by Tamara Leigh
Theriot frowned. “He did not approve of her tending me?”
“He did not, though his objection has naught to do with her competence since the lady is skilled with healing.”
“Then?” Theriot said and, feeling closely watched, was certain that just as what would be told him was no comment made in passing, how he responded was of interest.
“He wishes to wed her.”
Though that should be of little concern to this Norman who barely knew her, and of no concern now he knew her better by way of her deception, it bothered.
“Though ye were bound and guards were without,” Malcolm continued, “he disapproved of her being here with you—as did I, but since my betrothed spoke well of your family and Marguerite argued few could be trusted with your care after what you did to Hendrie, I agreed providing she honor my conditions. And this another reason it is best she not return.”
The release of the captive, which had likely saved his life. That reminder softened Theriot toward her though, again, to no great extent considering the man before him remained a shadow.
Malcolm sighed. “Ere I grant the physician permission to wed her, I shall speak with Marguerite.”
It sounded as if she would have a choice. Was it a real one? No pressure to wed someone she did not want—no threats made to her nor those dear that would bend her to another’s will as done often to gain concessions and form alliances?
Immediately, Theriot scorned his pondering. It mattered not what became of her. What mattered was regaining his eyesight were it possible and returning to England. Fortunately, the end result of this day’s assault was a good beginning.
“I shall leave ye,” the king said and, as he strode past, added, “The door will be repaired forthwith to ensure your comfort.”
Then Theriot was alone. As was best for one who had succumbed to deceit wrapped in something sweet.
Marguerite awaited the king on the steps outside the palace. Though glad he had not come sooner, having needed to calm her emotions and cool the whites of eyes surely gone red, he was not fooled.
Sympathy lining his brow, voice gentle, better she understood the reason when he expressed knowledge of what she felt for Theriot that she ought not. “Ye will not tend him again, Sparrow. Not because he does not wish it, because I command it for the protection of your body as well as your heart.”
Hating the heat in her cheeks and the fool she must seem, she protested, “Too little I know Sir Theriot for my heart to be in danger.”
He tapped her breastbone. “Though you are much like your mother, ever I have believed yer heart more of Diarmad for how quick it recognizes the kindred in others. Many the beautiful women he desired ere he looked upon his Marguerite, but never did he want more than quick embraces nor think it love as he did with her. ’Twas as if his soul knew hers.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, even does yours know Sir Theriot’s, it cannot know the one his shall become when it is certain the warrior of him has been stolen—even did he not know you were the one who trapped him.”
“And laid that trap, which must yet be told.”
“Leave it be, Marguerite. No good can come of him resenting you more.” He started past her.
“Your Grace, what is to be done with Sir Theriot now I no longer care for him?”
He looked around. “As I do not believe he is a danger to anyone at this time, he shall remain guarded in the hut and, unbound, attend to his own needs.”
That surprised. At best she had expected Theriot would be tended by a servant, at next best moved to the physician’s sick room, at worst tossed into a cell. “I thank you.”
He inclined his head, patted Dubh, and ascended the steps with such vigor his plaid flapped against his back.
She knew she should follow, but though he had told her to leave the truth untold, she could not. Blessedly, she had an excuse to return to Theriot.
“Stay,” she commanded the hound and hastened toward the wash house.
Deemed by Theriot D’Argent to be as dispensable as she was deceitful, then discovering her instructions to the laundress had been ignored, Marguerite had been of a mood to wash the garments herself—and vigorously.
Now staring at them where they dried before the brazier in the loveliest chamber of the palace, she whispered, “Dispensable. Deceitful.” Then she lowered to her back on the pallet the princess had ordered laid alongside her bed despite Marguerite’s protest it was time she return to her home beyond the glen. It was in that pretty cottage she was born and raised and loved—that place Cannie and she had closed up last year expecting to return with her mother.
Now she lies with papa, Marguerite thought as she stared at the ceiling the brazier’s glow painted orange. Soon I must go to them and settle my soul as it will not be settled this eve.
She had known the princess was right to encourage her to tell Theriot the truth of his blinding before another revealed it. And that, it seemed, Marguerite had done since the only sense she could make of Theriot’s revelation was her attempt to end the assault on him had loosened memories of that night when she had also cried out during his clash with Hendrie.
Aye, she was the informant, and more undone she would be if he allowed her to tell what she wished she had revealed when he unmasked her as the village woman—that she had set the trap.
She rolled to her side, but as that shoulder ached from Theriot’s rejection of her shielding that landed her against the wall, she returned to her back. Feeling very alone, she almost wished she made her bed in the hall with Dubh.
For another quarter hour, she suffered wakefulness, then sat up and peered at the princess whose fair head was turned opposite.
Meg had been kind when she learned what transpired. The only time that kindness slipped was when realization of what was not told regarding who sent the Saxons to Theriot became anger, and it was not directed at Marguerite.
