This Is All I Ask

  She jumped when the door behind her opened. Then she rose from her chair and hastened to close the door for her husband. She stood with her hand on the wood and toyed with the idea of escaping out into the passageway. But was escape really what she wanted? She’d escaped before, nay, been sent away, and it hadn’t served her.

  She pushed the door shut. Christopher’s hand on her shoulder startled her. He reached over her and bolted the door, then slid his fingers down her arm until he could clasp her hand.

  “Come. Your supper is waiting.”

  “What time is it?”

  “I daresay ’tis the middle of the night.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “That was a foolish thing to ask.”

  He squeezed her hand as he led her over to the hearth. “It was a logical question to ask of anyone but a blind man. But I’ll not hold it against you.” He felt for the arms of the chair, then positioned Gillian in front of it and pushed her gently down. Then he pulled over a small table and put her supper atop it.

  “I wasn’t sure what your preferences were, so I brought what I could find. Cook was conveniently senseless and would not rouse when I suggested he do so.”

  Gillian broke off a piece of bread and chewed on it, finding it hard to swallow indeed. She watched Christopher settle down on the stool opposite her, watched his expression turn serious and knew he was ready to tell her she was to be sent home. He flexed his fingers, as if he prepared to do battle. Then he leaned forward, looking in her direction.

  “Oh, please,” she blurted out. “Let us not speak. I beg you.”

  He looked momentarily confused, then shrugged and sat back. “As you wish, my lady.”

  She knew her reprieve was sure to be short-lived, but she enjoyed it just the same. She pulled her legs up into the chair with her and hugged her knees to her chest as she ate from Christopher’s findings. She poured herself wine and savored the taste, knowing she would soon be drinking the piss-water her father preferred, if she were alive to have even that.

  And she stared at her husband. She memorized the way his long, dark hair fell over his brow; the way he cocked his head to one side when he listened; the stern, unyielding strength of his face. She memorized how broad his chest was and how powerful his arms were. She watched his hands, remembering how he had brushed one of them over her hair, then touched her cheek with the other. She would never forget how beautifully he moved, all strength and grace. Everything about him was strong and dark and uncompromising. Just like his home. Neither Blackmour nor Blackmour’s lord would ever yield to anyone less powerful or intimidating than they.

  She realized suddenly how completely inadequate she was to be his wife. The thought echoed in her head, as if it had been something she’d dreamed. Aye, he deserved better than she. She sat back in her chair and sighed softly.

  “Finished?”

  She nodded. Then she remembered. “Aye.”

  He rose and walked over to the bed. Her heart sank as he picked up the bedclothes and began to reconstruct his bedding. It was obviously a task he did very rarely as he was hopelessly unskilled at it. Gillian couldn’t bring herself to help him. The sooner he was finished, the sooner he would start talking and the sooner she would be on her way.

  Far too quickly he flung the blankets over the lumpy sheet. She watched as he crossed the chamber and stopped directly before her. He held down his hand.

  She rose without taking it. “I can find my own way, my lord. I thank you for the supper and for your hospitality. I would repay you if I could, but I daresay you wouldn’t want to visit Warewick.”

  “What are you babbling about, woman?” He reached out until he’d bumped her nose with his fingers, then he put his hand against her brow. “Have you gone feverish on me again?”

  “Nay, my lord,” she began, feeling as miserable as she ever had before. Nay, this was worse. She’d been alone with Christopher of Blackmour in his bedchamber and seen him gentle and gallant. No amount of dreaming in the future could ever best this evening.

  “You’re overtired,” he said, sounding displeased. “To bed now, Gillian, and no arguments.”

  “My lord, I know you will send me away,” she blurted out, “so I beg you not to pretend otherwise. I would rather leave now, if it’s all the same to you.”

  He looked heavenward, then slipped his arm around her shoulders. He led her to the far side of the bed, felt for the blankets and held them up.

  “In, my lady. Before you chill more. I imagine your toes are blue by now.”

  “But . . .”

  “In,” he commanded.

  “My lord . . .”

  “Gillian, get you into bed, then we will talk.”

  Gillian’s heart felt like lead in her chest. Why could he not just say it and have done? She wanted to protest again, but Christopher stood there so expectantly that she couldn’t do anything but obey him. She crawled onto the bed, keeping the dressing gown around her. She listened to him bank the fire, move the table to where he had taken it from, and check the door. The soft sound of his clothes hitting the floor was followed by the creaking of the bed as he slipped under the blankets. He was silent. Finally the strain wore on her until she thought she would scream.

  “My lord, I beg you—”

  “I spoke rashly before,” he said, his voice very gruff. “You remember when.”

  She didn’t. He’d spoken rashly so many times, she had no idea which time he referred to.

  “My lord . . .”

  “By the saints, Gillian, must I grovel on my knees to have forgiveness?” He’d gone from gruff to angry more quickly than she could follow. “I never meant to say what I did about the affair with Alice. I regret I didn’t go after you immediately and say so. I’m sure this will come as a surprise, but I’m not very patient and I have been known to be a bit pigheaded at times. I regret that my actions caused you grief. There. I’ve said it. Now can we sleep?”

