Jeopardy (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 10)

by Anna Markland

  She came to her feet. “I must return to my charges. I thank you for your kindness, Steward Bonhomme.”

  He looked at her curiously. Had she spoken with too much condescension?

  “De rien. It’s nothing. Let me know if there is anything you or the children need.”

  She nodded her acknowledgement, bowed to the comte, her eyes downcast, and left, Alexandre de Montbryce’s gaze burning into her back.

  Latitude

  “DADAIDH!”

  Claricia’s scream jolted Elayne from a fitful sleep. She threw off the linens and leapt out of bed, heart pounding when she failed to find her bearings in the unfamiliar chamber. Henry licked his lips and turned over.

  The first grey streaks of dawn were stealing in from the narrow window. She stared hard. Claricia stood in the centre of the chamber, crying for her Papa. She scooped her up, cradling her tightly. “Hush, hush, little one. Maman’s here.”

  “But I want Dadaidh,” the child wailed.

  A cold hand gripped her heart. Her brutish husband had never paid his daughter any mind, yet she lavished love on him. How to reveal the gory truth of her dear Dadaidh’s death?

  “Dadaidh is far away. But he’s thinking of us.”

  Claricia’s sob caught in her throat as she pressed her head to her mother’s shoulder. “But he didna come to say farewell.”

  Dugald hadn’t bidden any of his family fare-thee-well the day he’d left on an ill-fated raid into the borderlands of Northumbria, against the wishes of his royal father.

  The few misbegotten followers who’d accompanied him were too weakened by their own wounds to carry his body home.

  Elayne had wept, not for her husband, but for his children. Better a negligent father than no father at all. Belligerent towards his wife, he’d never raised a hand to his son and daughter.

  The dire tidings had been kept from Henry and Claricia. They were told only that their Papa had gone on a long journey to the Crusades.

  Gently kissing the top of her daughter’s head, she crooned the familiar words that never failed to calm the child.

  Gu robh neart na cruinne leat, 'S neart na grèine

  'S neart an tairbh dhuibh, 'S àirde leumas.

  Claricia giggled predictably. “How can I jump as high as a black bull? I’m a girl, silly Maman.”

  “’Tis just a dandling, Claricia,” Henry said, yawning. “An old wish that ye’ll be strong.”

  Elayne smiled, thanking the saints Henry was bright and perceptive, unlike his father. If they survived this exile, his grandfather might recognize his worth and assure him a place at Court.

  Whether she liked it or not, she was dependent on the goodwill of Alexandre de Montbryce. So far, they had been treated well in this castle. She must do nothing to jeopardize that. If the man wanted to stare, let him stare.

  A light tapping heralded Micheline’s appearance. She tousled Claricia’s hair. “Bonjour. Milord Comte requests you bring the children to his solar within the hour, after you’ve broken your fast in the Great Hall.”

  Elayne inhaled deeply as Micheline set about finding clothes for the children.

  Now it begins.

  The food served in the hall was excellent, but nervousness over the coming interview closed Elayne’s throat. She’d lost control of the insistent tapping of her foot. The succulent smoked ham and black bread tasted like sawdust, but she forced herself to eat so the children would tuck in.

  Seated beside her, Henry and Claricia ate with relish. One or two of the servants who had eyed her curiously the night before bade them bonjour, pinching Claricia’s cheeks. Henry ducked away when they tried to do the same to him, but his blushing grin revealed he liked the attention.

  Micheline came to escort them to the comte’s solar. Elayne wiped the crumbs from her children’s faces, straightened their clothing, gulped down her tumbler of watered ale and set off for the dreaded interview.

  After zigzagging through a maze of confusing corridors, they reached their destination. Elayne’s head was swimming. She had drained the ale too quickly. Little burps kept rising in her throat. It was a beverage she wasn’t used to. Claricia whined to be picked up and carried. Micheline paused, tapping on the door.

  Elayne squatted next to Claricia and took her hand, looking her in the eye. “Courage. Ye’ll walk into the comte’s solar like a royal princess. Do ye understand?”