“Edgar!” she had rasped. “That is not the refined silver of which godly kings are made.” Then she had taken Marguerite to the small chamber Malcolm had transformed into a chapel for her.
For far longer than Marguerite had done at any one time, she had knelt before the altar while Meg prayed aloud. First the princess had beseeched guidance for her brother, next asked the Lord to have mercy on the English who continued to suffer the ravages of war, then prayed for the King of Scots, his people, and reformation of their church. Lastly, she had asked for the healing of those injured during the attack on Theriot.
Thinking they were done, Marguerite had opened her eyes. However, when she saw Meg remained at prayer, she had settled into her own prayers guided by those already spoken and lingered over ones for Theriot’s recovery and his forgiveness.
When they emerged from the chapel to tidings the injuries dealt the Saxons and Scotsmen were minor, she was more persuaded the princess had God’s ear.
Returning to the present, Marguerite considered the brazier before which chairs had been positioned to accommodate the garments draped over them. Then she cast off the blankets and crossed to the nearest.
As she tested the material of the mantle, she recalled her anger at finding it and Theriot’s other clothes in a corner. Watched throughout as she herself cleaned them, she had been tempted to correct the head laundress’s beliefs about the Norman prisoner. True, he was responsible for putting the Aetheling to flight and had nearly slain Hendrie, but just as it was not evil that led to his blinding, neither was it evil what he had done in the belief sooner England would heal nor in defending his person.
The front of his mantle now mostly dry, Marguerite turned its backside forward and did the same to the tunic and chausses draped over the second chair. Having told Theriot she would return his garments, that she would do as well as deliver a walking stick fashioned by the palace’s woodworker. Though wary of how the latter would be received, it would be of use in finding his way, even if only around the hut. And then…
“Confession,” she whispered.
As she started
back toward her pallet, she glimpsed a cloth on the floor and swept up that which she had first used to cover Theriot’s damaged eyes. Though the material was as fine as that of his tunic, it was so worn she had nearly discarded it. Now as clean as his garments, she drew it through her fingers as she crossed to her pallet.
When finally she drifted toward dreams, it was with that cloth pressed to her chest and imaginings it was not only her heart beating there but Theriot’s.
Chapter Twelve
A few minutes was all she needed—providing he did not demand she depart and allowed her to speak without interruption.
In the light of dawn and with hope Malcom had not instructed the guards to refuse her entrance, Marguerite strode around the side of the hut with the confidence of one with a right to be there.
As expected, the younger guards of the night shift were before the warming fire. Having only heard what transpired here, hopefully they would be less wary.
“Lady?” said the taller as he advanced ahead of the other. “We were told you are no longer caregiver.” He halted between her and the door, eyes glimmering with appreciation often cast at her.
She looked to her armful. “I return the prisoner’s laundered garments.” When he reached for them, she clasped them closer. “I thank you, but they are not heavy.”
“I do not believe the king would be well with you entering, especially as your dog is not with you.”
Though Dubh’s leg injury was minor and the hound had moved to accompany her from the hall, Marguerite had commanded her to remain.
“As King Malcolm entrusted me with the Norman’s care,” Marguerite said, “I do not believe he would forbid me to enter.”
“Then you are unaware the prisoner is no longer bound?”
“I am aware and agree Sir Theriot is of no threat as proved when he protected me when it was feared those who attacked your fellow guards would do me harm.”
The man looked to his companion who shrugged.
“Has he caused you trouble since being loosed?” she asked.
“He has not.”
“Then though your concern is appreciated, I shall enter.”
When he remained unmoving, she was tempted to further the argument, but as too much protest could lead him to consult Malcolm, she decided to prick his pride. “If it eases the burden of protecting me from a blind man, accompany me.”
The second guard grunted. “Even were he sighted, no burden would it be, Lady. But as he is Norman and all know their blood runs yellow with deceit, we shall stand as shield between him and you.”
Grateful they were less proficient in Norman-French than the older guards since what she wished to tell Malcolm’s prisoner would have an audience, she said, “I shall follow.”
When she entered, she saw Theriot faced them. Though he could have understood little of what they spoke in their language, he had to have recognized her voice. As evidenced by his tight mouth and narrowed eyes, he was not pleased she was here.
He hates me, she thought as she closed the door with her shoulder. Woe to me that I care so much.
She stepped between the guards. “I have brought your laundered garments,” she said in Norman-French which the guards would better understand for knowing the reason she was here and that she spoke less rapidly than usual.
“I said you should not come again, Lady Marguerite.”
“And I said I would return your clothing.”
He jutted his chin. “The nearest chair to the left.”
Certain between Malcolm’s departure and her return he had become acquainted with the hut’s every reach and content, she turned to the side and named each garment she set over the chair. “Cleaned, dried, and mended,” she concluded and recalled the discomfort of being watched by the princess while putting needle and thread to Theriot’s tunic.
“What of the cloth with which you bound my eyes?”
