Osric opened the chamber door and spoke with someone outside, and Violetta exhaled a shaky breath. His comment about her being illiterate had pricked her temper, but she had only herself to blame for the predicament in which she found herself.
While not all noblewomen were taught reading and writing, her parents had believed both were important skills, especially for a lady who would one day manage her lord husband’s household and mayhap even his accounts. When Violetta was but six years old, her father had hired a tutor from London to teach her and her sister to read and write, as well as do mathematics. A quick learner, Violetta had read her way through all of the tomes her tutor had provided, as well as the few leather-bound books in her father’s solar. She didn’t dare reveal her skills or her love of reading, though, to Osric.
A ghastly feeling of entrapment had taunted her during their conversation, for how could she get a letter to her parents without Osric discovering who she was? Then she’d remembered her sire’s arrangement with the town baker. Months ago, she’d overheard her father tell visiting knights that messages could always be left for him at the baker’s shop; the missives need not be addressed to him for them to be sent on to Darringsleigh Keep.
She could ask Osric to deliver the letter to the shop. Her identity would remain a secret—unless she chose to reveal the truth. ’Twas a tremendous relief, to know she governed whether or not he learned who she was.
Shutting the door, Osric faced her. “You suddenly look much happier.”
“I am grateful to be sending a letter.”
“Ah.” He returned to the trestle table and poured red wine into two goblets. “While we wait, tell me more about this family of yours.”
She’d rather not; she might inadvertently betray herself. But, if she showed reluctance, he’d suspect she was keeping secrets from him—and she needed to get that letter written and sent. “What do you wish to know?”
He strode to the bedside and handed her a goblet before sitting in the chair again. “Well, for a start, do your ancestors hail from these lands or from the continent?”
“Normandy.” No harm in revealing that to him. While many titled families could trace their ancestry to the nobles who had fought in William the Conqueror’s armies, people of humble birth had Norman ties too. Entire families had fled France because of the bloodshed and devastation caused by ongoing wars between the French and English sovereigns over lands. “And you?” she asked.
He sipped his wine then smiled. “My ancestors were Saxon.”
“Does that make us enemies, then?” Oh, mercy. The words had slipped out before she’d had a chance to consider them.
His mouth curved in a wolfish grin. “Does it, indeed? I dare say it might.”
Her fingers tightened on her goblet. How stupid of her to have spoken of enemies. Her situation was more than precarious enough. Forcing a teasing lightness into her tone, she said: “Well, if we are at odds, I am content to be so, for you treat your enemies well. You tend their wounds, give them a comfortable place to rest, offer them wine.” She raised her goblet in a mock toast.
Osric raised his goblet in return. “To be fair, as enemies go, you have not posed much of a threat.”
She stilled, her drink halfway to her lips. Did he consider her to be an inferior opponent? Lowering the goblet to her lap, she said, “You hardly know me. I could be winning your trust whilst I plot a most dreadful demise for you.”
His grin broadened. “I have slain Saracens twice the size of you, love.”
“With your bare hands, I suppose?” she said drily.
“More than once.”
She rolled her eyes. “Last night, if you remember, I did warn you of my knife. I was prepared to use it.”
His smile turned sly, roguish. “’Twould not have been of much use, though, against my broadsword.”
“You would have had to draw your blade.”
“You would have had to draw your dagger. I must confess I also had a hidden knife that I was prepared to use. ’Twould have been quicker to draw than my sword, so I suppose ’tis fair to say we were…somewhat equally prepared to protect ourselves.”
Frowning, she sipped her wine, not a poorly aged red, but one of excellent flavor. “Lord Seabrook, if you are making fun of me—”
“Not at all. I am sure you would have made a most challenging opponent if I had been foolish enough to attack you at the ancient site, or when you were hurrying away in the dark…and if you had not fallen into the tunnel.”
Ugh. “My fall was most unexpected. I would never have guessed a tunnel ran under that part of the field.”
“That part?”
Beware, Violetta.
“How many times before have you been on my lands?”
The need for caution weighed upon her. However, the stone circle was well known throughout Wiltshire. Folk gathered to hold rituals there at certain times of the year. Children played among the standing stones. “I have visited the field a few times,” she said. Far more than a few, but she’d rather keep that to herself. “Did you know about the tunnel?”
Osric shook his head. “I plan to explore it and learn as much about it as I can.”
“I am fascinated to know more, too.”
“Is that so?”
“’Tis a mystery that must be solved.” She could hardly wait to uncover the secrets of the belowground passageway. ’Twould be more excitement than she’d seen in months.
“Why do you care so much about a secret tunnel on my estate?” he asked.
She couldn’t tell him she was fascinated because the tunnel was also on her father’s lands. “Who knows what might be found down there?”
“Treasure, you mean?” Osric’s disparaging tone told her he didn’t believe there was any.
“’Tis possible the passageway could hold treasure. Have you heard the old tale about the thief who supposedly buried stolen riches at the stone circle?”
Osric’s gaze flickered. “I have. Do you believe the old stories to be true?”
“There must be a bit of truth to some of them. However, I do know many folk in the past have tried to find the thief’s hoard and failed.”