  Gillian was speechless. He was apologizing? And now he wanted to sleep? It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, not at all. She wanted to know exactly when he planned to send her back. At first light? After she broke her fast? After supper?

  “Damn me,” he swore. He shifted on the bed and she felt him take her hand in both of his. “Are you vexing me apurpose, wife, or was my apology insufficient? I vowed to be patient with you, but I can see already that I’m not equal to the task. I demand to know if you’ve forgiven me or not. Yea or nay, lady.”

  And though his words were stern, he stroked her fingers with great care. Gillian hardly knew what to make of him. But it was his touch, in the end, that made up her mind for her.

  She swallowed. “Yea,” she managed. “I have forgiven you.”

  He grunted softly, “My ears think your response to be not overly enthusiastic, but perhaps I can hope for nothing more as yet. Now, may we sleep?”

  “Aye.”

  “Your fingers are cold. Give me your other hand. And you may as well give me your feet too. I’ve survived several nights of your cold toes on mine; I daresay I’ll survive a few more.”

  Gillian couldn’t make her limbs move, but she didn’t have to. Christopher moved her bodily. He covered her feet with his, then gathered her hands together and placed them against his bare chest.

  “You need me to keep you warm,” he said, his voice a low rumble somewhere immediately above her head.

  She could only nod.

  “Go to sleep, Gillian. Nothing will hurt you this night.”

  This night. His words echoed in her ear long after his breathing had become deep and regular and his grip on her hands had loosened.

  But what of the nights to come?

  fourteen

  GILLIAN KNELT AT THE ALTAR AND PRAYED, AS SHE HAD been doing for much of the morning. She’d woken to find Christopher leaning over her, feeling her brow. He had announced that her fever was gone, but that she wasn’t to leave the bed that day. He’d then departed, leaving her no less upset than she had been
the night before. The only difference was her hands and feet were indeed very warm.

  When she’d come to the chapel, she’d prayed for no one but herself, not sparing her father a thought, nor Christopher. She prayed that she would be able to remain at Blackmour, that she would be safe, that Christopher would never strike her. His hands were large and heavy and she knew he could have wrought damage she never could have recovered from.

  “Gillian!”

  The sudden sound of that deep voice made her jump in fear. She darted a glance over her shoulder and saw Christopher standing in the aisle of the empty chapel, a fierce frown on his face.

  “Aye?” she said, her voice barely audible even to her ears. She rose on shaking legs. “My lord?”

  “I thought I instructed you to remain abed,” he said in a low, gravelly voice.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” she whispered.

  “Come over here,” he commanded, thrusting out his hand.

  Gillian wanted to sink back down to her knees. Perhaps remaining at Blackmour would be worse than being sent home. She steeled herself for the worst as she crossed over to her husband and stood before him. Oh, God, please don’t let him hit me.

  “Please, my lord,” she blurted out, “I beg your forgiveness.”

  “As well you should,” he said roughly, reaching out and jerking her into his arms. His embrace robbed her of breath.

  “Think you it was pleasant for me to return to my bedchamber expecting to find my wife lying obediently in bed where I left her, only to discover the chamber was empty? Saints, woman, I’d thought you’d left me!”

  Gillian was too astonished to answer. Why should he care, when that was likely just what he wanted her to do? She stood in her husband’s embrace, her face buried against his chest and remained silent.

  “There are several other things you must needs pacify me for,” he growled. He pushed her back, took off his cloak and draped it around her shoulders. “Perhaps you do not remember it, but I was awake several nights tending you and the worry has made me irritable indeed.”

  Gillian stole a look at him while he fumbled with the clasp at her throat. Why were his hands shaking so? Was he truly so angry?

  The clasp caught and held. Christopher brushed his thumb along her jaw in a gentle caress. Gillian stood with his cloak draped about her and could do nothing but stare at his hand in amazement as he pulled it back.

  “Gillian? You were about to appease me with a heartfelt apology?”

  She stammered out the words, “I’m sorry, my lord.”

  “That is another thing,” he said, frowning down at her. “Either you’ve forgotten my name, or it doesn’t suit you. It might be wise to plead a poor memory, for the latter would not sit well with me at all. For all you know, it might be enough to force those horns out from atop my head.”

  Gillian looked up at him, bewildered. Was he teasing her? William had always teased her thusly, with mock gruffness, but she’d known he loved her. She knew nothing of the sort about Christopher.

  “Has the cold numbed your mind and your tongue, lady, or merely your tongue?” Christopher lifted his hand and ran his fingers lightly over her face, touching her mouth in passing. “You’re gaping, so I must assume the cold has chilled your mind past using.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Let me see you back to our bedchamber and build you a fire. You haven’t eaten either, have you? Gillian, I vow I’ll have to keep you close by means of a leash if you do not heed my words more closely.”

  She didn’t answer him; her heart was beating in her throat and words were simply beyond her. Christopher of Blackmour, Spawn of the Devil, had just given her his cloak, presented her with a crusty bit of teasing, and now was mother-henning her with skill even Jason would have to admire.

  In a gruff way, of course. He was a dragon, after all.

