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  He took his mother by the hand, leading her into the keep whether or not she wanted to go. Jordan and Jemma passed looks between them, perhaps looks of curiosity and uncertainty. Paris was inside and Jemma wasn’t ready to see him yet, if at all, but Alec didn’t know that. Still… Jemma wanted to see her daughter, Moira, and her grandchildren. They were Paris’ grandchildren, too, in fact.

  She was just going to have to deal with Paris’ presence.

  Jordan followed the pair into the keep, hearing the laughing and yelling in the great hall as soon as she entered.

  It was going to make for a very interesting afternoon.

  “My mother?”

  “Aye.”

  “And Uncle Paris?”

  “Aye.”

  Moira Hage de Norville, wife of Apollo, was staring at Cassiopeia as if the woman had just sprouted horns. They were standing in the entry of Castle Questing’s massive keep, a place that was more private than the wild meal that was going on in the great hall at the moment.

  Moira looked much like her mother with her dark hair and pert nose, but she had more of her father’s temperament which was why she wasn’t openly denouncing what Cassiopeia, her sister-in-law, had just told her. In fact, she was more than a little stunned. She wasn’t quite sure how to react.

  “Are you suggesting that my mother – who has shown nothing but annoyance with Uncle Paris – keep company with the man?” she finally asked. “She’s never shown the slightest interest in him!”

  Cassiopeia nodded. “Mimi, you don’t understand,” she said quietly, using the nickname Moira had as a child. “Since Apollo is at Northwood even now, he is being told what I am going to tell you. We all know that Papa has been lonely and depressed since my mother died, but none of us realized how bad it was. Yesterday, he tried to drown himself in the river and would have were it not for the heroic actions of Hector and Uncle William. He told Uncle William that he wanted to die because he was tired of the pain of living.”

  Moira’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh… Cassie,” she whispered. “Is it true?”

  “It is. I would not lie to you.”

  Moira sniffled, wiping at her cheeks quickly as the tears fell. “We knew he was sad, but he seemed to be soldiering on. He’s a proud man. Mayhap he wanted us all to think he was stronger than he was.”

  Cassiopeia nodded. “That’s exactly what he wanted us to think,” she said. “But it wasn’t true. He’s so lonely and sad that he would rather die than face life.”

  “And you think my mother can help?”

  Cassiopeia shrugged. “She is alone and my father is alone. They have known each other their entire lives. Why must they spend the remainder of their lives alone when they can spend it with each other? Surely there is some comfort in that.”

  Moira thought on that. She had always been levelheaded and wise, so very much like her father in that aspect. “Has anyone spoken to her about it? Is that why Uncle Paris is here?”

  “Aunt Jordan has spoken to my father,” Cassiopeia said. “She’s speaking to Aunt Jemma right now. They are out in the garden and I just saw Alec go out there.”

  Moira pursed her lips, turning towards the garden entry. “I hope my brother does not spoil what Aunt Jordan is trying to accomplish,” she said. “Truthfully, I am not entirely sure this is a good idea given how my mother and Uncle Paris have always reacted to one another, but I am deeply saddened to know how badly Uncle Paris has been. Mayhap if he and my mother… well, being with a man who annoys you is better than no man at all, I suppose. Mayhap they will put old feuds aside.”

  “I hope so. In any case, it is something to distract my father and, for that, I am grateful.”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then I suppose we shall see what will happen.”

  Cassiopeia nodded, looping her arm through Moira’s. “We must be prepared to help should things go wrong.”

  Moira’s eyes widened. “Help?” she repeated. “You mean if my mother takes off after Uncle Paris with a dirk?”

  Cassiopeia giggled as she pulled the woman towards the great hall. “I have never actually seen her become aggressive against him, but I have heard stories.”

  Moira took a deep breath as if to bolster her courage. “As have I,” she said. “If Aunt Jordan tries to make a match, we may very well find out if they were true.”

  Deep down, that was what Cassiopeia was afraid of.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Why did you pull me away from my grandchildren?” Paris demanded. “And what are we doing here?”

  William heard the question but he didn’t answer right away. He had dragged Paris out of the hall when he saw Alec, Jemma, and Jordan entering from the garden, taking him out through a servant’s entrance. He then took the man across the bailey to the knight’s quarters, where the bachelor knights and male visitors were housed.

  It was a stone building, built against the outer wall, with a fighting platform on top of it meant to assist in battle by allowing men to gain quick access on or off the walls. The structure itself had a small common room at the entry and then several small chambers, all in a row, that faced out onto the bailey. The rooms were comfortable even if they were cramped and William took Paris into the first empty cell he came across.

  “William?” Paris said again, trying to catch the man’s attention. “Why did you bring me out here? What is going on?”

  William held up a hand to him, begging patience, as he called to the male servant that was usually present in the outbuilding to see to the needs of the men. When the heavyset servant appeared, he sent the man for hot water, soap, a razor, and Paris also heard him tell the man to go to his chamber and bring clean clothing. As Paris heard that last directive, he threw up his hands.

