Scoundrel of Dunborough

by Margaret Moore

  “If there’s anything more we can do, please ask!” Marmaduke called over his shoulder.

  When they were gone, Celeste sank onto the bed, wondering what else she hadn’t been told. Surely she had a right to know everything about Audrey’s death and the fate of the man who’d killed her. That would be only just.

  She recalled what she did know about Audrey, Duncan MacHeath and that horrific day.

  Audrey had been ambitious, eager for a rich and titled husband. Duncan MacHeath, who was neither, had claimed to love her and had killed her in a fit of jealousy when she rebuffed him. Afterward he’d gone after Roland, thinking he was her lover. He’d nearly killed him, but Roland had wounded the Scot, who had then been found dead in the river.

  On the surface, it seemed a simple, horrible tale with a deadly ending, until questions began to surface. Why hadn’t Audrey, who’d been dealing with eager, lustful men for years, recognized that MacHeath was a danger? Or as much of one as he proved to be?

  What had prompted MacHeath to reveal his feelings that particular day? Was it possible someone had inadvertently prompted him to confess his love?

  Or had someone provoked him?

  If Audrey had refused a different man and he was upset by her rejection of his suit, and if this other man had an inkling of MacHeath’s feelings, how difficult would it have been to inspire MacHeath to tell Audrey how he felt, guessing the Scot would also be rejected and likely exact a harsh punishment for that rejection? It would have been very convenient for that person if Duncan MacHeath died right after.

  Perhaps MacHeath hadn’t fallen into the river by accident or taken his own life. Maybe someone had pushed him.

  Who in Dunborough knew how the Scot had felt about Audrey? And who else in Dunborough might have wanted Audrey dead?

  Celeste went to the window, looking out at the great mass of the castle now dark in the dusk. She couldn’t leave Dunborough until she had the answers to these questions, and if that meant talking to Gerrard to get them, she would.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Bella, beautiful Bella!” Gerrard called out as he staggered into the brothel much later that night. “Where are you, Bella?”

  The brothel-keeper hurried to help him over the threshold. Edric didn’t want Gerrard to fall or rouse the neighbors. Everyone in Dunborough and for miles around knew of his brothel, and most were willing to turn a blind eye as long as he kept a peaceable establishment.

  At least for now. Edric had his doubts that Sir Roland would let his business continue, although soldiers needed such recreation.

  There were a few soldiers from the castle there now, and if they were a bit surprised to see Gerrard come staggering in, well, what of it? The man’s money was as good as theirs and he wasn’t married or betrothed, so it was with a smile that the proprietor closed the door and got Gerrard into a chair.

  The very drunk Gerrard. Edric didn’t need to smell the ale on him to be sure of that. The slurred words, loud voice and glazed eyes were more than enough.

  “Where’s Bella?” Gerrard demanded, blinking and giving Edric a sodden grin. He frowned. “Busy?”

  “Not too busy for you!” Edric hurried to reply. “Stay here and I’ll fetch her.”

  “Now that’s what I like to hear,” Gerrard declared to no one in particular. “Respect!”

  Bella appeared, pulling her bodice back into place, her face wreathed with smiles, her dark brown hair disheveled. She pushed a lock behind her ear as she hurried toward Gerrard. She was not particularly slender and not as pretty as Celeste, but she was attractive enough in her own way.

  “Aha!” he cried, pulling her down onto his lap. “You like me, don’t you, Bella?”

  “I should say so,” she answered, planting a kiss on his lips.

  “Missed me?”

  “Ain’t I just?” She rose and grabbed his hand to lead him to one of the several small rooms where she and the other girls plied their trade.

  Gerrard didn’t protest. He let her take him to her little chamber. There was a bed, a washstand and not much else. The linens weren’t the cleanest, but he could be sure there were no fleas.

  He sat heavily on the messy bed and rubbed his temples. “I think I need some wine.”

  Bella slipped her bodice off her shoulders and sat down beside him. “I think you’ve had enough for tonight, my honey.”