  It had been so long since she’d felt anything akin to gentleness from anyone that it was all she could do to let him lead her across the courtyard, up the steps, through the great hall and on up to his bedchamber without breaking down and sobbing. She sat when he placed her in his chair, then watched him as he stoked the fire.

  Gillian caught her breath as he turned to her, kneeling, and felt for her hands with small, hesitant motions. Then he took her hands in his and brought them to his lips, blowing on them to warm them.

  Her eyes burned with tears. How could he be so kind when he knew he was going to send her away soon?

  She pulled her hands away before they learned how it felt to be tended by his.

  “Please don’t,” she begged.

  “Gillian—”

  “My lord, please,” she said, avoiding his searching hands. “You only hurt me more!”

  “I am trying to help you—”

  She escaped the chair and fled for the door, praying she wouldn’t weep. There was so little left to her; her dignity was perhaps something she could keep.

  “Damn you, Gillian, wait!”

  She ran to the only place she knew Christopher wouldn’t follow her: the battlements. Her legs were unsteady beneath her as she flew up the steps, but she forced them to work anyway. Perhaps once she was outside, the chill would numb both her mind and her heart.

  Within moments, she stood at the wall overlooking the sea. In spite of herself, she wept. The guards ignored her, the gulls below ignored her. Oh, Blessed Virgin, how much worse could her life become? She wished with all her heart that she’d never set foot outside Warewick’s puny walls, never seen Blackmour, never been witness to Christopher’s gentleness with Jason.

  And that she had never had that gentleness turned on her.

  Without warning, a hard body came to rest against her back. Arms flanked her, and hands slapped against the flat edge of the wall with so sharp a sound that she jumped.

  “Why do you continue to run from me?” a deep voice demanded. “Gillian, I absolutely refuse to beg! I’ve spent the last three years of my life begging and I’ll do it no longer.”

  Gillian took a deep breath and dragged her sleeve across her eyes to hide the evidence of her grief.

  “You keep sending me away.”

  “Once!” he exclaimed. “I did it once and I was wrong!”

  He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. His frown was formidable. Gillian backed up against the wall. Christopher followed her, allowing her no room for escape.

  “But you intend to send me away still,” she said miserably.

  “Send you away still?” he repeated. “Why would I send you away?”

  “If anyone should know your reasons, ’twould be you.”

  “Perhaps you should explain them to me,” he said, sounding mightily irritated, “since you seem to know so much about them.”

  “You never wanted this marriage,” she blurted out, forcing her chin to remain up and not burrow into her chest as it so wanted to do. “My father couldn’t have coerced you, of that I’m certain. Why you offered for me I do not know, for I brought you nothing. Now, you realize your mistake. Is that not so, my lord?”

  He closed his eyes as he lifted his face heavenward and released a deep sigh.

  “Did William never tell you that you thought too much for your own good?”

  “Aye,” she said, forcing the word past the lump in her throat, “he did.”

  Christopher gathered her close and rested his chin on top of her head. “He was right.” He held her for a moment, then released her and pulled the cloak carefully up to her ears. “’Tis cold out, and I’ll not have you chill. Let us go in.”

  “My lord, I am not above begging. Please send me away now. If I weren’t such a coward, I could likely endure a few more days here, but I’ve no courage—”

  “You are not going anywhere, Gillian, unless you continue to refuse to call me by my name,” he interrupted. “Now, come inside.”

  He reached for her hand and pulled her along behind him. Gillian went with him, only because he wouldn’t release her. He hadn’t meant what
he’d said and she was certain she’d learn the truth of it soon enough. She followed behind him as he walked along the battlements, his right hand lightly skimming the wall, his left holding onto hers firmly. He continued on before her down the steep steps from the battlements; then he caught her hand again and kept it in his as they walked down the passageway.

  “Count the doorways for me, Gill,” he said quietly.

  Not even William had called her by that name. It sounded so gloriously familiar coming from Christopher’s lips that she started to weep again as she touched each doorway. If only he would want to keep her in truth!

  “’Tis this one,” she said miserably.

  Christopher turned her toward him and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “How is it I can grieve you by saying nothing at all? You’re overwrought from the fever, aren’t you? I never should have let you escape to the battlements. I’ll be more diligent in the future.”

  He opened the door and pushed her gently inside the room in front of him. He gave her no choice in what she would do next, for he swept her up into his arms and carried her across the chamber to the bed.

  “Rest,” he commanded, laying her down and pulling a heavy quilt up over her. “You are still weak from your ordeal and you need to sleep. I trust I will return in a few hours and find you here, obeying me as a good wife should?”

  “Aye,” she whispered.

  She held in her tears until Christopher had gone, then buried her face in his pillow. She wept until she couldn’t breathe, and then she began to wonder if her tears would ever stop. She was weary of weeping, of never having the courage to face things that frightened her, of never feeling secure anywhere.

  Christopher had never come right out and said he planned to keep her. And until he did, she knew she couldn’t feel safe.

  And, oh, how she wanted to feel safe.

  • • •

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER, CHRISTOPHER PUSHED INTO HIS private solar, waited until Colin had trudged past him, then shut the door. He turned and glared. Coddling Colin had not been in his plans for the day.