Can you stand, or are your feet tangled in the bedclothes still?”

  “I can stand, my lord.”

  He turned and crossed the chamber. Gillian did nothing but stand stock-still, swathed in heavy cloth and gape at her husband. Never in
her life had she seen a naked man. She wondered, absently, what she had expected, but it certainly hadn’t been what she was seeing at present.

  His broad back tapered down to a trim waist and lean hips. Tight buttocks melted into heavy thighs which lengthened down into muscular calves. His every move spoke of power and grace. His muscles rippled as he reached out to pluck a dressing gown from off the table; then he turned. She caught her breath. She knew she should have been looking at his broad shoulders, or the finely honed muscles in his legs, but all she could do was stare at his groin.

  “Stop staring,” Christopher growled.

  Her gaze flew to his face. He was staring at her. She blushed furiously and had the unnerving impression that he could actually see her.

  “I wasn’t staring,” she lied.

  “Aye, you were.” He folded the dressing gown over his arm and let it hang in front of him as he crossed the room to her. “I can feel the heat from your cheeks.” He put his palm to her cheek and nodded, as if he’d just proved a great experiment to himself. “Aye, you’re blushing.”

  “And you’re . . . you’re naked,” she spluttered.

  He grunted as he draped the gown around her shoulders. “Sight was certainly not wasted on you, my lady. Now, go sit you down by the fire and I will fetch you something to eat. And then you’ll retire back to bed. You’ve fought this fever for the three days since I brought you home, and I daresay you fought it for a day or two before then.”

  She stared at him in fascination as he pulled on hose and boots and continued to stare as he built up the fire. He soon left the chamber, his chest bare. Once he had gone, she pushed off the bedcurtains and drew his dressing gown more closely around her, ridiculously pleased that he had given it to her.

  Then she ruthlessly squelched her feelings. He likely would have done the same for any number of others. He hadn’t meant to imply anything by the gesture. She took her place in his chair next to the fire and didn’t move a muscle. She didn’t even dare move the chair any. Nay, she’d learned her lesson. Christopher didn’t like the unexpected.