  Claricia looked down at her feet. “Aye, maman,” she whispered.

  Elayne squeezed her hand.

  “Aye, Elayne,” the child murmured.

  “What a lovely language you speak,” Micheline said. “Some words sound the same as ours. I thought she said maman.”

  Elayne straightened too quickly. The walls tilted. She smoothed her skirts and adjusted the playd. “Oui, the Gaelic for nursemaid is mama.”

  She winked at both children and they smiled conspiratorially in response.

  Micheline opened the door and they entered. Comte Alexandre stood in front of a hearty fire, long, powerful legs braced, hands behind his back.

  Elayne gasped when a jolt of arousal spiraled up her thighs, settling in a most private place. In all the times Dugald had bedded her, she’d never experienced the heat of desire that swept over her now. She had an urge to flee, but that was impossible.

  The comte frowned as he took a step towards her. “Are you unwell?”

  He must not think she was ill. He might order her removed from her position as the children’s nursemaid. “No, milord Comte, simply a little tired after the long journey.”

  He came closer. “Did you not sleep well? I understood the children were comfortable in their chamber.”

  She couldn’t think. He was too close, his blue eyes too piercing. “Babes sleep well when they know someone who loves them is nearby.”

  “And you love them, these grandchildren of King David?”

  “As if they were my own,” she said, the words sticking in her throat. She hoped she wasn’t revealing too much of her emotions.

  He looked at her curiously. “Commendable. You’ve no children of your own?”

  Her heart lurched. “No, milord Comte. I’m a widow.”

  Better not to deviate too far from the truth.

  He paced in front of the fire, his hands still clasped behind his back. “Your command of my language is noteworthy, for a servant.”

  Had she jeopardized their ploy with her cleverness? “King Dabíd made sure I was educated in languages so I could teach the children, after their mother died.”

  He stopped pacing. “Their mother is dead?”

  So, he hadn’t known that the king’s daughter-by-marriage had died giving birth to his legitimate grandchildren. “Aye, in childbirth.”

  “Then they are fortunate indeed to have you. I grew up with two loving parents, although my father and I—”

  He stopped abruptly and resumed pacing, his shoulders rigid.

  When he spoke again, his voice was sterner. “We need to speak of latitude.”

  Her hackles rose. “Latitude?”

  AGAIN, THIS SERVANT’S LACK OF DEFERENCE PERPLEXED ALEX, but his own reluctance to berate her confused him even more. She intrigued him. She was beautiful in face and form. Her feisty nature fired his blood. Perhaps Romain’s suggestion he take her as his mistress was worth consideration.

  But then he saw the fear on Claricia’s face, and the open hostility in Henry’s eyes. It sobered him. These children were protective of their nursemaid. He didn’t want them to be afraid of him, though he wasn’t sure why he cared.

  However, they were hostages, delivered into his safekeeping. He tried to recall what he’d been about to say. “You and the children are to have access to all the public areas of the castle.”

  If he expected her to be grateful for this generous gesture, he was mistaken. He suspected her anger would only grow with what he had to say next.

  “I intend the children be given a tutor. Their education will not suffer while they are guests
in my home.”

  Her face flamed red. “But milord, I—”

  He held up his hand. “You are their nursemaid. The grandchildren of a king should have a learned tutor. I doubt you speak Latin. I have already spoken with our priest.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, then seemed to think better of it, but the glare she shot him through narrowed eyes left no doubt of her growing fury.

  His body warmed. The fire in those green eyes—

  He cleared his throat. “Henry will be outfitted with the equipment necessary for him to be schooled in the arts of war, and will be expected to train with the knights and men-at-arms.”

  Both children had moved closer to Elayne, like baby birds seeking the protection of their mother’s wings. Was he so intimidating?

  “He’s but a child,” she rasped indignantly.

  Alex soldiered on. “It’s never too early for a man to learn to defend his lands. Claricia will be taught the things young ladies need to learn in order to become—”

  He lost his train of thought when Elayne thrust out a defiant chin.

