The Redeeming by Tamara Leigh

itself.
    He stepped toward the latter and drew his fingers across the gilded cover. What had she been reading before his interruption?
    He opened to a brightly illuminated page that immediately wafted memories of the monastery where he had bent over parchment to embellish the Lord’s word. It was as near as he had come to feeling peace in the Lord’s service—an inner calm that assuaged what was too often monotony.
    Surprised by a lightening about his heart, he read the first two lines of the psalm, then closed his eyes and drew forth the remainder that was more easily coaxed to mind than expected.
    He lifted his lids, flipped forward a dozen pages, and again pulled a psalm from memory. The words were still there. He had but to summon them.
    He touched the illumination of King David on his throne, then turned to the front of the psalter. However, it was not a psalm he laid open, but folded parchment spotted where wax had once sealed it against eyes for which it was not intended.
    Though Christian knew he should not further trespass, he unfolded it and looked upon bold, black strokes made by a dull quill.
     
    My lady, Gaenor,
    I pray one day you will forgive me. ~ Ever your friend, Durand
     
    Christian remembered the knight who had escaped the king’s men with Gaenor and delivered her to Wulfen Castle—the same who had later accompanied Baron Wulfrith to Broehne Castle to attend Lady Beatrix’s trial. Forgive him? For what?
    He had paid the knight little heed other than to be offended by his presence when Baron Wulfrith brought him along to discuss the proposal Christian had put to him—in exchange for the Wulfriths yielding up Lady Gaenor without further defiance of the king’s decree, Christian would supply testimony to aid Lady Beatrix at trial.
    Remembering the seething Sir Durand who had stood behind the baron, gaze wrathful, face flushed, teeth bared, Christian wondered if he was the one to whom Gaenor had given her heart. The one whose own heart lay elsewhere.
    He read again the words that beseeched her forgiveness. Because Sir Durand had not returned her feelings? Because he had rejected her?
    It seemed to fit, especially as she had retained the letter and the parchment was worn as if often handled. Indeed, rather than a psalm, perhaps it was this letter over which she had been poring when he had found her on the roof.
    Jealousy gripped him. If Sir Durand was the one who held her heart, might he be the reason she refused Christian’s kiss, rather than fear of betrayal?
    The crackle of parchment brought him back from the unfamiliar edge upon which he found himself, and he saw he had crumpled the edges. With a grunt of disgust, he returned the parchment to the psalter, snapped the book closed, and stalked out of the chamber.
    Telling himself it was good that he and Lady Gaenor would not meet again until her sister’s wedding and that he did not care how she received him when he was revealed, he shortly found himself tilting at a quintain on the training field.
    Time and again, he landed his lance center of the stuffed knight that sought to come about quickly enough to knock him from his mount. But not once did his silent opponent find its mark.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    I t was foolish of her, but as it was three days since last she had seen Sir Matthew on the roof, she had given in to the impulse upon catching sight of him as he struck out across the field. Though only twice before had she stolen from the castle to the wood, she once more risked her brothers’ wrath and slipped out the sally port amid the lengthening shadows of day’s end.
    Guessing it was the stream Sir Matthew sought in order to cleanse away the day’s training, she edged around the outer wall, gripped the hood beneath her chin lest it fall, and ran for the trees.
    Though she could not be certain, no alarm sounded from the walls as her long legs carried her across the tall grass. Of course, as she knew from her months in the tower, Wulfen’s