  He turned to look at her, his expression unexpectedly serious. “Do you really like me, Bella?”

  “O’course I do!”

  “If I didn’t pay you, would you still like me?”

  “O’course! Now what’s got into you?” she asked, stroking his cheek. “You ain’t usually so serious.”

  “I fear, Bella my dear, that I’ve developed a conssh...a consken... I don’t feel right about this anymore.”

  Bella drew back in disbelief. “What?”

  Gerrard started to stand, swaying as if he were on the deck of a ship at sea. “She wouldn’t like it. Neither would Roland, and neither do I. Not really. It’s not the same if you have to pay.”

  Bella rose, her face red with anger. “What’s that you say?”

  He patted her cheek. “Sorry, sweet. Those days are done. Now be a lamb and get me some wine, will you?”

  “Get it yourself!” Bella said angrily, and she shoved him out the door.

  * * *

  Long after the moon had risen, Verdan yawned as he and his brother left the stables and headed toward the hall. They’d gone to check Arnhelm’s horse again, for Arnhelm found it impossible to rest until he’d made sure Oaken was all right. Verdan, who knew more about horses than his brother, had agreed to accompany him.

  “Just as well there’s no letter for you to take back yet, eh?” Verdan noted as they skirted a large puddle. “Gives Oaken more time to heal.” He slid his brother a sly grin. “And you get more time with Peg.”

  “Aye, that’s so,” Arnhelm replied, but not with the good humor his brother expected.

  “What? There’s no trouble between the two o’ you, is there?”

  “Peg and me? Not a bit!”

  “Are you worried Ma won’t ever come here?”

  “Well, there’s that, too.”

  “What else, then?”

  “I can’t fathom why Gerrard won’t write a letter to his brother. Seems simple enough for them as knows how to write.”

  “Gerrard’s a busy fellow. Might not have the time.”

  Arnhelm gave Verdan a puzzled look as they neared the gate. “He’s got plenty o’ time if he wants it. Seems he’d rather ride out or oversee the trainin’. I can understand that, but not when his brother’s waitin’ on an answer.”

  “What’s the question?”

  “D’ya think I know? Sir Roland ain’t about to confide that sort o’ thing to me, or anybody else ’cept his wife.”

  “Well then, maybe it’s a question takes a lot o’ thinkin’ about,” Verdan proposed.

  At the same time they heard a strange sound on the other side of the castle wall.

  “What in God’s name is that?” Arnhelm demanded, turning toward the gate.

  Verdan squinted as if that would improve his hearing. “Somebody’s singing.”

  “If you could call that singing,” Arnhelm muttered while young Hedley, standing guard, moved forward to open the wicket gate.

  A man stumbled over the threshold and grabbed Hedley’s shoulder for support while loudly and drunkenly warbling, “Oh-h-h, I told her that I loved her and she spit right in my face!”

  “S’truth, that’s Gerrard!” Verdan gasped.

  “Drunk as a tinker at a fair,” Arnhelm grimly agreed.

  The brothers trotted toward the gate while Gerrard continued to hang on to Hedley as if he’d fall without the man
’s support.

  That was likely the case.

  “Ah, Arnhelm! And Verdan!” Gerrard cried when he saw them. “Evening, men! I was just saying to eagle-eyed Hedley here that it’s a chilly night. Cold enough to freeze your toes to icicles, like Roland when he’s angry. And her, too, only she’s worse.”

  Arnhelm had no idea to whom he was referring, but he did notice a distinctly unpleasant odor of dung coming from the vicinity of Gerrard’s left boot. Trying to ignore it, he ducked under his shoulder to help support him. “Come along, sir. Time for bed.”

  “Bed?” Gerrard cried, pushing him away, then swaying like a tree in a heavy wind. “Bed? Why, man, it’s early! Bed? Not for merry lads like us, eh?” He frowned and peered at Arnhelm and Verdan. “Such good brothers. Friends forever. Not like me and mine.”

