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Vorgen had won a sword. It was a handsome thing, the handle decorated with emeralds and rubies and gold filigree, the blade as sharp as a scold’s tongue. Vorgen claimed he had won it fair, but Roger, the man who had lost the sword, claimed foul play. He had complained loud and long to any who would listen. Until he had died at Hastings—not in the main battle, but in a minor skirmish elsewhere.
Afterward, the mutterings of Roger’s friends had not gone away. They said that Roger hadn’t died at the hands of Harold Godwineson’s troops, but by his own sword, held in Vorgen’s greedy grip. Their accusations had continued on so long, Radulf had heard of them and investigated. In the end, his ears ringing with Vorgen’s strenuous denials, he had dismissed the matter. And indeed, there had been no proof.
Only now he remembered the incident, and wondered.
Radulf shifted in his chair, flicking a restless glance toward the abbot. The old man was asleep again, mouth agape, wrinkled face slack. Radulf’s lips twitched as he turned to his other side.
Lily was watching him, her gray eyes wary, as though he were a stranger again. The mighty and fearsome Radulf, who ate English children for his dinner.
Radulf’s heart contracted.
Tomorrow they would reach Rennoc, and tonight…well, tonight was already in hand. He could not call a halt to his plans, even had he wished to.
What would be, would be.
Whatever tonight’s outcome, this might well be the last time he sat with her, looked upon her—apart from in his dreams. He could not lie with her in his arms, here. Lust was another sin the abbot would frown upon. Perhaps that is to be my punishment for bringing her to the monastery and weaving my deceit. I can look, but I cannot touch.
He lifted her hand, which rested beside her goblet, and kissed her fingers, then turning it, pressed his lips into the soft hollow of her palm.
His eyes were dark and intent, his voice an intimate, husky murmur. “Tomorrow I deliver you safe to your father.”
Lily kept her eyes on his, not daring to speak. Her throat was thick with tears.
“My lady.” He clasped her fragile hand in his large one, leaning even closer. She saw her reflection in his dark eyes, a pale ghost compared to his earthy solidity. “My lady, I know you have secrets.”
Still she refused to speak, gray eyes wide in the flare of the candles.
“Lily, will you not trust me?”
It was foolish to ask it. He knew that as soon as the words were spoken. How could she trust him, when he had just shown himself incapable of listening to her without turning on her in fury? Yet he wanted her to trust him. His pride demanded it! His heart yearned for it.
For a long moment dark eyes gazed into gray, and then Lily gave a breathless laugh. She reached up with her free hand, hesitated, and then stroked his temple, smoothing back a lock of short dark hair.
“My lord, I have trusted you. More than you know.”
Her lips trembled as she smiled. It required all of Radulf’s self-control not to lean forward and taste them, to lose himself in the sweetness of her mouth. A terrible ache filled his chest.
This was more than want.
Madness, whispered the bitter skeptic inside him, but Radulf didn’t care. At that moment he would gladly have drowned himself in Lily’s eyes.
The abbot cleared his throat loudly.
With a sigh, Radulf leaned back to put some space between them, although he retained her hand. Lily’s eyes sparkled with tears.
“The hospitaler has come to take you to your room, lady,” the abbot said coolly. “You must be weary after your journey and in need of sleep. I have set aside a private room in my house for your use.”
“Thank you.” Lily glanced sideways at Radulf.
“The guest quarters will be our billet,” he answered her unspoken question.
Lily bowed her head and spoke calmly, only the slightest tremor betraying the depth of her feelings. “I am very tired. I would be glad to retire now.”
As she rose, Radulf also stood. He brought her hand to his lips with a murmured, “Sleep well, mignonne.”
Lily gasped at the feel of his warm mouth once more against her skin. The gleam in his eyes spoke of desire and possession, and of longing. This might be the last time she ever saw him, and the tears filling her eyes threatened to spill over her lashes and fall. His face blurred, and she blinked to clear her vision before she replied huskily.
“And you, my lord.”
