Whispers at Court by Blythe Gifford

Author:Blythe Gifford
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin Australia
Published: 2015-11-11T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Marc did not return to the Hall.

A dream, Marc decided, as he retreated to the room he shared with Enguerrand. He would call it a dream. Passion, tenderness, no more than a night vision to be ignored. Certainly, never trusted.

Something that would fade with the dawn.

The weeks at court that had stretched endless before him were at an end. He should be rejoicing.

Instead, every step away felt like his last.

He approached his door, ready to seek his pallet. Tomorrow, he would rise with the dawn and ride, leaving the court, and Cecily, behind.

He had let himself be caught up in Cecily’s fears and the foolish whispers of the court, unable to distinguish disguising from truth. Enguerrand spent time with the king’s daughter, true. But he had told Marc why. And at the same time, he was as charming as ever with the other ladies of the court and he spoke of the princess no more than he did of the dance or the food at dinner or the freezing winter cold.

That moment, only a moment, when Enguerrand had seemed too fond, almost jealous... Well, Marc had had his own moments of folie during the days of Christmas.

To have thought that he could, or even should, try to control his friend’s decisions had only led him to make his own mistakes.

Instead of saving his friend, he had trapped himself. Well, time to put Angleterre, and its women, behind them.

Alone in the room, Marc tried to sleep, waking as the infernal clock in the tower struck, hour after hour. It was late, very late, when he heard the door and opened his eyes to see the glimmer of a candle.

Enguerrand crept into the room, wearing a dishevelled shirt and the scent of a woman, heavy and sweet. A farewell Yuletide tumble with a maid, no doubt, except...

The scent. It was one he recognised. Not Cecily’s, no, but one he had caught when he was near her. One belonging to...

Isabella.

He sat up, blinking, willing his eyes to adjust to the dark, trying to see his friend’s face, look into his eyes...

‘Where have you been?’ he said instead. Sharply.

Enguerrand sat on the edge of his bed and set down the candle. ‘Saying farewell.’

‘To whom?’

‘You question me?’ Belligerent.

‘You’ve been with her.’ Simple. True. And all the worst things he had tried to convince himself would never happen.

And at the words, his friend became no longer a count, but simply a man. He slumped, dropping his head in his hands. No smooth words now. Instead, he alternately nodded his head at the truth of the statement, then, shook it in despair.

No, this was not a man satisfied with a Yuletide fling. This was a man who had seen what he wanted and knew he could not have it.

A feeling Marc knew.

Enguerrand lifted his head. In the dim candle’s glow, the empty sadness in his eyes resonated, echoed and magnified Marc’s own. ‘What are we going to do, mon ami?’

We. As if Enguerrand knew it all.

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