  He grabbed Arnhelm’s shoulder. Leaning forward and breathing full in the man’s face, he patted Arnhelm’s chest. Meanwhile, Arnhelm reared back as far as possible to escape Gerrard’s wine-soaked breath.

  “And now you’ve got sweethearts, too!” Gerrard continued, his words slurring. “Lucky chaps! Some of us aren’t. Never going to have that kind of luck, either.”

  After barking a laugh that was not joyful, he started to sing again. “I told her that I loved her and she spit right in my face!”

  He took a step forward and fell flat on his face.

  As if of one mind, Arnhelm and Verdan reached down and hauled the semiconscious man to his feet.

  “God’s blood, he stinks!” muttered Verdan. “How much wine did he have?”

  “Far too much, that’s for sure,” his brother replied, “and I don’t want to know what else he might have got up to.”

  “I got nothing up,” Gerrard declared as he twisted away from their grasp and attempted to brush himself off. “No more whores for me, men. Those days are done. Not that some people will ever believe it, even if they dress in red gowns and act like Delilah.”

  The brothers exchanged confused looks before they again attempted to take hold of Gerrard.

  “Come along, sir, it’s late and getting later,” Arnhelm cajoled.

  “Late? Aye, too late,” Gerrard agreed as his legs seemed to lose what strength they possessed and he started to sink to the ground. “Too late to change, no matter how much...”

  His voice trailed off as he landed facedown once again, barely missing a puddle.

  “Oh, God help us, he’s out,” Verdan muttered with dismay.

  “Might be for the best,” Arnhelm grunted as they did their best to lift the deadweight of Gerrard’s unconscious body.

  They got their shoulders under his arms and half carried, half dragged him to the hall and up to his chamber. After they got him on the bed and pulled off his stinking boots, they looked down at the snoring, mud-splattered young man.

  “I really thought he’d changed,” Arnhelm said with regret.

  “Aye, me, too. Do you think you ought to tell Sir Roland?”

  Arnhelm stroked his beard. “I suppose so. If Gerrard’s going to drink like this, he’s not fit to be the garrison commander.”

  “Aye,” Verdan said with a sigh as they went out and closed the door.

  * * *

  His head aching, his throat dry as a desert, Gerrard cracked open one eyelid to see a shaft of weak sunlight coming through the slightly open shutters. Without moving his head, he looked around.

  He was on his own bed in his own chamber and it was morning.

  With a low moan, he closed his eyes again. He could remember going to the Cock’s Crow and then the brothel, and that Bella had been angry. Everything else was a mystery.

  You weak, stupid, disgraceful fool!

  He didn’t hear those words in Roland’s voice. Or Celeste’s. His own was bad enough.

  As he eased himself upright, he noticed he was fully clothed, except for his boots. They were on the floor on the far side of the chamber. Somebody must have brought him here and taken them off. Otherwise, they’d likely still be on his feet.

  Gingerly he got up and went over to the washstand. He lifted the ewer of frigid water to his parched lips and drank before pouring the rest into the basin and rinsing his face.

  He leaned on the washstand and wondered who had brought him back and who else might have seen him in that drunken state. Please God not Celeste. She thought little enough of him as it was.

  He sniffed. God save him, was that...?

  Not his clothes, although they were soiled and muddy. Thank heaven for small mercies.

  He looked around and saw his boots and the origin of the odor.

  Sweet saints, how drunk had he been?

  Did it matter? He could already hear the gossip. See the looks on people’s faces. Celeste’s—Sister Augustine’s—too.

  Having her here was like having Roland back. Like his brother, she made him want to drink until he forgot everything that troubled him and didn’t feel like a worthless rogue.

  No, she made him feel worse. Not only stupid, but unredeemable, too. The virtuous, untouchable Sister Augustine, driving him to drink.

