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‘I had no idea,’ Edith confessed. Of all the important things they had shared, Brand had not bothered to share with her something so vitally important such as the fact that he had personally killed her husband. Or had at least been there when Egbert died.
‘I thought you ought to know.’ Athelstan hung his head. ‘It was a terrible business. They had discarded the bodies like worthless criminals. I made sure the bodies were buried.’
‘That was good of you.’
Athelstan reached for the cup and thrust it back into Edith’s hand. ‘You can understand why I can’t take this either. You will need it more than I. I have my sword arm and you—’
‘You have a family,’ Edith interrupted.
‘They are my concern. Begging your ladyship’s pardon, but what do you have? How well do you know your lover if he didn’t even tell you the manner of your husband’s death?’
Edith swallowed hard and desperately tried to figure out an answer which would satisfy Athelstan. All the while her brain kept hammering the words—what else hadn’t Brand shared? Could she truly trust him to be the man she hoped he was?
After they had made love the first time, when he held her after she confessed about losing her baby, she’d felt so connected to him, but now she knew that she had shared things, yet he had shared very little about the battle. He’d kept the manner of her husband’s death from her. He’d even gone so far as to say that he wished he’d killed him. Why say that? Someone was not telling the full truth and she knew she had to trust her instinct. Only lately, it had not kept her safe.
‘Thank you for telling me, Athelstan,’ she said quietly, tightening her grip on the cup. ‘I will keep your words on advisement.’
‘What are you going to do, my lady?’ Mary said, bringing her back the present. ‘Are you going to go back to him, knowing what he is like?’
‘My reasons for becoming his concubine remain the same. I can hardly depart simply because something went wrong with a parlay. Athelstan, for all his talk about being there, wasn’t. He saw the aftermath, not what truly happened. I do know my late husband and what he could be like.’
‘You are being a fool.’ Athelstan made a grimace. ‘But then you are a woman. Your grandmother was the same—always wanting to believe the best of the people.’
Mary wrung her hands. ‘I can’t allow our son to be fostered by a monster, but neither can I refuse my current lord’s request without causing friction. If he is as bad as you say, husband, it would be very wrong to anger him.’
‘This changes nothing—the fact remains that Athelstan cannot stay here. The risk is far too great. He puts everyone in danger.’ Edith concentrated on the wall behind Athelstan, rather than meeting Mary’s eyes. Brand was no monster. Egbert had been. It bothered her that Athelstan was so insistent, but she refused to argue with him. Now was the time for solving problems, rather than debating someone’s merits or lack of them. ‘You have said your piece, Athelstan, and I allowed it for the sake of our long friendship. Now, you allow me to protect you and your family. You will take this cup and go from here. You may take all your family with you, if that is what you prefer, but I remain here. I’ve given my word. My word is worth something.’
Athelstan grunted. ‘Not the cup.’
‘And what will become of us? Are we to become beggars?’ Mary persisted.
‘You may go with him if you like, but the road will be treacherous. You have a baby daughter. Go slowly and travel at night.’ Edith pointed towards the door. ‘But it is far too dangerous for Athelstan to remain here. I’m sorry, Athelstan. You can’t put everyone at risk to pursue some private vendetta. I refuse to allow that. I have more than just your family to think about.’
* * *
Brand’s head ached like Thor personally had taken his hammer and driven it straight into his skull. His mouth tasted of ash and sour ale. A faint groan escaped his throat as he lay face down on the cold stone floor of the stable. He rolled onto his back, willed the world to stop spinning and gazed directly up at Edith’s horse. He could not remember the last time he’d voluntarily done something like this. Possibly in Byzantium when he’d learnt his desire for a woman had nearly cost his emperor his life.
He had drunk far more than was good for him, but he’d wanted to blot out Edith’s face. She was an incredibly stubborn person. He had no intention of marrying anyone. He could not marry without Halfdan’s leave, but it would have to be someone suitable. The more he thought about it, the worse he felt. He refused to become like his father, marrying for dynastic reasons and betraying the woman he had feelings for.
