Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel

32

GOING HOME

Grosmont Castle

The Welsh Borders

Two weeks later …

THE SIGHT OF his home on the southern horizon made a smile curve Hugh’s lips—the first real smile in a while.

They’d been riding through woodland when the trees drew back. And there, perched atop a velvet-green hill, with the shadowy mountains behind, Grosmont called to him. The scent of wood smoke and crushed grass reached them, carried on a warm afternoon breeze.

“It’s been too long,” he murmured, voicing his thoughts aloud. “I should have come home earlier.”

Next to him, Thomas cast the knight a surprised look. No doubt the squire had heard the longing in Hugh’s voice, the regret.

“But I thought you liked campaigning?” Thomas asked.

Hugh huffed a laugh. “Aye … too much.” His gaze returned to the stone walls that seemed gold-hued in the afternoon sun. “But I neglected things … I forgot where I’m from.”

With that, he urged Ajax on, taking the road through the village below the castle, and up the rounded hill—indeed, the castle’s name meant ‘big hill’ in French—to where the drawbridge had been lowered over a deep moat.

The sight of Grosmont’s towers made Hugh’s skin prickle. The fortress was one of the ‘Three Castles of Gwent’ that had been built by the Normans three centuries earlier to control the Welsh border. It was formidable.

The gatehouse loomed over the two riders as they clattered across the drawbridge and into the bailey beyond. Geese scattered, honking when Hugh and Thomas pulled their horses up.

They’d dismounted, and were about to lead their mounts into the stables, when a tall, broad-shouldered figure emerged from the keep.

Kit de Burgh strode toward them, his light-brown hair ruffling in the breeze.

“Christ’s teeth!” His younger’s brother’s face was alight with joy. “Hugh! Is that you?”

Hugh grinned. “Aye, little brother … I’m certainly not a wraith returned to haunt you.”

He stepped forward then and hugged Kit. The pair had been born four years apart and spent most of their adult lives living separately, yet when Hugh drew back, he saw Kit’s hazel eyes shone with tears.

Kit had always been the more emotional of the two of them.

Even so, Hugh’s throat thickened, and he cleared it. “I’ve missed you, Kit.” He slapped him on the shoulder then. “I received your last letter during the winter … you are wed?”

Kit grinned. “Aye.” He glanced back then, at where a small woman descended the steps from the keep. “Emily has finally tamed me.”

Hugh raised his eyebrows, taking in his sister-by-marriage as she approached. Emily’s brown hair was braided, coiled about her crown, and covered with a fine net, as was the custom of wedded women south of the Scottish border. Noticing the style, Hugh’s belly tensed. He recalled then Nessa’s wild red-gold hair that tumbled over her shoulders.

Shoving aside the treacherous memory, Hugh marked then that the dove-grey cotehardie Emily wore revealed a swollen belly.

Smiling, he turned back to Kit. “I see other congratulations are in order.”

His brother’s grin now split his face. “Aye.” He reached out then, drawing Emily into the circle of his arm. The young woman beamed up at her husband. She then glanced at Hugh before dropping her gaze demurely.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to our visitor, Kit?” she asked.

“Of course,” Kit replied, winking at her. “Dearest, I’d like you to meet my brother, Hugh … Lord of Grosmont.”

Warmth suffused Hugh as he smiled at his brother’s wife. Despite his own bruised heart, it pleased him to see Kit so happy.

At that moment, two more figures emerged from the keep and made their way down the stairs to the bailey. In the yard itself, other inhabitants of the castle—guards, servants, and retainers—had gathered, as word of Hugh’s return drew them from their chores. But Hugh’s gaze wasn’t on them, but on the small boy who gripped his grandmother’s hand.

Hugh’s throat thickened. “Richard,” he breathed.

He’d last set eyes on the child shortly after his birth. He’d raced home upon hearing that his wife wasn’t faring well in the latter stages of her pregnancy. Anne had died by the time he’d reached her bedside, yet the small, squalling babe had survived. Hugh had departed once more from Grosmont just a few days later.

The child before him was a stranger, and yet he saw Anne in his face: her neat nose and flaxen hair. The lad’s stubborn jaw and hazel eyes though belonged to Hugh.

“Aye,” Kit murmured. “He’s growing into a fine lad, although he’s almost as bull-headed as you.”

Hugh swallowed, his throat aching. Richard was approaching four now and was already tall for his age. Hugh had missed so much of his growth—precious years that could never be taken back.

Leaving Kit and Emily’s side, Hugh went to his mother and son.

And when he met his mother’s eye, Hugh’s chest constricted. She looked older, tired. Aye, he’d been away from Grosmont for far too long. “Greetings, mother,” he said, his voice roughening.

Isabeau de Burgh stepped forward, before reaching out, taking one of her son’s hands, and squeezing gently. “It’s good to have you home, Hugh,” she said, her voice catching. She then released her grandson’s hand and smiled down at him. “Greet your father, Richard.”

The lad’s gaze widened while he gazed up at Hugh. “Are you really a brave knight?” he asked.

