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She deserved a better answer and she spun around on her heel. Returning to the door of his chamber, her foot knocked against something on the floor. Crouching, she explored cautiously. She touched something cold, metallic, and familiar in shape. A key.
There was a shimmer of light under the door—he was still awake. Why had he locked himself in his chamber? Was he expecting the company of somebody else that night and the key was a signal for entry? The thought blossomed in her head and it explained everything. Matilda wasn’t his only bedfellow, another supplanted her every night.
She slotted the key into the hole, turned it, and flung open the door. Thrusting the candlelight forward, she stared at the bed: it was empty.
A low growl reached her, but it wasn’t Ivan, because the dog was sleeping outside with Lionel. The gruff exclamation came from near the narrow window, and stepping into the moonlight from the gloomiest corner, was a stark Gervais, lord of the castle, naked and fully endowed.
The mammoth erection was poised, ready for attention, and deeply coloured by engorgement. He stepped forward, and the candle she carried lit his face from below, casting strange shadows, and the expression created was one of fierce anger and disappointment combined. His lips snarled, his teeth bared, and the bushes of his eyebrows met above the bridge of his nose. He clenched and unclenched his fists.
“My lord,” she said tremulously, and she shifted her feet backwards, nearly tripping on her robe.
The sound of her voice startled him. He blinked as if suddenly aware of a change that wasn’t apparent to her. He ceased moving, grabbed his fur-lined cloak from a nearby chair, and covered himself. But it was too late; she had seen it.
“What are you doing here?” he said, exasperated.
“The key...” She dropped it on the floor.
“I left it there, but not for you, you foolish girl.”
Then her suspicions were true. She drew herself up. “Who joins you, sir?” she sneered.
The restless Gervais glared at her, then her words penetrated past his wild demeanour, and he shook his head. “Nobody. I sleep alone, I told you. It is for Lionel, the key. For the morning.”
He locked himself in, but why? Should she believe him?
“Then why not let me stay?” she pleaded. “Do you not need my company? It appears you desire something of me.” She pointed with a wavering hand at the bulge hiding behind his cloak.
“It’s not for you. Get out.”
“Then who—”
“Nobody. Take the key and lock me in. Do it,” he barked, and she jumped to obey.
She left him there, standing in the middle of the room, his eyes blazing brighter than any fire.
She dropped the key by the door and ran along the corridor to her own chamber. She flung herself on her bed, sobbing and distraught. What had she done wrong? And why, given his appalling dismissal, was she feeling such a strong pull to be with him? His lust was not for her, it seemed, but neither was it for another. What tormented him was something secretive, only the dark night saw him so, while an hour earlier, he had treated her with a gentleness, something that he had striven to achieve for her benefit, and now she realised her efforts had only left him half-finished. She was not good enough for him. If that was true, then they would never love each other. For what she had learnt from her infatuation with Geoffrey was that passion needed fulfilment to survive.
Her crying woke Sara. The silent maid lay next to her mistress, wiped away her tears, and petted her until eventually Matilda fell asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sleep failed him, as it often did. He paced the room, sweating out the fever in him until dawn encroached, and he finally managed to sleep for an hour or so. Lionel slipped into the room with the necessary basin of icy water. Lionel never raised an eyebrow on Gervais’s suffering, since it had become a familiar feature of the nights. What troubled Gervais most was that the affliction had worsened, not improved. He had assumed Matilda would help, but it seemed she only augmented the Zalim. What cure was there if no woman could satisfy him?
He had scared her. The look of fright on her face had imprinted on his heart and scored it. He must make amends, for it wasn’t her fault; she was innocent. And he could no longer hide the Zalim from her or expect her to swallow his excuses. If he genuinely believed she had the potential to marry him, then he must learn to open his heart and accept her in.
Comfortable in his clothing, and no longer driven by dark forces, he asked where he might find his betrothed.
“She is by the oriel window of the Great Hall, sewing, I believe,” Jacob said.
Gervais seated himself at his desk and picked up a quill. He dipped it in the ink and on a clean sheet of parchment, began to write. The story he told was not something he had ever considered in its entirety, having only recalled parts of it when necessary. Now he strung it together without too much emotional embellishment, and omitting certain facts, such as names and places.
He blotted the ink and folded the sheets of paper.
She was there by the window, her pale face drawn down by shadows. She’d not slept well either. She rose, curtsied, but didn’t look him in the eye.
“Please sit, Matilda.” He waited for her to smooth down her skirts, then he approached and knelt on one knee.
Matilda’s eyes widened, astounded by his unusual behaviour.