His mouth flattened, while he traced the rim of his goblet with his thumb. “If riches are discovered, do you intend to claim them?”
A curious question; one she must answer with care. “I have not considered such a circumstance.”
“Do you believe you would be entitled to such a claim, because you were the one to find the tunnel?”
The sense of entrapment she’d experienced earlier returned. ’Twas unfair of Osric to pressure her in such a manner.
“I am not interested in becoming rich, Lord Seabrook. I yearn for the adventure to be found in discovery.”
***
Osric held her stare, full of conviction and challenge. Her answer had pleased him. He, too, enjoyed the thrill of discovery. ’Twas one more thing he and Violetta had in common.
Sensual heat simmered in his gut, for she was exquisite with her eyes blazing and her cheeks tinged pink. Her expression reminded him of their meeting years ago. He’d been eight years old and days away from leaving Coltingstow to begin training to be a knight, the afternoon he’d confronted her.
“What is your name?” Osric demanded. He’d fled the castle for the ancient site to be alone. Instead, he’d come upon a girl picking wildflowers; a very pretty girl close to his own age. She’d obviously heard him sobbing, for as he neared the stone circle, she straightened, appearing concerned.
“Your name.” His words held the brusqueness his sire often used to speak to servants.
She didn’t cower, though, or lower her gaze. “What is yours?”
With an impatient swipe of his sleeve, he dried his hot, tear-streaked face; he winced as the cloth grazed his left cheek still throbbing from the blow from his father’s fist. “I do not have to answer to you.”
“Mayhap not, but you could at least be respectful.”
Guil
t poked at his conscience and mingled with his anguish. Osric clenched his hands, while his chest heaved from his fast running, and sweat trickled from his brow into his hairline. He longed to drop to his knees, sob, and pound his fists against the ground, to scream at the unfairness of all that his sire had said and done. But, this beautiful girl might think Osric a sniveling whelp—as his father did.
His eyes burned with fresh tears. She must have noticed, for her expression softened with sympathy. “I am Violetta,” she said. “Are you all right? Why are you crying?”
He frowned, for he only knew of one girl named Violetta. He’d never met her in person, but she’d never be his friend, for she was his foe. “Are you Violetta Molineaux?”
She looked about, as though to confirm they were alone, then nodded.
“My name is Osric.”
“You are Lord Seabrook’s son?”
“Aye.”
“Oh.” Grasses crunched as she took a hasty step back and glanced toward the wall.
“Your family is enemies with mine,” he noted, usurping the step she’d yielded.
“I meant no harm. I only wanted some flowers.”
Turmoil churned within Osric. While part of him urged him to let her take what she liked—grazing livestock would eat the flowers anyway—another, wounded part wanted so badly to lash out at something. Someone.
He pointed to her bouquet. “You should have asked permission before you picked those.”
“You are right. I should have—”
“’Tis stealing.”
Defiance hardened the set of her jaw. “My mother is unwell. I thought some flowers would cheer her up.”
“’Tis a shame your mother is ill, but there must be blooms on your father’s lands.”
“There are, but the ones in your field are better.”
“So you decided to take what you want from my sire’s estate.”
She swallowed hard. “Surely your father will not miss a few blooms.”
“Are you certain of that? You are not just any thief; you are also the enemy.”
When she didn’t answer, just studied him in silence, he smirked. “Guards are on their way here.” They weren’t, as far as he knew, but she needn’t know that. “I will order them to arrest you.”
“What? Nay—”
“You will answer to my sire for stealing and trespassing.”
Before he’d finished speaking, she’d dropped the flowers and raced for the wall.
The sound of rustling fabric brought Osric back to the present. Violetta set her goblet on the side table. When their gazes met again, he struggled with remorse over that long-ago encounter, for he’d behaved badly.
Lying on the ground beneath the night sky at Acre, while listening to the snores and restless stirrings of fellow Crusaders, Osric had pondered difficult moments in his life. He’d thought about what he’d change if he survived to return to Coltingstow.
He’d wished for a wife and children, and to be a far better husband, father, and lord than his sire had been. Having witnessed so much slaughter, he’d wished for an end to the hostilities between the Molineaux and Seabrook families. And he’d wished he could relive his meeting with Violetta; to be chivalrous the second time around, not arrogant and cruel.
By some divine miracle, last night, he’d been granted that second chance with her—although for now, he must pretend only to know her as Lettie.
Before he allowed her to return to Darringsleigh, he’d apologize to her; ’twas the right and honorable thing to do. He’d also make known his desire for her. Like most warriors who’d faced each battle wondering if ’twould be the one in which they’d be slain, he hadn’t lived as a monk. He knew how to pleasure women. How tempting the urge, to put down his drink, pull Violetta into his lap, and show her just how skilled he could be.
Wicked thoughts, when she was a maiden and still very much his foe.
“Lord Seabrook.”
He straightened in the chair. “Mmm?”
“All is well?”
Heat stung his cheekbones; he hadn’t meant to let his mind wander. “I was thinking over some matters.”
She studied her folded hands. “I do apologize for speaking boldly moments ago. I did not mean to be disrespectful. ’Tis just….”
