Scoundrel of Dunborough

by Margaret Moore

  That, too, was unexpected—and unwelcome. The less Celeste delved into Audrey’s past, the better, even if her questions didn’t exactly touch upon his dealings with her sister. “I assumed she told him he stood no chance with her.”

  “Yet Audrey has had suitors and admirers for years and she was skilled at putting them off without angering them. Surely she would have been able to refuse Mac­Heath without making him angry enough to kill her.”

  Gerrard hadn’t considered that. “Maybe he did more than ask. If she pushed him away, that might have made him attack her. A man like MacHeath—it would be natural for him to use his fists or weapons.”

  Celeste leaned forward, her eyes shrewdly bright. “Or perhaps Duncan wasn’t the only man who wanted Audrey and who was refused. Perhaps another man was as angry and sought to punish her, but wasn’t the sort to resort to physical violence, lest he risk imprisonment and execution. What if this other man realized how MacHeath felt and used the Scot’s jealousy and savagery for his own ends? Who knows what such a person might have said to MacHeath, the ideas he could have put into his head? It might not have taken much to goad the Scot into a rage before he spoke to my sister that day.”

  Gerrard regarded Celeste incredulously. “You mean someone used Duncan to kill your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  He rose abruptly. “God’s blood, Celeste! Do you really believe any man could be so sly and underhanded?”

  “Can’t you?” she asked as she, too, got to her feet and looked at him as if he were a child who failed to comprehend an easy lesson. “Are you truly that innocent?”

  “I haven’t been considered innocent in a very long time.”

  “Naive, then, if you don’t realize that some people are capable of any manner of bad things to get what they want, including revenge, especially if they can cast the blame on someone else.”

  As he had sometimes cast it on Roland, Gerrard thought.

  He wondered if she meant to make that comparison. Or was it purely by chance?

  “What kind of convent is Saint Agatha’s, anyway,” he asked warily, “that you would come up with such an idea?”

  “One like any other,” she replied, “where women are shut up together with few things to take their minds from slights, no matter how petty. Where they have plenty of time to brood and scheme.”

  “Sweet merciful Mary! As bad as that?”

  “There are only a few among the sisters and novices who are like that. A good mother superior soon discovers who they are and deals with them, either by showing them the error of their ways or sending them to another convent if need be. Or, if they are truly unable to find peace, back to their families with the suggestion that the holy life does not suit them.

  “Now, as to my sister’s suitors,” she continued, “did you hear of anyone arguing or quarreling with her? Or denouncing her in any way?”

  “No,” Gerrard honestly replied. His men talked and jested about the women with whom they dallied, but Audrey had never been among them.

  “No gossip among the soldiers here?”

  “Not about your sister.”

  “There must be others who might have such information. Her maidservant, perhaps, or the village priest.”

  “Martha hasn’t been...well...since it happened. She found your sister’s body.”

  Celeste’s expression softened as she crossed herself and murmured, “Poor woman.”

  In the next moment, however, that determined, resolute look returned. “What about the priest?”

  “Audrey was no nun.”

  Unlike Celeste, Audrey was a worldly woman, willing to use whatever means a beautiful one possessed to get what she wanted.

  “No, but he would not be a suitor, either,” Celeste replied, “so she might have felt free to speak to him about any difficulties.”

  Gerrard frowned. He didn’t think talking to Father Denzail would do any good. Celeste might find out things about her sister that would be unpleasant to hear. “Are you sure you want to do this? Duncan MacHeath confessed his guilt to Roland and then died. Does it really matter how his death came about?”

  “I need to know if there was more to my sister’s death than one angry, jealous man,” she said firmly. “And shouldn’t you find out if there’s someone in Dunborough who would compel another to murder? Who can say what other things a man like that might be capable of?”

  If such a fellow existed, which Gerrard truly doubted.

  Nevertheless, he was also certain that Celeste would not give up until she’d spoken to the priest and Martha, so it would be useless to argue any more.

  It would be best if he went with her, too, especially to see Audrey’s maidservant. He could well believe Celeste would go there by herself, regardless of the distance, and he didn’t want her traveling alone.