  “—er, young ladies.”

  “And what exactly are my duties to be?” she challenged.

  “We’ll get to that when I’m finished,” he scolded, sounding to his own ears like a petulant child. “At meals in the Great Hall, the children will sit at the head table, with me and my brothers.”

  Elayne tapped her foot impatiently, scowling at him. What was wrong with the woman? Did she expect to be given complete control of royal children? Surely she didn’t think herself worthy of a place on the dais?

  “Your responsibilities will include dressing and grooming the prince and princess.”

  Dieu! He was talking as if they were horses. How did one broach the subject of bathing with a pouting female servant? Eyes narrowed, she looked ready to erupt like a seething volcano, but when she opened her mouth, a loud belch emerged.

  Alex laughed in surprise. Her face reddened further, and he half expected a stream of invective, but then Henry and Claricia laughed too. Her shocked expression was quickly replaced by a broad smile that ignited a fire in Alex’s couilles.

  A vision of his mother’s laughing face appeared behind his eyes. Dorianne de Montbryce had loved her children dearly; her laughter had been part of his everyday life as a child. He missed her keenly.

  He couldn’t recall a time he’d shared laughter with his father.

  A longing to embrace this smiling woman and these giggling children, and laugh with them until they all fell to the floor in hysterics shook him to his core.

  ELAYNE WAS MORTIFIED, her emotions mixed. Her unseemly behavior could only have convinced Alexandre de Montbryce that she was an uncouth serving woman. But she’d been raised a lady, and ladies did not belch at gentlemen. Curses on the ale. She would have to be more careful in future.

  Henry collapsed on the floor of the solar, apparently unable to stop giggling. Predictably, Claricia did the same, although Elayne doubted she fully understood what was amusing.

  It lightened her heart to see them happy.

  Even the comte laughed, his face transformed into a thing of beauty that sent liquid heat pooling again in an intimate place. She babbled an apology and was excused by the still smiling Norman.

  All she could recall was that he’d said something about toys as she was dragging the children out of his solar.

  It penetrated her addled brain that Micheline was leading them away from their chamber. “Where are we going?” she asked.

  The maid smiled brightly. “To the nursery. The comte wants you to select toys.”

  Elayne startled at the sound of a deep masculine voice behind her. “There are things there I played with as a child.”

  She didn’t know what to say in response. Surely the comte didn’t intend to take on the lowly task of finding playthings for her children?

  Nursery

  ALEX HADN’T BEEN IN THE NURSERY FOR YEARS. There was a hint of mustiness in the air. He remembered it as a warm place filled with familiar reassuring scents. He turned to Micheline. “Find Bonhomme. Tell him I want a fire in this grate for a few days.”

  She bowed and left.

  His gaze travelled around the chamber. Little seemed changed apart from the newer playthings for Marguerite and Catherine’s children. He and his mother had found refuge here from his father’s melancholy in the first years after his release from Curthose’s cells.

  The ornate cradles he and his brothers and sisters had slept in as infants sat empty, waiting for the next generation of babes. Sadness swept over him. He swallowed the lump in his throat, very aware of the woman standing behind him. An aroma clung to her that reminded him of the apple orchards that surrounded his home. He struggled to get his mind off her green eyes. “There may even be some toys my father played with as a child.”

  A memory came to him. He turned to Henry who was leaning against Elayne’s thigh, looking around nervously. “In fact, I believe if we search hard enough, we might find the Welsh sword and shield my father was given as a child.”

  Henry brightened. “A sword?”

  Elayne frowned. “Welsh?”

  Alex scanned the chamber again, his heart filling with happy memories; squabbles with Catherine and Marguerite, wrestling with Romain and Laurent. What harm in sharing the story with these Scots in a place where his mother had told and retold tales of the Conqueror and the military glories of the Montbryces? “My father and his brother were kidnapped for ransom by Welsh rebels when they were small boys, along with their mother, my grandmother, Mabelle de Montbryce. Their captor, the chieftain prince, Rhodri ap Owain, had wooden swords and shields made for them so they could train with the Welsh boys while they were hostages.”