  “Christ,” he hissed. “What do you intend to do? Bathe me and dress me like a mother?”

  William cocked an eyebrow. “Someone should,” he said, finally answering him. “Have you taken a look at yourself lately? You look as if you have been living in a cave for the past year. And you smell like compost.”

  Paris frowned. “No one asked you.”

  “That is true; no one has,” William said. “But if you intend to get anywhere close to Jemma, you need to clean yourself up. She’ll take one look at you and kick your arse right out of the door. And I would not blame her.”

  Paris frowned but refrained from sparring with him, mostly because he knew he was right. In truth, he hadn’t even noticed how badly he had let himself go. Hygiene or physical appearance hadn’t been at the top of his list of concerns. He was also still in the clothing from yesterday, when he’d walked into the river, and it had dried to a lovely rotten smell. Lifting his arm, he caught a whiff of his own body odor. Odd how he hadn’t really noticed it until now.

  Or cared.

  But he waved a dismissive hand at William, unhappily, as more servants appeared, carrying a bathtub between them. It could barely fit into the tiny chamber, but they managed to wedge the tub against the wall as buckets of hot water began to come from the kitchen yard.

  More servants entered, carrying soap and razors and combs. One of the servants even brought a pair of shears, sharp metal scissors that they used on the horses when the razors weren’t sharp enough. Everything was set out in the tiny room, on the bed, as Paris stood over by the window, watching the activity in the bailey and resigning himself to the fact that, very soon, he was to be dunked into that water. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a bath. Finally, the servants cleared out, leaving William testing the sharpness of the razor.

  “Well?” he said to Paris. “Are you going to take your clothes off and get into that tub or do I need to call in reinforcements?”

  Paris scowled. “Reinforcements? And just what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Women,” William said shortly, returning his attention to the razor. “I will call Jordan and you will be sunk. Therefore, it would be wise for
you to get into that bathtub before I send for her.”

  Grumbling, Paris began stripping off clothing that probably hadn’t been off of his body in a month or more. He simply didn’t care about such things any longer. He tossed it aside, yanking off his boots and getting a whiff of his feet because the water in the boots hadn’t dried out properly. Even William could smell it.

  “Christ, Paris,” he muttered. “How could you not smell that rot?”

  Nude, Paris climbed into the water, hissing because it was so hot. “If you are going to criticize me, then you can get out,” he said. “I do not need your scorn.”

  William wrinkled his nose, handing Paris the horsehair brush and soap that smelled like pine. “I am not scorning you,” he insisted. “I am simply asking if something has happened to your sense of smell.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  William shook his head in disgust as Paris lathered up the horsehair brush and began to scrub. “Have your children not said anything about the way you look and smell?” he asked.

  Paris was scrubbing at his arms and chest. “Nay,” he said. “Of course they would not. They would not shame me so. Besides… what is the point in bathing and wearing clean clothing if there is no one who cares whether you do or not?”

  They were veering onto a sensitive subject, one that William didn’t particularly want to delve into. But they’d already seen their share of sensitive subjects since yesterday, so he didn’t avoid it.

  If they were going to hash it out, then it was time to hash.

  “You were clean and washed before you married Callie,” he said, picking up a bucket of hot water that had been left on the floor. “You cannot use that as an excuse. In fact, you were one of the best dressed and groomed men I knew.”

  Paris didn’t say anything. He continued to scrub at his armpits, neck, before moving to his legs and feet. He had himself covered with the slimy film from the soap when William dumped the bucket of water over his head. Paris gasped unhappily.

  “That was hot!” he said.

  “Wash your hair.”

  “I am not a child.”

  “That is up for debate.”

  Grumbling all the way, Paris complied. He used the fatty soap to scrub his hair before using the bucket to rinse it clean. All the while, William stood back, supervising, waiting until Paris had rinsed his mop of gray hair.

  Then, he moved in.

  “Women do not like their men hairy,” he said, picking up the shears. “You used to always keep your hair cropped.”

  Paris was at the point where he stopped fighting William because nothing he said was untrue. He simply sat there as William started to cut and chunks of hair fell onto the floor or into the bath water. Watching his hair fall away was like watching layers of himself come off, layers that he had been hiding under.

  Hiding from the world.

  “I used to go to the barber-surgeon in Berwick,” he finally muttered, reflecting on those days so long ago. “Do you remember? The man would use the same razors on hair that he would use to slice people open.”

  William set the shears aside and picked up the razor. “I remember,” he said as he used the blade on the back of Paris’ head. “He also butchered his wife’s chickens with the same razor. They sold them in their shop, remember?”

  A shadow of a grin crossed Paris’ lips. “My hair always smelled like fowl.”

  William struggled not to laugh. “And anything else that razor touched.”

  “I hope the razor you are using smells better.”

  William sniffed at it. “It smells like Deinwald shaved his armpits with it.”

  Paris burst out laughing. He couldn’t help it. The bath, the conversation, the tending by a pushy, yet well-meaning friend was having some effect on him. His mood was lightening, more than it had in a very long time.