She had not thought he would concern himself with that small item, but lest her retrieval of it from beneath the neck of her bodice cause the guards to alert Theriot she wore it, she said, “I shall search it out. Is it of import?”
“I want it back,” was his only answer.
Might it be a piece of a lady’s gown given for remembrance? she wondered with a stir of jealousy. “It will be returned.”
“Have another deliver it to me. Good day.”
“There is another thing I brought,” she said and, seeing the Scotsmen were nearly expressionless, whether because the conversation was dull or incomprehensible, drew it from beneath her belt and stepped toward him.
Immediately, the tall one gripped her arm. “Near enough, Lady.”
Suppressing the impulse to pull free, she said, “It is a walking stick, Sir Theriot. Now that you are—”
“I do not require one.” His darkening face was nearly as unrecognizable as his voice. “Now go.”
She had been wary of offering it, but had to try. Lowering it to her side, she said, “Before I depart, I must tell what was left unsaid on the day past so truly we may be done with each other if still you wish it.”
“We are done, nothing more to be said.”
Go, she told herself, then snapped, “The wish to remain ignorant is unworthy of a D’Argent.”
The certainty with which she spoke of his family as if she were acquainted with them causing interest to displace some of his anger, he said grudgingly, “Have done with it.”
She moistened her lips. “I know the Aetheling boasted the trap laid for you was of his doing, but just as I was the bait, I laid the trap.”
His nostrils flared.
“I heard the cry of what I thought a child and Edgar refused to answer it, so Hendrie and others accompanied me to give aid. When you were sighted and it was feared you meant the child harm, I determined to lead you away. Had I known then you were a D’Argent—”
Of a sudden, his sightless eyes swept past her.
Having learned on the day past to attend to what captured his attention, she pulled free of the guard and turned to await the appearance of one whose footsteps she heard now.
Heavenly Father, let it not be Malcolm, she silently appealed. Nor another sent by Edgar to harm Theriot. Let it be but a lad bearing viands.
The first two prayers were answered as she wished, but not the third.
The physician entered. “What do you here, Lady Marguerite?” he demanded in Gaelic.
Though the guards might not tell Malcolm she had come, this man would, and she resented it—and his disapproval. “As promised Sir Theriot, I have returned his laundered garments,” she said in Saxon, there no longer a need to keep that language from her tongue in Theriot’s presence and Colban being better versed in it than Norman-French.
The physician frowned, doubtless over her keeping the chevalier apprised of their exchange, then shifted to that language. “Even so, the king will be displeased you are here.”
She stood taller. “He would not have allowed Sir Theriot to be unfettered were he a danger to me. And as you can see, I am not without chaperone.”
He stepped farther inside. “Though this blind man is not to be bound, it was made known to me you shall no longer keep company with him.”
Offended he thoughtlessly named Theriot blind, she snapped, “I do not keep company with him. I—”
“Leave!” Colban stepped to the side to clear the doorway.
As evenly as possible, she said, “There is a small matter I must discuss with the chevalier. Pray, go outside. I will not be long.”
“Lady, the king gave me command over these guards. As it would make a bad beginning to relations between you and me, I prefer not to give threat, but if necessary I shall order these men to remove you.”
Even more he offended, but she could not sling words for the turning of her mind over what he told without clearly speaking it. “A bad beginning to what relations between us?”
His smile was tolerant. “We shall discuss it later. Perhaps a walk in the glen?”
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br /> Before she could refuse, Theriot said, “I have no further need of you, Lady Marguerite. Do as your betrothed commands and be gone.”
She caught her breath. Did he only guess the same as she? Or…? Recalling Malcolm’s words she no longer tend the Norman to ensure the safety of her heart, it was possible he had warned the chevalier away by revealing she was promised to another.
Heart beating hard, she said, “If the physician believes he and I have relations beyond what I require of his services, he is as wrong as you, Sir Theriot. Now I go, not because it is commanded, because I am done here.”
As she crossed to the door, ache in her hand reminded her of what she gripped hard, and she veered toward the chair upon which she had laid his garments. “The walking stick is here. Do with it as you will.”
“I have no need of it.”
“I believe you do,” she said and departed. Though she had intended to reveal having briefly met him before he was blinded and that she had become acquainted with some of his family, now that he knew the worst of her and was as done with her as she with him, it did not matter.
Her insides tossing as she crossed the bailey in the brighter light of a sun now showing its face, she was surprised at being struck by the beauty of a day that promised spring.
Beauty he may not see again, her conscience prodded.
“I am done with him,” she insisted, though not entirely true. She must persuade Malcolm to return him to his family.
And there was another thing of which he must be persuaded—that a match between her and the physician was not welcome. Even if she must remind him of what was owed Diarmad the Shield, she would to ensure she wed no man save one she wanted at the least, loved at the very best—a man whose heart was in hers as hers was in his.
The physician’s intentions toward the lady, albeit spoken between his words, had been obvious, the same as it was apparent she was ignorant of what was planned for her.
