Page 89 of The Thornwyck Rose

Erik inclined his head.

“Why?” he asked to test him.

“Lord David needs a mother, or he’ll end up being his father,” Geoffrey whispered again.

Erik studied Geoffrey, still giving nothing away. The man could just as easily lie about him alone and leave Seren out of it.

Geoffrey leaned in. “And if you’ve made a liar out of me regarding Lady de Thornwyck, I will ensure your suffering is tenfold.”

Erik straightened. “She is faithful to her husband, as your God would have it. If you are a liar, you will have made yourself one.”

“Keep it that way, Payen.” Geoffrey turned and entered the stairway first, leaving Erik a moment to glance back at Seren’s door.

Godric stared back at him.

They exchanged a dip of their heads.

Erik rested his palm on the spring-cold stone as he descended the stairs, grounding himself in the chill.

The taste of the morning’s betrayal still coated his tongue. The trial. The accusation. The truth twisted beyond recognition.

And yet, she had survived.

Because of Geoffrey. Of all the men in the keep, Geoffrey.

The very man who had once cursed Erik for replacing him had chosen her over pride.

But that choice would cost them both.

Even though Geoffrey didn’t reveal the whole truth about what happened in the alcove, Erik’s days with Seren ended. After such an accusation by Lord Henry, even a look, a breath too long in Seren’s direction, would be seen as seduction. A favor. An invitation. And any small kindness Erik offered now could condemn her. Even a yellow kingcup bloom could be interpreted as an affair.

He clenched his fist.

She had not been his to begin with, but the day made it final.

He had lost in her not only the woman who made him feel human again, but also his only friend.

XXXII

THE MOTHER’S WISDOM

THORNWYCK KEEP, MAY 1094

The candles had burned low.The fire in the hearth had not been tended since she returned, and the chamber air had thickened with the scent of smoke.

Margot and Isolde had said nothing. Neither had Seren.

Words were meaningless.

Seren sat against the pillows in her bed, propped higher than was comfortable. Her chemise clung to the dried blood at her collar, stiff with crusted lace. The wound wasn’t too deep, but David kept glancing at it as if it might split open again.

He stood beside the bed, fists clenched. His little chest rose and fell too fast. His boots scuffed at the edge of the rug.

“He hurt you,” David whispered.

His voice was small but burning. She saw it—flashes of the morning’s power theater behind his eyes.

“Hurt you worse than any other time,” he said.