trust.” She ran a hand through her mussed hair and stormed out of the room.
He followed slowly, giving her time, intrigued by her display of anger. I don’t know who to trust. What an interesting choice of words.
He found her in the living room staring up at the sword hanging on the wall above the fireplace. At one time it had been an extension of himself. He’d carried it everywhere and even slept with it. Many an enemy’s blood had dripped with it. Nowadays he barely looked at it, but looking now he realized he missed the weight of it in his hand, the way it sang through the air toward an enemy’s head. A lot could be said for modern times, but ’twas medieval times he was born to and medieval times he yearned for. Especially when justice was called for.
“Tell me about the dream,” he said casually, taking a sip of coffee.
“Which dream?”
He looked at her sharply. “There’s been more than one?”
She huffed out a shaky laugh and looked at him with haunted eyes. “Oh, yes. Many more than one.” She nodded toward the sword. “That was in my dream.”
He looked up at the sword as if he’d never seen it before. She dreamt of his sword? It’s not surprising. She was intrigued by it last night so she incorporated it into her dream.
“I dreamt of it before I came here.”
He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His brain went blank and he could do nothing but wait for what she had to say next.
“I dream of you, too.”
The fine hairs on his arms rose. Slowly he put his mug down on the nearest table. The unexpected turn of the conversation left him floundering. A sensation he was unaccustomed to and didn’t like.
“Tell me,” he said softly.
Her eyes filled with tears and her defenses broke under the flood. ’Twas as if he were seeing the real Madelaine Alexander for the first time without pretenses or lies on her lips.
“I saw her,” she whispered. “I saw her in the hall. With a dark-haired knight that looked like you. I was there, yet I wasn’t. I was watching, yet I was inside her, feeling her excitement at speaking to you and her fear of being discovered by her husband. She…” Her breath hitched. Tears raced down her cheeks. “She was drawn to you. Attracted. She knew she shouldn’t be. She knew she’d be punished if her attraction was discovered.”
Christien closed his eyes and bit back a groan of torture. She was describing the night they first met. Mon Dieu. What was happening here? Where did these memories of hers come from?
Lucheux?
Had Lucheux planted them in her mind?
“She had no love in her life,” she was saying. “No happiness. No laughter. She missed that the most. The laughter.”
Christien made a low sound. Memories came pouring out. Emotions he’d buried when he buried the treasure and made a pledge to protect it for the rest of eternity. He felt his Madelaine’s pain from so long ago. He’d tried to shield her from it, to give her laughter and happiness, but his visits were sporadic and his attempts had to be covert.
He could do little save whisking her away. But where would he have taken her? He was a landless knight, paid by the Knights Templar and the money he was earning would have disappeared if he’d taken her from the powerful influence of Count Flandres. Not to mention she was cousin to King Philip. Christien would have lost his head if he’d been caught and where would that have left her?
“Her husband found them talking.” She was breathing too fast. “She knew she was going to be punished, but she didn’t regret talking to the kind knight.” A long, low moan escaped her and she pressed a fist to her mouth, her eyes huge, unseeing. Or seeing too much.
“Madelaine. Arrête . Stop. Please.”
Her breath was wheezing out of her. The tears came faster. “H-he… He… Oh, God, Christien.”
“Enough, ma belle. ” He couldn’t do this anymore, couldn’t force her to say the words. Her body was trembling, tears racing
He followed slowly, giving her time, intrigued by her display of anger. I don’t know who to trust. What an interesting choice of words.
He found her in the living room staring up at the sword hanging on the wall above the fireplace. At one time it had been an extension of himself. He’d carried it everywhere and even slept with it. Many an enemy’s blood had dripped with it. Nowadays he barely looked at it, but looking now he realized he missed the weight of it in his hand, the way it sang through the air toward an enemy’s head. A lot could be said for modern times, but ’twas medieval times he was born to and medieval times he yearned for. Especially when justice was called for.
“Tell me about the dream,” he said casually, taking a sip of coffee.
“Which dream?”
He looked at her sharply. “There’s been more than one?”
She huffed out a shaky laugh and looked at him with haunted eyes. “Oh, yes. Many more than one.” She nodded toward the sword. “That was in my dream.”
He looked up at the sword as if he’d never seen it before. She dreamt of his sword? It’s not surprising. She was intrigued by it last night so she incorporated it into her dream.
“I dreamt of it before I came here.”
He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His brain went blank and he could do nothing but wait for what she had to say next.
“I dream of you, too.”
The fine hairs on his arms rose. Slowly he put his mug down on the nearest table. The unexpected turn of the conversation left him floundering. A sensation he was unaccustomed to and didn’t like.
“Tell me,” he said softly.
Her eyes filled with tears and her defenses broke under the flood. ’Twas as if he were seeing the real Madelaine Alexander for the first time without pretenses or lies on her lips.
“I saw her,” she whispered. “I saw her in the hall. With a dark-haired knight that looked like you. I was there, yet I wasn’t. I was watching, yet I was inside her, feeling her excitement at speaking to you and her fear of being discovered by her husband. She…” Her breath hitched. Tears raced down her cheeks. “She was drawn to you. Attracted. She knew she shouldn’t be. She knew she’d be punished if her attraction was discovered.”
Christien closed his eyes and bit back a groan of torture. She was describing the night they first met. Mon Dieu. What was happening here? Where did these memories of hers come from?
Lucheux?
Had Lucheux planted them in her mind?
“She had no love in her life,” she was saying. “No happiness. No laughter. She missed that the most. The laughter.”
Christien made a low sound. Memories came pouring out. Emotions he’d buried when he buried the treasure and made a pledge to protect it for the rest of eternity. He felt his Madelaine’s pain from so long ago. He’d tried to shield her from it, to give her laughter and happiness, but his visits were sporadic and his attempts had to be covert.
He could do little save whisking her away. But where would he have taken her? He was a landless knight, paid by the Knights Templar and the money he was earning would have disappeared if he’d taken her from the powerful influence of Count Flandres. Not to mention she was cousin to King Philip. Christien would have lost his head if he’d been caught and where would that have left her?
“Her husband found them talking.” She was breathing too fast. “She knew she was going to be punished, but she didn’t regret talking to the kind knight.” A long, low moan escaped her and she pressed a fist to her mouth, her eyes huge, unseeing. Or seeing too much.
“Madelaine. Arrête . Stop. Please.”
Her breath was wheezing out of her. The tears came faster. “H-he… He… Oh, God, Christien.”
“Enough, ma belle. ” He couldn’t do this anymore, couldn’t force her to say the words. Her body was trembling, tears racing
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