  “Very well,” he said. “First we’ll go to see Father Denzail, then I’ll take you to Martha.”

  * * *

  Mass had already started by the time Celeste and Gerrard reached the church. Celeste quickly knelt with the villagers and, as the ceremony progressed, tried not to look at Gerrard. He stood leaning against a pillar, his expression unreadable, his arms crossed and his brows lowered. Like the rest of his family, he apparently had no use for the church. It was unfortunate he had never had the chance to learn the comfort it could bring and the different kind of family it could provide.

  Unfortunately, Father Denzail wasn’t likely to encourage him to want to learn those lessons. The priest was about forty-five, she thought, his hair more gray than brown. He was shorter than Gerrard, as were most men, and his shoulders slightly rounded, as if he’d spent days hunched over a desk in a scriptorium copying manuscripts. Perhaps he had and so was more used to dealing with quill, ink and parchment than inspiring his flock.

  After the mass had concluded and the people were filing out, Celeste continued to kneel in prayer. She would not draw any more attention to herself by acknowledging Gerrard. That they had arrived together was enough to get tongues wagging.

  But when it looked as if the priest was going to leave, she rose and called out to him. “Father!”

  Father Denzail put on a welcoming smile. In spite of that, she could tell he wasn’t pleased even before he darted a swift and wary sideways glance at Gerrard.

  “I’m sorry to detain you, Father,” she said. “I’m Sister Augustine, Audrey D’Orleau’s sister.”

  “Ah, yes. I heard you had arrived,” he answered. “I’ve been expecting you at mass long before now.”

  Celeste clasped her hands and, regarding him woefully, wondered if it was a greater sin to lie to a priest. However, she wasn’t going to admit that guilt for feigning holy sisterhood had kept her away. “I’ve been overwhelmed with the need to prepare the house for sale, and sorrow for my sister, too.”

  The little man’s visage softened. “I’ve offered many prayers for your poor sister and masses have been said.”

  “Thank you, Father. I wanted to ask you now, though, if Audrey ever spoke to you of any fears she harbored.”

  “I wish she had been afraid,” he mournfully replied. “I wish she’d feared for her immortal soul.”

  His expression decidedly unfriendly, Gerrard pushed himself from the pillar and strolled closer. “I’ve heard you often went to visit Audrey. I wonder why.”

  The priest straightened his narrow, rounded shoulders. “I was trying to make her see the error of her ways and bring her closer to God.”

  “God, or yourself?”

  “Gerrard!” Celeste gasped.

  He raised a brow at her and said, “You want the truth, don’t you?”

  “Perhaps Father Denzail and I should speak alone,” she replied, not pleased by Gerrard’s hostile manner. That was hardly going to encourage the priest to provide
information. “Come, Father, let us go to the sacristy. We can talk privately there.”

  “There’s no need, Sister,” he replied, licking his lips and nervously fingering his crucifix. “I have nothing to say that this man need not hear. Yes, I visited your sister. I tried to get her to lead a more sedate and serious life. Regrettably, she paid me no heed. In spite of her defiance, I have done all I can to ensure that she finds her way to heaven. Eventually.”

  “You never noticed anything amiss between her and Duncan MacHeath?”

  “No, although I suggested such a barbarian was not a fit servant for her.” There was a hint of anger in the little man’s voice as he added, “She laughed at me when I tried to warn her.”

  “At least you tried,” Celeste said placatingly. “No one else did.”

  “I confess I had no idea you were such a perceptive man,” Gerrard remarked, “provided you did indeed dare to say such a thing to Audrey, which I doubt.”

  There was no need for him to be so insolent. Yet before Celeste could speak, Father Denzail displayed more backbone than she expected. “And I fear no amount of praying will save your tarnished soul, Gerrard!”

  The priest started to leave and Celeste quickly put her hand on his arm to detain him. “Please, Father, I’m trying to learn more about my sister and her life. Did you hear of any quarrels she had with other men?”

  “My concern was with your sister’s immortal soul, not rumors and gossip,” he snapped.

  Gerrard’s next remark didn’t ease the tension in the church. “If you weren’t listening to rumors and gossip, how did you guess her immortal soul was in danger?”