Something deep within Hugh twisted, and the back of his eyes burned. Struggling to remain composed, he hunkered down so that his gaze was level with his son’s. “Aye,” he replied, his voice catching. “And I’ve finally returned to you, lad.”

Wailing Widow Falls

Assynt, Scotland

Nessa was lying on her cot, staring at the wall, when Breanna entered her alcove.

Her sister halted in the doorway, letting the hanging fall shut behind her before she issued a huff of irritation. “Are ye planning on rising from yer bed today?”

“Aye,” Nessa muttered, pulling the blankets up around her chin. “Just not yet.”

Breanna snorted. “The sun is high in the sky.” She then pulled up a stool and settled down on it. “Ye aren’t usually so lazy.”

Nessa snorted, tearing her attention from the pitted stone to her sister. She adored Breanna, yet sometimes her blunt tongue was vexing. Nessa had been back with the Guardians nearly a week now, and a strange lethargy had come upon her. She’d been finding it increasingly hard to rise from her pallet in the mornings.

Breanna had clearly grown tired of her sluggishness.

Arms crossed over her breasts, her strong-featured face set, Breanna’s dark eyes bored into her. “When are ye going to talk to me?” she asked, her brows drawing together. “The others are starting to think ye are ill.”

Nessa rolled over on her back. “I’m perfectly well, thank ye … I just need a little time to myself.”

Ignoring her assertion, Breanna moved forward and placed a hand on Nessa’s brow. “Ye aren’t fevered.” She settled back on her stool and made an impatient noise in the back of her throat. “It’s him, isn’t it … that Englishman?”

Nessa’s jaw tightened. It was clear from Breanna’s frown and the inflection in her voice what opinion she held on Hugh de Burgh. She’d never met the man, yet the fact he was English was enough for her to mutter a curse whenever he was mentioned.

Fortunately, Nessa had said very little about him.

Upon her arrival at the Falls, she’d settled down before one of the hearths, while Colina and her sisters gathered around, and told them of the events that had occurred after she’d last left them. She’d kept her story emotionless, factual, and yet the rasp to her voice, when she’d spoken of Hugh, had likely given her away.

She’d seen the way Colina’s face changed, her features tightening, her usually distant gaze sharpening. Nessa had also seen the surprise, the disgust, on some of the faces of her sisters—including Breanna’s.

They didn’t understand—and she didn’t blame them. No doubt, Breanna was readying herself to give Nessa a tongue-lashing about her taste in men.

Nessa’s jaw tightened further. She wasn’t herself at the moment, yet she would bite back if Breanna started hectoring her. “Leave it, Bree,” she said, injecting a warning note into her voice. “I don’t want to speak of him.”

Breanna scowled. “So, it’s as I thought. Ye have gone and fallen in love with one of the enemy.”

Nessa sat up, pushing the blankets aside. “Have ye got porridge in yer ears? I said I didn’t—”

“Ye can’t lie here moping forever,” Breanna shot back, cutting her off. “The news ye brought means that we need to be more vigilant than ever. That witch, Lamia, knows of the Guardians … and that means she could jeopardize our cause.”

“I’m aware of that,” Nessa replied through gritted teeth. “Why else do ye think I rode back here as if The Hammer himself were after me?”

And she had. However, she’d also traveled back to Assynt in a daze, hardly noticing the glens, valleys, and forests she’d ridden through. She’d left her heart behind her, and with each furlong she journeyed north, the emptier she felt.

A hole had been carved out of her chest, and even when she’d returned to her home under the waterfalls, a place she’d always felt safe and sheltered, the yawning sense of loss didn’t ease.

Nessa couldn’t go on this way. The night before, she’d lain awake, staring up into the darkness, mulling over her situation. Something had to be done. She just wasn’t sure exactly what.

“Then why aren’t ye up and about … and helping to do something about it?” Breanna demanded.

Nessa spat a curse before rising to her feet and reaching for her kirtle.

“Where are ye going?” Breanna asked, her dark brows drawing together.

“Anywhere … as long as I don’t have to suffer yer bladelike tongue a moment longer.”

Nessa pulled on her kirtle, and was lacing her bodice, when she felt Breanna’s gaze boring into her. Glancing up, she saw her sister’s proud features had softened.

“Believe it or not, I didn’t come in here to berate ye.” Breanna’s peat-brown eyes shadowed. “I’ve missed ye of late … and Fyfa too … I just want things to go back to how they were.”

Nessa held her gaze. “We were inseparable once, weren’t we?” she murmured. “Three fierce young bandruì ready to take on the world.” She paused then. “Well, ye and Fyfa were always fierce … I was perhaps less so.”

Breanna favored her with a wry smile. “Ye are a healer … ye have to be softer than us.” She rose to her feet then, dusting off her blue skirts. “Come on … there’s some fresh bannock on the griddle if ye want some.”

Nessa sighed. Her appetite had been off ever since her return. Food had lost its taste of late. And it would remain so until she faced things. “Aye, in a wee bit,” she replied. “But first, I must speak with our mother.”