The Unveiling by Tamara Leigh (beach read book .TXT) 📖

shouts as they crashed to the ground.

Annyn fell back to earth. Landing hard on her hands and knees, she rolled to the side and found air in the noose’s ease. As she threw off the vile rope, she gulped her lungs full.

Knowing every second that passed drew her nearer the noose again, she brought the loathsome baron to focus and saw he straddled Sir Merrick who struggled beneath him. A moment later, Lavonne drew back his arm to deliver a death blow.

“Nay!” She scrambled to her feet.

But still Merrick bled again. A dagger protruding from his chest, he settled his darkening gaze to Annyn and mouthed, “Forgive me.”

She stared, hurting for this man who had aided in murdering her brother.

“Fool!” Lavonne shouted and heaved the dagger free.

Reminded that her own death was near, Annyn whipped her head around. There lay Merrick’s sword that Lavonne had ground from her hand.

Act! ’Tis your only chance.

She grabbed the sword before Lavonne could rise from Merrick. As she charged toward him, his hand went to his sword. However, before he could wrap his fingers around the hilt, she thrust the blade tip to his chest.

He stilled and stared at it, then raised his eyes to where she stood over him—eyes that mirrored her own disbelief at what she had done. “I fear you have me, Lady Annyn,” he spoke as one might comment on a blade of grass. “But can you do it?”

She could not, though not so long ago she had believed she could take the life of so foul a being. But she would not have him know that.

With a jab of the sword that surely pricked him through his tunic, she said, “Four long years I have lived for this day. Aye, miscreant, I can.”

“Yet you do not. Why, when there is no more to be told of your brother’s unfortunate death?” He laughed. “Nay, Annyn Bretanne, you cannot. You may play at swords, but you are no warrior.”

He was right. She was not a warrior, this woman who found unexpected pleasure in donning a dress that fit, this woman who loved Garr Wulfrith.

“Give me the sword,” Lavonne ordered.

“That I shall,” she threatened.

“Some time this day? Or would the morrow better suit? Better yet—”

The widening of Lavonne’s eyes alerted her to the sound of others entering the stables. She glanced toward the threshold and, as Lavonne reared up, all she could think was that she had violated lesson four that told to keep one’s eyes on one’s opponent.

She jumped forward to put him to the sword again, but he lunged to the side, slammed his forearm into her sword arm, and propelled his body hard into hers. The clamor in the stables swelling, answered by the thrash of distraught horses, Annyn and Lavonne fell together against the far wall.

Though the impact nearly loosened her hand from the hilt, she held to the sword above her head and struggled to bring it down. She was pinned. Worse, Lavonne drew his own sword.

As she followed it up from its scabbard, Garr hurtled across the space with a roar that made her and the baron startle. Then he was there, his sword spinning Lavonne’s out of his grasp.

Looking the wolf with his shock of silver hair and lips pulled back in a snarl, Garr slammed a hand around Lavonne’s throat and lifted him off his feet as if he weighed less than a skinned chicken. A moment later, the baron bounced off the wall and landed beside Sir Merrick.

A killing in his blood, Garr started to follow, but then halted. Though beneath years of incessant training was a terrible anger of which many spoke when he took up a sword, what he felt went beyond that to a rank hatred that threatened to devour him. He must not allow it—for God and Annyn.

Shoulders heaving, he called himself back to the woman who needed him. As the others crowded the threshold of the stall behind Sir Rowan whose face contorted as he looked upon the scene, Garr turned.

The sight of Annyn—flecked with blood, continuing to grip the sword where she stood with her back pressed to the wall, skirts torn and dirtied—caused his hatred to surge anew. Had Lavonne ravished her? Fury boiled his blood, but then she whispered, “Garr.”

He went to her, eased the sword from her hand, and cupped her face in his palm. “You are hurt?”

“I do not think so.”

“Did he...?”

She jerked her head side to side and fell against his chest.

Garr wrapped an arm around her to support her, closed his eyes, and sent thanks heavenward. Dear Lord, he did love her. Regardless of his father’s lesson that a man love nothing save his destrier, sword, and shield, he loved this woman who was now his wife. It went against all to which a warrior must aspire, but there was nothing he wanted more than to love her and be loved by her.

A shout sounded at his back. Holding Annyn, he swung his sword around.

It was not needed, for Rowan was there. With a thrust of the sword that Garr had given him, he put Lavonne through where he had come up on his knees. A bloodied dagger to hand, the baron looked at his torn center before crumpling atop Merrick.

Garr returned his sword to its scabbard. Whatever had happened here was done. As he swung Annyn up into his arms, she looked down at the two men and shuddered.

“’Tis over,” he soothed.

“Aye.” She searched out Rowan. “By your hand, Jonas is avenged.”

