A large, wet drop splashed on her face, and thunder cracked more insistently. Still, Madelyne saw no reason to take herself within the confines of the keep that had suddenly become her prison. Jube looked over at her, his face placid, and when she made no indication that she was ready to move, he returned to his conversation. The wind carried a word or two from the men to Madelyne’s ears. She heard mention of hunt and horses, and knew they discussed purely masculine matters—matters that were unfamiliar to her.
That trail of thought brought her to that which had been hovering at the back of her mind all the evening: Lord Mal Verne. The man was harsh and rude and unfriendly, yet she still had that self-same fascination for him. Mayhap the reason lay in the fact that though he snapped and snarled, she saw beyond the hardness of his face and the steely coldness of his eyes to the depths that hinted at more than that…suffering, perhaps, or fear…
Madelyne shook her head, dismissing those fanciful thoughts. Mal Verne was a man—a fierce, hard one, not unlike her own father—and ’twas foolish of her to think that she saw more.
She turned to summon Jube, suddenly ready to return to her chamber and to put those thoughts from her mind, but to her surprise, he and his companion had disappeared. Turning to look behind her, thinking that mayhap they’d strolled further along the wall as they talked, she found no one. Madelyne stepped nearer to the edge of the wall and looked down into the bailey, which had become nearly deserted and quiet in the last hour.
A movement behind her caused her to whirl, her skirts wrapping around her legs and the hood dropping from her head. “Lord Mal Verne.”
There was no mistaking him, for even though the sun had nearly completed its drop beyond the horizon, and the moon was nowhere to be found, the light from wall sconces cast enough glow for her to recognize the form that shifted from the shadows. Tall, with thick, uncut hair that blustered in the swelling wind, he stood before her, his hands folded at the waist of his tunic. The reserved pose belied the vitality that ever exuded from him, and Madelyne, as always, felt it.
“If you wish to jump, the deed would be better done on the east side of the wall,” he commented, stepping toward her. “There, the hill drops away to the cliffs of the sea. Rocks and the surf would make certain that the task would be complete, rather than leaving one a crippled mess.”
“I would not jump,” Madelyne replied, all too aware of the leaping of her pulse as he came to stand beside her. “’Tis a mortal sin.”
He looked at her for a moment, his plain, sculpted features made almost handsome by the half-light. Then, his lips—full, wide and hard—curved into the faintest of smirks. “Ah, aye. How foolish of me to forget. One can wish for death, can court it in battle or elsewhere—but one cannot take matters into one’s own hands and expect salvation.”
Madelyne did not know how to respond to those words, for she sensed another layer to them—an almost melancholy sentiment. Instead, she continued to stare out over the darkening land.
Mal Verne stood next to her, unspeaking. Yet she was as aware of his every breath as she was of her own pulse beating through her veins. His hand rested on the waist-high stone, and she saw how long and thick his fingers were, how the veins and tendons and scars sculpted the back of it. How solid his wrist looked next to her own dainty one.
He broke the silence at last. “If you did not climb up here to elude Jube for the purpose of taking matters into your own hands and jumping, what was it that prompted you to come out in the midst of a gathering storm?”
Madelyne looked at the lightning that flashed in the north, closer now, then down again at her own hand resting next to his on the wall. Slim and pale, her fingers took up barely a third of the width of one stone brick, while his hand covered nearly the whole of one. A flash of memory caught her by surprise—an image of a hand, powerful and wide as Mal Verne’s, raised in violence and darkness.
The remembrance was so strong that she took an involuntary step backward, her hand pulling to her chest to clutch at her cloak. He turned his head quickly to look at her, question and something akin to concern flashing in his eyes. “What is it?”
Feeling foolish at her reaction to a mere memory, Madelyne forced a smile and waved her action away. “’Twas naught but a night beetle that flew in my face,” she replied lightly. “It startled me.”
Mal Verne looked at her curiously for a moment, then relented and allowed her out from under his delving stare when he turned to look back toward the storm. “May I escort you below to your chamber now, my lady? The lightning draws near and you are at risk at this height.”
Madelyne arched one brow but continued to look out over the land. “And what happened to my own personal guard, Jube? Is that not his duty, my lord?”
“I dismissed Jube, sending him to take his place out side of your chamber door.” Mal Verne’s voice rumbled low, not unlike the thunder echoing in the distance. “If you had planned to end your life thus, I preferred to be the one to witness it—as you are under my care in the name of the king.” The stress on those last words was not lost on Madelyne. In that moment, she realized she believed him when he claimed he acted in the king’s name.
And, she also knew the odd disappointment that ’twas not his desire to seek her company that had led Mal Verne to find her on the wall. “Very well, then, my lord.” She turned abruptly to take his arm and found his stare fixed on her in such a way that caused her breath to hitch in her throat. For a moment, he was unmoving and she halted, confused and riddled with an odd heaviness in her limbs.
The moment froze—thunder crashed behind her, lightning zinged through the clouds, the smell of rain was in the air, and the brick felt rough and hard beneath her fingers—as he reached to touch her. His hand hovered in mid-air for a second, as if he hesitated, then rested warm and heavy on top of her head. His fingers smoothed over the side of her skull, bumping over one thick braid, and slid along the heavy tresses that were tucked under her cloak.
Madelyne hardly dared breathe. No one had touched her that way…ever. Certainly not a man. Certainly not the man to whom she now played hostage. Her heart thumped madly, but for all of that…nay, she was not truly alarmed. Why did he not frighten her—this large, stony, gruff man?
“You have beautiful hair,” he murmured in the same low, rumbly voice he’d used a moment earlier. He stepped toward her, his presence surrounding Madelyne like a cape. She felt the wall behind her and looked up into his eyes, inscrutable in the dimness. Her heart thundered in her chest and her mouth dried as the heaviness of his gaze sent heat coursing through her.
Then, suddenly, it was as if something snapped. He fell back, his hand slamming to his side, and the urgency gone from his gaze. “’Twould have been a sin had you cut it.” His words were fact of the matter, and made in a sharp, almost cutting voice. “Now, lady, may I take you below where you will be protected from the storm?”
Her head spinning, and her face warm with the flush of mortification, Madelyne could do naught but nod. Disdaining his proffered arm, she turned her back to him and, clutching a handful of skirt, started toward the stairs.
’Twas just as well that he did not sleep well that night, Gavin would realize later with some relief.
This first night back in his own chambers should have been one of comfort and rest. For the first time in many a moon, he was not forced to unroll a traveling pallet onto cold, hard ground, or to sleep on a lumpy, hay-filled pallet in a chamber he shared with a myriad of other snorting, snoring, snuffling men.
Rosa had bathed him and would have serviced him further had he wished, but Gavin declined, desiring only his own company. He stood at the window slit, clad in his chausses with loosed cross garters, watching the lightning brighten the sky as if it were midday. The wall beneath his fingers shuddered as thunder crashed above.