Page 62 of An Inconvenient Vow

“Careful, wife. Three days is not a long time,” he cautioned her gruffly and took her by surprise by reaching out, seizing hold of her wrist, and dragging her hand to his face. Sabina’s breath caught in her throat as Jeffree pressed his lips to her fingers and seemed in no hurry to get the gesture over with.

“That’s another of your conditions met,” he reminded her as he finally released her hand, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Yes,” Sabina agreed dazedly, still feeling the tickle of his short beard against her tingling hand.

“I will kiss your cheek when I collect you,” he promised.

Sabina practically whimpered. There would be no conditions left he had not met after that, and once he was finally released from his vow… Well, then there would no longer be any obstacles to their wedded lives.

She cast a quick glance around at the Vyses who were all calmly watching them with interest. “We need to part,” she reminded him unsteadily. She had a horrible feeling her face was scarlet by this point. Jeffree made a rumbling noise, but whether it was of agreement or displeasure she had no notion. Instead, she turned and stumbled back toward her in-law’s party. Hadley, their manservant, helped her back up into her saddle, but she could feel Jeffree’s eyes on her the whole time, right up until they disappeared from his view.

14

Three days is not a long time, that was what he had told her, but the time that followed had seemed interminable to Jeffree. The tournament could not hold his interest. His biggest rivals did not even trouble to show.

Vawdrey, the so-called King’s Champion, had chosen instead to celebrate the birth of his first child to garnering glory in the ring. Lord Kentigern was apparently otherwise engaged, preparing for marriage to some rich merchant’s daughter.

Orde was there, brash as ever, and brandishing some new northern title, but he seemed more interested in squiring his pregnant wife about than squaring up to his opposition. It seemed no one could be depended on to show the proper dedication to the sport, apart from him. Not that was, until Armand de Bussell showed up with the late northern princess on his arm.

De Bussell was unaccustomedly steadfast for once in his lackadaisical life, disturbingly so. If Jeffree had ever been asked for epithets to describe Sir Armand, he would have used words like lax, blasé, and apathetic. De Bussell swaggered through life with seemingly little effort, using his charm and easy manners to get what he wanted and rarely exerting himself to make it to the final of anything.

Jeffree wasn’t sure what the hell was going on with De Bussell these days; he only knew that he barely recognized him in the competitor who turned up that year at Areley Kings. After three days of a damned hard slog, Jeffree managed to make it to the final two in the main event. He was not even surprised to find it was De Bussell facing him down the length of the field. It seemed practically an inevitability by this point.

As did his ignominious defeat. He could not even feel particularly robbed as he lay rolling in the dust, gasping for breath. He had lost to the better man on the day. He limped back to his pavilion, extricated himself from his battered armor, and ordered Osborn to pack their things without delay. If he left now, he could be at Longacre by nightfall. Sabina had spent three nights without him, and he had no intention of making it four.

True, he had thought sleeping in the same bed was torture, but in truth, he was not now sure that sleeping in a bed without her was any better. When sleep finally had taken him each night, his thoughts had been a confused jumble of unaccustomed longings and honey-colored braids. He would not stand for one more miserable minute of it.

Osborn grumbled and griped, but Jeffree had refused to tarry. Indeed, an emissary of Lord Blandivar’s had had to chase him down the road, brandishing his winnings as first runner up. He had forgotten the purse, forgotten everything other than his urgent need to reclaim his wife.

Luckily, everyone knew he frequently skipped the crowning banquet of these events, so no one would remark on his hasty exit. At least he hoped not. His reputation was something he did prize after all. Funny how he only thought of it now that Osborn was regarding him doubtfully and shaking his head.

“Something to say, Osborn?” he snapped.

His servant huffed out a great sigh. “Things isn’t what they used to be, Sir Jeffree.”

Jeffree bit back his instinctive retort as beneath him. Perhaps replacing Osborn with a squire would not be such a bad thing after all.

They reached Longacre long after a decent hour for visitors. Still, Jeffree reflected, he could be considered family by some small stretch. He was let in by a servant, who appeared to know he was expected, and led him into a narrow gallery room where Sir Dudley was sat pouring over an account ledger.

He looked up at Jeffree with some surprise. “Ah, Jeffree,” he exclaimed. “We did not expect you until the morrow.”

For a moment, Jeffree considered voicing his most pressing concern, namely the whereabouts of his wife. Then better manners prevailed, and he grudgingly asked after his mother and responded that yes, he had fared well enough at his tournament. To his surprise, Sir Dudley seemed disinclined to be rid of him, but instead, stepped out into the corridor to call a servant for some wine.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like a few words about Jasper and Crispin,” his stepfather said coming back into the room, and with a sigh, Jeffree took a seat and listened for half an hour of lecturing about the care and instruction of boys. At the conclusion of it, Sir Dudley stopped pacing and sat back in his seat. “You look surprised, Jeffree, by my parental anxieties.”

Jeffree set his empty goblet back down. “I admit, I am a little taken aback,” he admitted. “But then I have no sons.”

“And you had no father to worry over you,” Sir Dudley agreed. “It was made perfectly clear to me that I was to exercise little influence over you in that regard.”

“Who made that plain?” Jeffree asked, startled. “My mother?”

“Gods no,” his stepfather answered. “She found it hard enough to make her own voice heard where your upbringing was concerned!” He paused a moment. “Your uncle, Bevis, and your godfather, Sir Charles, made it very plain that they were to be the ones to steer you on your path in life.”

Jeffree brooded over this a moment. “I do not recall their being much involved in the five years I spent with Sir Hereward,” he said dryly.

“You did not enjoy your own training?” Sir Dudley asked looking concerned.

“I learned all the skills necessary,” Jeffree said, clearing his throat. “Including precisely what kind of knight I did not want to be.” The last part slipped out. He had not intended to say it.