Garr’s step faltered. This had all to do with Jonas? But of course it did. Had she been right all along that her brother was murdered? It seemed so, and by Lavonne. Though the questions burned, now was not the time to ask them. As he carried her forward, he saw the rope in the corner from which a noose was fashioned. The chill hand of death clawing at him, he held her nearer and carried her from the stables, only to find the duke advancing on him.

“What is this?” Henry demanded.

“Your man, Lavonne, is dead.” Leaving Henry sputtering, Garr continued to the donjon where the morning-after sheet fluttered in the breeze.

Shortly, he laid Annyn on their marriage bed. “Out!” he ordered those who had anxiously followed. His mother ushered her daughters, Josse, and the three squires Warren, Samuel, and Charles from the solar and softly closed the door.

“They did it,” Annyn whispered and crept a hand to her neck. “They were the ones.”

Lavonne and Merrick? Surely—

Glimpsing the abraded skin beneath her fingers, he peered nearer. Rope burns about her neck. Dear God!

He would have torn from the solar to the stables to sunder Lavonne’s corpse limb by limb, but Annyn’s voice reached through the fire.

“Hold me, Garr. Pray, hold me.”

All was told—all that made him feel a fool for not having believed.

Continuing to curse his blindness that had brought this day upon Annyn, Garr dipped the towel in the steaming bath water. Though no blood remained on her—blessedly, little of it her own—he once more swept the cloth over her shoulders, across the back of her neck that was nearly untouched by rope burns, down the other shoulder, and lastly her palms from which he had eased the splinters.

Despite the certainty of Henry’s impatience, Garr had held Annyn for what seemed hours, and bit by aching bit she had told of her encounter with Merrick and Lavonne, explaining so much he had thought he understood. Finally, she had fallen into a restless sleep from which she had awakened as the last of day’s light went out. But not a word had she spoken this past half hour.

He wrung the towel, draped it over the tub’s edge, and came around to the side. As he dropped to his haunches, Annyn lifted her head.

Suppressing his reaction to the abrasions ringing her neck, Garr said, “I am sorry, Annyn.”

“For what?”

“That the warrior I was—that I am—was so unseeing that Lavonne and Merrick could do what they did and go unpunished for four years. And punished now only because you could see what I could not.”

“You did not know my brother as I did.”

“I knew him well enough to know I had his loyalty—his eyes told me so. For that and his facility with weapons, I made him First Squire.”

She shifted nearer, causing the water to slap against the sides of the tub. “His eyes?”

The intensity with which she regarded him when, moments earlier, she had been content to remain inside herself, was unsettling.

“Aye, that seat of emotion where truth cannot hide. Jonas took the missive, but when he told he could not betray after all, my anger would not allow me to believe him though his eyes were true.” Garr shook his head. “Had I not let anger rule, I would not have begun to distrust what I saw in others’ eyes. I would have seen what was in Lavonne’s and Merrick’s and known.” The irony was that even now his anger swelled. Never would he have believed the unveiling of Annyn and her revenge would lead to further unveilings—Rowan’s deception and fathering of Jonas, Isobel’s tale of love and death, Merrick and Lavonne’s murder of Jonas.

He thrust to his feet and nearly trampled the remains of the purple bliaut that Annyn had first donned this morning—would never don again.

“By faith, Annyn! For his guilt, Merrick allowed Rowan to take you from me in the wood, and still I did not see the lie in his eyes when he blamed his negligence on lost breath! For all my father labored to teach me, I am unworthy!”

The water sloshed and Annyn rose and stepped out of the tub. Her body glistening in the light of torches, she laid a hand to his cheek. “Nay, Garr Wulfrith, you are more worthy than any man I have known. I am honored to be your wife.”

As much as he longed to pull her to him and bury his face against her neck, he stepped back. “Then you are a fool.” He retrieved his robe and thrust it at her. “Cover yourself.”

She put her arms through it and belted it around her small waist, then came to him on the sweet scent of rushes that released their essence beneath her feet. “Shall we be fools together, Husband? Shall we love one another, forgetting all the ill gone before?” She pressed her palms to his chest. “Shall we make children and grow old together?”

How wonderful she made it sound, as if it was possible. “You nearly died.”

“But I did not. You came for me.” A smile touched her lips. “How did you know where to find me?”

Though the warrior that Garr’s father had demanded of him balked at revealing what had pulled him from his negotiations with Henry, he said, “I do not understand it, but I felt your fear as if the Lord Himself whispered it to me.”

“Truly?”

“Aye.” He clenched his hands at his sides. “You ought to detest me, Annyn.”

“That I could never do.”

“You once did.”

Her gaze lowered to the left side of his face that bore evidence of the hatred her fourteen-year-old self had felt for him. Where her eyes went, her fingers followed, and she gently traced the four scores those same fingers had clawed into his skin. “That was when I wrongly believed you responsible for Jonas’s death.”

“And am I not?”

Her hand stilled on his jaw. “Jonas did betray, and though he could not finish what impulse led him to do, only a fool would have disregarded that