they don’t show your face, sir. You are the one who hides, not I. Here—take your mantle. I want nothing to do with a scoundrel and a spy.”
Jacques caught the hood of the cloak before it could slip to the ground. “Keep it, my lady. I beg you.”
“No, I—”
“Please honor my request.” He drew the garment around Bronwen’s shoulders again and fastened the clasp at her neck. “I am not ready to collect it just yet. We are met untimely.”
His fingers lingered for a moment at the clasp as he looked into her eyes. Then he drew away, took a place on the log and stretched out his long legs. Reaching up, he grasped Bronwen’s hand and gently pulled her down beside him. She settled herself at some distance, wary of the Norman yet grateful for the warmth of his mantle.
“Your husband is at sea,” he said. His voice was deep, and his eyes searched the horizon as he spoke. “When were you married?”
“This morning. Soon after the rite, we left Rossall Hall in haste because of the storm.”
“Little good it did. And now you spend your wedding night sitting on a wet log.”
“It is of no consequence to me. My husband and I have never spoken a single word. Our vow is all that unites us.”
“A vow has great power, Bronwen.” He glanced at her. “May I call you by name?”
“As you wish. It matters not, for I don’t imagine we shall meet again after this night.”
Jacques leaned back against a twisted branch and folded his arms across his chest. “You were imprudent to leave the safety of the hut. You have no protection.”
“I assumed the men were sleeping. Clearly I was mistaken.”
“A leader of men is never fully at rest, even in his own home. When I saw you leave, I feared for your safety.”
Bronwen clasped her hands together, uncomfortable at his words. “You are leader of your party, then. But who do you serve—Matilda? Stephen? Or perhaps the Scot, David, who presumes to claim Amounderness by virtue of Stephen’s treaty.”
“You know more of politics than a woman should, madam. Perhaps you had best tend to your new home and leave such intrigues to your husband.”
Annoyed, Bronwen stood. “A wise woman knows as much of politics as any man. You will recall that my father willed his landholdings to me—not to my husband. He prepared me well for that responsibility, and I should like to know who spies out our lands and for what lord?”
“I am no spy, Bronwen.” Jacques rose to face her. “I serve Henry Plantagenet, the son of Matilda Empress, who has battled King Stephen these many years. Henry is wise and learned beyond his eighteen years. Already he is heir to Anjou and Normandy in France. Many in England support him.”
Bronwen squared her shoulders. “We Britons will not serve any Norman king—and you have my permission to report that to your beloved Henry Plantagenet. Our men will fight to the death to protect Rossall from Norman rule.”
“You’re already a pawn of King Stephen.” Jacques shook his head. “Don’t be so foolish as to think you rule yourselves. Stephen has given your lands to Scotland by treaty. Would you not rather have a fair and just king like Henry Plantagenet? I assure you, he would treat your people well in his dealings with other landowners in this country.”
“I know nothing of this young Plantagenet. Neither Stephen nor David of Scotland has made his presence felt in Amounderness—and for that I am grateful. Certainly Plantagenet has never come our way. Our lands have been Briton since time began, and they will remain so.”
As Bronwen fought the frustration and vulnerability that shackled her, Le Brun reached out and covered her hands with his own. Warm and strong, his fingers stroked her wrists, and his thumbs pressed against her palms. Startled, she shrank back, but he held her firmly.
“Have you been so sheltered that you tremble at a man’s touch?” he asked. “I mean you no harm, my lady. We speak from our hearts. Though we differ, the honesty in our words is good. Forgive me if I’ve dismayed you.”
“You do dismay me, sir. And more than that.”
Bronwen drew her hands from his and attempted to tame her hair into some semblance of order. But again, Jacques caught them.
“Leave your hair,” he said, drawing her hands to his chest. “It’s beautiful blowing in the wind as it does now.”
At his words, Bronwen felt the blood rush to her face, and she turned her focus to the ground. She had been told she was plain, especially compared with Gildan, the golden one. Often while standing beside her sister, Bronwen pictured herself—a thin, angular, olive-skinned creature. No one, not even Enit, had ever called her beautiful.
Jacques reached out and lifted her chin. “So shy? A moment ago, you would have run me through had you carried a sword. My lady, you are indeed most lovely and desirable. You may recall I held you in my arms on such a night. And I kissed your lips.”
His fingers trailed from her chin, down the side of her neck to a wisp of hair that snaked between the folds of the mantle. Bronwen shivered as he traced its course to the soft skin of her throat.
Her thoughts reeled as he wove his fingers through her hair. Craving again the kiss of this man, she struggled for air. This must not be. She belonged to another man. A husband who had never spoken her name.
“How I am drawn to you, Bronwen the Briton.” Jacques’s breath was ragged on Bronwen’s cheek. “Though we have met only twice, you beckon me as no woman ever has.”
She lifted her eyes to his shadowed face. “Sir, you are wrong to hold me in this manner.”
“If I sin, then you sin, too—for I feel your desire as strongly as I do my own.”
“No,” Bronwen whispered. “I am another man’s wife. I know nothing of such wickedness.”
“All are sinners,” he said. “Even you, my lovely Bronwen. But your words return me to my senses. You are wed. I cannot ignore a vow made before God.”
“Indeed, I must return to the hut.”
“Stay with me a little longer—on the beach, where we can be alone.”
“I dare not.” Bronwen backed away from him. “It is unseemly. And you…you are a Norman. My enemy.”
“I am not your enemy. My blood is that of a man, and yours is that of a woman. On this night, we are neither Norman nor Briton.”
“Blood can never lie,” she said. “I go.”
Turning from him, she pulled the mantle tightly about her. The sand felt cold beneath her feet as she started toward the hut. Dizzy with emotion, she brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. How could she have allowed this to happen? And how would she bear his memory now?
“My dearest lady.” Jacques’s long stride brought him to her side. “What troubles you?”
“You trouble me!” Bronwen cried out. “You know I am a married woman. You know I am a Briton, and you a Norman. Yet your words belie those facts. What is it you want of me, sir?”
Jacques fell silent for a moment. Bronwen sensed his presence beside her as they walked, but she could not bring herself to look at him. “Your question is well asked,” he said at last. “I don’t know what I want of you.”
She halted. “Then why do you pursue me? Why do you behave as a knave?”
“I am not a knave. I am a knight. And I cannot say why my training in chivalry has deserted me. I know only that I have never met a woman like you—a woman of such fire, such wit, such dark beauty. When I saw you in the great hall at Rossall, I felt my heart drawn to you. Yet I sat in silence as your father betrothed you to the Viking. You obey him in every way, do you not?”