  Henry’s eyes darted around the nursery. “Was he a hostage for a long time?”

  Claricia sucked her thumb, clinging to Elayne’s skirts. Weapons were clearly of no interest to her.

  Alex glanced at the Scottish woman. She seemed torn between rebuking Henry for his curiosity and a desire to know the answer. After all, they too were hostages, though their freedom didn’t depend on ransom. A shiver ran down his spine. Maud was the person who would decide their fate, and she would base her decision on Alex’s actions. He tried to keep his concern out of his voice. “Months. My grandmother gave birth to my tante Rhoni in the Welsh mountains during that time.”

  “King Dabíd mentioned a catastrophe befalling your father,” Elayne said timidly.

  Alex hesitated. This servant had no right to know about his father’s misfortune, yet he had an overwhelming urge to share it with her. He inhaled deeply, raking his hands through his hair. “Your king was probably referring to my father’s illegal incarceration by the Duke of Normandie.”

  She clasped a hand over her mouth. “Recently?”

  Alex shook his head. There was no avoiding it now. “Non. I was born while he was in prison. It was a cruel solitary confinement. He was hidden away in an oubliette. My uncles eventually rescued him, but it was hard on his body—and his mind.”

  Her eyes filled with compassion. “It must have been difficult for you and your mother too.”

  “It was,” he rasped, “but my mother brought my father back from the pit of despair. They were deeply in love.” His heart lurched. He had never spoken any of these truths out loud, and here he was confiding in a servant—a foreign hostage, a woman he’d just met. He was drawn to her. If he moved closer, he could kneel at her feet, rest his head on her thighs and let her stroke his hair.

  “Found it,” Henry shouted.

  Claricia pulled Elayne over to the far corner where her brother stood amid a jumble of old chests. Alex followed, caught up in Henry’s excitement. Propped against one of the chests was a small wooden shield, a miniature sword tucked into the worn leather strap. Both toys bore evidence of having been well used.

  Alex’s throat tightened. His father had played with these weapons in the far off mountains of Wales and brought them to
Normandie when he became the comte, no doubt as playthings for his future sons. Alex had played with them as a child, but he’d had no inkling then of their significance. His father had never shared anything of it. It was through his mother he’d later learned the history of the sword and shield. He hadn’t set eyes on them for years.

  “Papa,” he whispered, watching Henry proudly brandish the sword, his short legs braced, the shield clutched to his chest—a miniature knight.

  He turned to look at Elayne. Her face was wet with tears.

  He took her hand, feeling inexplicably proud of this boy he barely knew. “He’ll make a fine warrior.”

  She pulled away from him and ran to the door.

  AS SOON AS ELAYNE CROSSED THE THRESHOLD, common sense forced her to stop. She leaned back against the cold stone of the wall, her face buried in her hands. Servants didn’t simply leave a chamber without permission. Nor should she have abandoned Claricia and Henry, who must be distraught at her sudden tearful departure. She’d urged them to be strong, yet her own inner strength had crumbled.

  There would be a reprimand. She must get her emotions under control. Fear was driving her actions, and the sight of her son armed and ready for “battle” had given her an unwanted glimpse into the future. If only he could remain a little boy forever.

  Another perplexing problem was the unsettling effect of Alexandre de Montbryce. His presence addled her wits. The touch of his hand had caused strange tinglings in unmentionable parts of her body.

  In different circumstances, a relationship between the daughter of a Scottish chieftain and a Norman count might have been possible. He seemed to be attracted to her. But if he found out his hostages were not who they purported to be, their lives would be forfeit. Maud’s displeasure might even fall on Alexandre. King Henry’s daughter was not reputed to be a compassionate woman.

  The lies would have to continue, though perhaps responding to his apparent interest might gain them greater protection. Honey caught more flies than vinegar. Smoothing out her skirts and readjusting her playd, she stiffened her spine and walked back into the nursery.