“You are excited about the tunnel.”
She nodded, her eager gaze shifting to him. “Can I help you explore it?”
“Need I remind you that you are injured?”
“I could manage with crutches.”
Osric shook his head. “There is the greater concern of getting you safely down into the tunnel.” God forbid she fell again and suffered broken bones. For letting his daughter come to such harm, Lord Molineaux would declare war on Osric for certain.
“We can surely find a way.”
Damnation, but she looked so endearing. “’Tis not as simple as just getting you belowground.”
“But—?”
“The tunnel might be unstable, or may have collapsed in places. Would your family want you putting yourself in jeopardy?”
She gnawed her bottom lip. Hunger stirred within him again, and he abruptly rose from the chair, determined to mentally snuff his craving. He strode to the trestle table for more wine.
“Milord, I cannot just sit by and wait to hear what you find.”
Wine trickled into his goblet. “You might have to.”
“Nay. I will not miss out on the adventure.”
She’d spoken like a lady berating a peasant. Annoyance simmered as he put down the jug. “You are growing bold again, love.”
A knock sounded on the door.
Osric crossed to the panel and drew it open. Holding her basket, Shelley stood outside. A manservant, with the writing supplies Osric had ordered, stood a few steps down the passageway.
Osric motioned for the healer to enter then took the writing implements from the servant and set them on the trestle table.
Shelley approached the bedside. ’Twould be best to let her tend to Violetta’s injuries without distraction. Meanwhile, Osric would glean the latest news on Violetta’s disappearance.
“I will return soon, Lettie,” he said. “We will write your letter then.”
***
With an uncompromising click, the door shut behind Osric.
Violetta released a pent-up breath.
Shelley tsked and set the basket on the end of the bed. “Do not lose patience with his lordship.”
“He is a difficult man.”
“’Tis not entirely his fault. He was a sensitive boy and had a troubled childhood.” Even as Violetta wondered how Shelley knew so much about Osric, the healer added: “He did not have to help you, as he has done.”
Violetta scowled. “He is a knight of the realm. He took vows to help women in distress.”
The healer gently pushed the bedding away from Violetta’s leg and started untying the linen bandages around her ankle. “His late father was a knight, too. He would not have treated you with such compassion.”
A chill crawled through Violetta. She’d only seen the man on a couple of instances, many years ago and from afar, but she’d heard stories of his temper. “Did you know the late Lord Seabrook well?”
The older woman nodded. “I have lived at this keep for over fifty years. I studied the treatment of wounds and how to use herbs alongside my mother, and when she got too old, I became the castle healer. I have seen and heard a great deal within the walls of this fortress.”
“You do not believe the late Lord Seabrook would have helped an injured woman found on his lands?”
“Unlike his son, his lordship was not a pleasant man—not unless it benefited him in some way to be so.” Shelley cast Violetta a knowing glance. “Quite apart from that, we both know you are not just any woman, milady.”
Panic flared. “My name is Lettie. I am not—”
“You will accomplish naught, Lady Molineaux, by lying to me.”
The sense of panic lodged deep wi
thin Violetta. “H-how did you know?”
Air cooled Violetta’s skin as the bandages fell away. Shelley carefully touched the ankle, her age-spotted fingers pressing here and there. The swelling did appear to have lessened somewhat. “I knew,” the older woman murmured, “from the quality of your skin and refined manner. If I had only caught a glimpse of your face, though, I would have known.”
Violetta winced as the healer touched a tender spot. “I do not understand.”
“Has no one ever told you that you look like your grandmother, Jacqueline?”
Astonishment rippled through Violetta. “My parents have indeed said that. How did you know my grandmother?”
Shelley selected a pot from her basket, opened it then rubbed ointment onto Violetta’s ankle. “I wish I could tell you, but I cannot.”
“Why not?”
The healer smiled wistfully and smoothed the unguent across Violetta’s lower limb with both hands. “Long ago, I made a promise. One I intend to keep.”
“What kind of promise?”
“One made for true love.”
Shelley’s words were becoming more and more puzzling.
“To whom did you make this promise?” Violetta asked.
The healer chuckled. “So many questions.”
“Ones I hope you will answer with the truth.”
Shelley was silent a long moment and began to retie the wound. Violetta grimaced, for not only did her ankle throb, but she’d developed a headache, either from the treatment of her wound or the unsettling realization that the healer could easily betray her.
“Are you going to tell Osric who I am?” Violetta asked quietly.
“Are you certain he does not already know?”
“He does not. If he did know, he would have confronted me by now. He would also have locked me in the dungeon and made me a hostage, not a guest.”
The healer frowned, as though she disagreed with what Violetta had said, but continued her work. “Are you here to spy on him for your father?”
“Of course not! I do not even want to be here, but have no choice, with my hurt ankle.”
Shelley finished tying the wound. “’Tis the truth, milady?”
“Aye, ’tis the truth!”
“Forgive me if I have caused any offense. But, I will always consider his lordship the son I never had.” Her expression softened with affection. “I helped with his birth, and when he was a boy, we became close.”
A Knight and His Rose Page 5
