A Kiss in the Night by Jennifer Horsman Page A

alive!"
    "No thanks to my dear brother."
    "Wait, Morgan. You banished Paxton because you assumed he had caused the Lady Belinda's death! Now we find, through miracle or fate, she is not only quite well but, by God's grace, she is safe within our very walls. He is absolved of this crime—"
    "Is he?" His voice lowered dangerously. “Is it not still true that his famous appetite for whoring took him away from battle?"
    John did not point out that Morgan's appetite was every bit as prodigious as Paxton's, more even, for Paxton tended to be extremely selective about his women, whereas Morgan, inexplicably, seemed only to require that the creature be of a low kind. The insult he could not bear, though, was the false hood that Paxton left the battle before it was through.
    Through gritted teeth John said, "The battle was over, I say. And you know well Paxton would never leave his men to battle without him! Why, his battle skill is sung across the country. Even the king has called him to service for the Italian campaign. And thus you well know, Morgan!"
    "Bravery," he scoffed. "Even if that is true and the battle over and every last rebel knight slain, my brave brother"—he drawled the word with scorn, granting John no measure—"then rode away from the search for my wife. My wife. Even if she is alive now, she might have died, and for no more reason than his prodigious lust! And you want me to forgive him? Nay." He shook his head. "I will not. Never, I say."
    John followed Morgan into the great hall, desperate to make Morgan see reason. His personal affection aside, Paxton did not deserve banishment from all that he loved, all that they all loved. Gaillard. Paxton of all men did not deserve it.
    Besides, they needed Paxton.
    Morgan had always needed Paxton. If for nothing else than Paxton's superior skills with the harvesting of Gaillard's precious grapes. In these last few years his burgeoning knowledge had become invaluable. The first part of Paxton's life had been spent learning the warring arts, but the last years had been spent learning the art of wine making. And learn, he had. For Paxton foresaw the peace the king would bring to France at last, that soon the measure of a man would be what he could make of his land.
    For three long years Paxton learned everything there was to know about wine making. He had consulted wineries across France and the Holy Roman Empire, forced Morgan to send scouts abroad in an effort to gather the newest methods and means of wine making, and all the while he read every word written on the subject. In the last few years he implemented the modern method for the cultivation of the soil and planting at Gaillard, brought innovative responses to the annual disasters, learned how to maximize the benefits of a heavy rainfall, built a better wine press, convinced Morgan to purchase the stronger English oak barrels, and most of all, selected the harvest date. Paxton had demonstrated uncanny luck in choosing the harvest date—an all-important day that made a sweet, potent wine or a bitter or tart one, a day that determined wealth or poverty.
    Morgan's wealth or poverty.
    The whole of the township's wealth had been built and maintained by Paxton's careful administration. He could probably still maintain this in Paxton's absence for a year or two, but he was well aware of his age. He could not work so hard forever. Besides, Gaillard would not grow without Paxton's skillful overseeing.
    Morgan could never pick a fortuitous harvest date.
    The older man sank onto the velvet-lined bench. The complexities of Morgan's and Paxton's love and hatred could fill a book as thick as the Scriptures. Their father had died when the boys were still in swaddling clothes and he always felt it might have been different had that great man lived. Their father might have been able to balance the scales that fate had tipped dramatically in Morgan's favor. For some reason Morgan had owned their good mother's regard. Since the day