  He shook his head. He was past blaming others. It was his weakness, and he alone was to blame. Perhaps it would indeed be better if he left here and began again somewhere else where no one knew him, maybe taking a different name, like Celeste, albeit for a very different reason.

  After he changed his tunic and breeches, and found his old boots under the bed, Gerrard decided he would feel better if he had some bread. That usually settled his stomach after a night of carousing. Carousing meant drinking and—

  Heaven help him, was there more to regret? He quickly grabbed the purse he carried in his belt and counted the coins.

  Thank God most of it was still there—a small triumph, but still a triumph, enough to make him feel not quite so wretched as he went to the hall.

  There were a few off-duty soldiers and servants still breaking their fast.

  And one habit-clad woman waiting on the dais.

  Chapter Twelve

  What was Celeste doing here? Oh, sweet Mary, if she had seen him last night...

  Gerrard adjusted his tunic, straightened his shoulders and reminded himself Celeste had no authority to upbraid him.

  Maybe she had come to say that she was going back to Saint Agatha’s. That should be welcome news, and if he thought it wasn’t, he must still be the worse for wine.

  “Good day, Sister Augustine,” he said, attempting to sound cheerful. “What brings you here this morning?”

  Her eyes narrowed and she frowned as she studied him. “Are you ill?”

  “Not at all,” he lied. His head hurt as if a thousand angry little demons were prodding him with spears. “Are you?” he asked, for she was paler than he recalled and there were dark circles under her eyes.

  “Merely tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  Oh, sweet Mother Mary! Maybe she had seen him.

  In spite of his shame and remorse, he smiled as he gestured for her to sit before he sank onto one of the chairs.

  Regardless of his invitation, she continued to stand as stiff as a spear, with her hands in the cuffs of her habit. “I would like to speak with you, Gerrard. Alone.”

  Alone? That was unexpected.

  Aware that there were still servants and soldiers in the hall, he raised a brow, yet kept his voice carefully cool as he replied. “What can we possibly have to discuss that would require privacy?”

  “My sister’s murder.”

  Not last night—but this subject was just as unwelcome. “Surely there is nothing more to say about that.”

  “I believe there is,” she replied, still grimly determined, and she had that stubborn look in her eyes. She wasn’t going to give up until she got what she wanted.
<
br />   “We can talk in the solar,” he said, rising and starting down the hall.

  He didn’t look to see if she followed. He didn’t have to. The soft swish of her habit gave her away. He wished he’d never seen her in anything else, and certainly not that beautiful gown cut low enough to reveal the swell of her breasts.

  She is a nun, so don’t even think of her in that gown.

  Instead, Gerrard forced himself to ponder what more she might want to know about Audrey’s death as he led her from the hall to the yard and around to the outer steps of the keep. It was the oldest part of the castle and couldn’t be reached from the newer hall. His father had wanted it that way.

  He pushed open the door and went in first, grabbing Roland’s letter and shoving it under some other documents on the table.

  When she entered, he nonchalantly continued around the table until it was between them. “Now then, I gather something’s troubling you about your sister’s death?”

  This time Celeste did sit down, although she looked no less resolute. “Not just Audrey’s death, but Duncan MacHeath’s, as well,” she answered. “You told me he fell into the river. Is that what really happened?”

  Wondering what she was getting at, Gerrard nodded. “Yes. His footprints were on the riverbank.”

  “And no one else’s?”

  Baffled, he replied, “No, why do you ask?”

  “It’s been suggested to me that he might have killed himself.”

  “Who the devil told you that?” Gerrard demanded with a frown.

  “Is it possible?” she persisted.

  Certain he was right, Gerrard shook his head. “No. MacHeath wasn’t that sort of fellow.”

  “I, too, find it difficult to believe even a murderer would risk his immortal soul that way.”

  Trying not to scowl, for he had no such rosy notions of an evil man’s thoughts regarding his immortal soul, Gerrard sat down. “I meant he was not a man to feel regret or remorse.”

  “Have you ever wondered what made him attack Audrey that particular day?”