  It was amazing what a little care, and a little hope, could do for one’s outlook.

  William pushed him forward to shave the back of his neck, very carefully, and Paris’ mind wandered back to the keep of Castle Questing where a great many of his grandchildren were gathering in the great hall.

  Jemma was there, too.

  He sighed faintly.

  “Truthfully, William,” he said. “What would the Banshee want with an old man like me? Has she even taken a good look at me lately? Probably not, but if she had, she would see that I am nothing like I used to be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m old, William.”

  “We’re all old.”

  “It is true that you look much older than I do,” Paris said in an insult against William. “What business do people as old as we are have engaging in anything romantic?”

  William finished with his neck and pulled him back, picking up the slimy bar of soap and running it all over Paris’ raggedy beard. “Just because we have lived longer than most does not mean the passion has gone out of our lives,” he said. “I still love my wife as much as I did when I first fell in love with her.”

  “Do you bed her? Still?”

  William paused and looked at him. “Did you bed Callie? Still?”

  “I asked you first.”

  William cocked an eyebrow, disapproving of the question. “For the sake of argument, let us say that I do,” he said. “Why shouldn’t I? She is my wife and I still long for her.”

  He began to shave Paris’ beard as the man sat still, pondering the answer. “And it is still… exciting?”

  “For the sake of argument, let us say that it is.”

  Paris sighed. “Callie was so ill the last few years of her life,” he said pensively. “But up until that time, for the sake of argument, let us say that I did bed my wife regularly. But she was my wife. We had six children together. She knew me as a strong, young man and she knew me as an older man. She saw me in most of the stages of my life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Paris said, lifting his chin when William shaved his neck. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Jemma is going to look at me and see an old, tired man. How on earth can she still be fond of me?”

  William rinsed off the razor in the bath water. “Let me ask you a question,” he said. “What do you see when you look at Jemma? Quickly, now. Don’t think about it. Just tell me.”

  “A lass with eyes the color of amber and big breasts,” he said immediately. “Kieran used to beat his chest about it because they were bigger than Jordan’s or Callie’s.”

  “Kieran only beat his chest about it when you pushed him into a corner and said his wife was a troll.”

  “I never said that.”

  William stopped what he was doing and looked Paris in the eye. “You are the biggest liar I have ever known,” he said. “You used to say it all the time. You have probably said it recently, too.”

  Paris wasn’t going to admit to that even though he’d said it to his children earlier that day. “I should not have said that to Kieran,” he said with regret. Then, he paused. “William, I worry about what he would think about all of this. I feel as if I am betraying Kieran somehow by even considering this.”

  William went back to work, finishing shaving the left side of Paris’ face. “I don’t think Kieran would think that,” he said. “I believe he would be happy that you would keep his wife company. After he finished laughing, that is. If I thought differently, I never would have supported Jordan’s quest to bring you and Jemma together.”

  “So this is all Jordan’s idea, is it?”

  “Not really. Not all of it, anyway,” he said. “Just speak with Jemma. Talk to the woman and see if any of this appeals to you. See if you can find that knight who once thought she was rather pretty.”

  “Still is.”

  “Aye. She still is.”

  William finished shaving his friend and Paris splashed water all over his face and hair, rinsing off any remaining soap. Then, he stood up from the bath, but having nothing to dry off with, he simply stood there and shook off wha
t he could before William handed him a clean pair of breeches and a tunic. Since his boots were practically falling apart, and smelly, William had the foresight to have the servants bring Paris an old pair of his boots, which mostly fit. William was a bit taller and a bit wider than Paris, but everything fit well enough.

  It was the first clean clothing Paris had worn in a very long time.

  “Now,” William said, pointing into the bath water. “Look at yourself.”

  Paris did. He could see his reflection a little on the water’s surface and he was rather surprised with what he saw – clean-shaven, he realized he hadn’t seen his face in a quite a while. The haircut William had given him was a good one. He’d cut off a great deal of the shaggy gray hair Paris had been sporting, cutting the sides of his head close but leaving the top longer. In fact, his hair waved over to the side like it had when he’d been younger.

  He looked rather handsome.

  Paris looked at himself, running his fingers through his hair, combing it and thinking he hadn’t looked this clean in ages. He looked like himself again – trim hair, clean-shaven, and the sight of himself in the water’s reflection boosted his mood considerably.

  “My God, William,” he muttered, still looking at himself. “Did I really let myself go that badly?”

  William looked at him with some amusement. “You were starting to look like a hermit.”

  Paris sighed heavily. “You are correct, of course,” he said. “I hadn’t realized… I suppose I just wasn’t aware of how lacking I’d become.”

  “Now, you know.”

  Paris nodded, looking at himself a moment longer before standing straight and fussing with the belt on his tunic. For William, it was like looking at the man he knew again. He smiled.

  “Welcome back, Paris,” he said softly.

  Paris glanced up at him. “Thank you, William,” he said, his eyes glimmering warmly. “I feel… better.”

  “Good enough to face Jemma?”

  “She should be so lucky.”