  Celeste shot him another condemning glance, then took the priest’s arm and led him a little farther away. “Speaking of immortal souls, Father, do you think it’s possible that Duncan MacHeath took his own life?”

  The priest stared at her with surprise. “The man was clearly in league with the devil, but I never...” He frowned. “I suppose he might, since his soul was already lost, like some others I could name,” he said, glaring at Gerrard. “That’s all I have to say about your sister or that Scot.” He pointed at Gerrard. “As for you, you young rogue, you are indeed your father’s son!”

  With that parting shot, the priest scurried away like a squirrel and disappeared through the sacristy door.

  To be sure, Gerrard hadn’t behaved well, either with courtesy or respect, yet to compare him—or anyone—to the vicious Sir Blane was a terrible insult. Gerrard had a long way to go before he could ever be as evil as his father.

  “He shouldn’t have insulted you that way,” Celeste said, hoping to take away some of the sting of that remark. “I’m sure it was only Father Denzail’s pride talking. You were rude to him and you upset him with your implication that his visits to Audrey had a lustful motive.”

  Gerrard’s cold, dark eyes could have been Roland’s gazing back at her. “I don’t believe his motives were completely pure. A priest can lie and you weren’t here. He spent time with your sister to the neglect of others who could have used his ministrations.”

  “Just as I’m sure it’s possible that Father Denzail was trying to help her.”

  The corners of Gerrard’s mouth rose in that mocking grin. “So speaks a woman who’s lived in a convent for ten years. How many men did you meet there? One or two?”

  “Many priests came to visit over the years, enough for me to learn how to tell which ones were lustful, which ones were truly holy and which ones were trying to be virtuous.”

  Her companion crossed his arms, leaned his weight on one leg and raised a questioning brow. “Based on this vast experience, where would you place Father Denzail?”

  Gerrard’s condescending attitude began to try her patience, as well as his denigration of the clergyman. “He may not be completely virtuous, but he’s not a lecher. Even if the man did lust after Audrey, it would torment him and drive him to fasting and prayer and perhaps a pilgrimage. His pain would go inward, not outward toward another.”

  Gerrard shifted and his expression lost its insolence. “You seem very certain.”

  “I think we can both agree that I would have a better understanding of priests than you.”

  “I think I have a better understanding of men in general.”

  “I would agree you likely understand men ruled by their passions better than I.”

  “You speak as if passion’s a bad thing.”

  “How can it not be,” she replied, “when it leads to sin? Look what it drove Duncan MacHeath to do. Look what men governed by their lust for money and power have done in their quest for gain. The lives greed has destroyed. The pain they inflict on their families and all who know them.”

  “Like my father. And like yours.”

  She hadn’t meant to refer to anyone in particular. Nevertheless, he was right. “Yes, like our fathers.”

  “Yet not all desire is evil,” Gerrard replied. “A lust for a better life can be a good thing. Where would we be if all men lacked ambition or a desire to improve their lives or to make their tasks easier?”

  He moved closer. “It isn’t passion that’s evil, Celeste,” he said, his voice low and husky. “Neither is desire. It’s a part of love.”

  Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears. Her body warmed and excitement surged through her, accompanied by dread. He was too close, his lips mere inches from hers, his dark-eyed gaze seeming to see into her soul.

  Her innermost thoughts. Her dreams. Her desires.

  She took a step back. “You said you would take me to speak to Audrey’s maidservant.”

  “Today?”

  “Yes, today!”

  Whatever Celeste had seen in Gerrard’s eyes moments before, it was gone now.

  “Your wish is my command, Sister,” he said lightly as he bowed. “Wait here while I fetch some horses.”

  “Is it so far away that we need to ride?”

  “If we’re to get there and back before the sun sets today.”

  “Bring them to my house, please. I should finish packing Audrey’s gowns. Bartholemew and Marmaduke have bought them from me. All of them,” she couldn’t stop herself from adding.

  “Rather a pity, that,” Gerrard replied, his tone bland and nonchalant as he left her in the empty, chilly church.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sir Melvin threw on his cloak and hurried out into the yard to greet the visitor who had arrived in a heavy wooden carriage. “A fine lady!” the stable boy had said, and one look at the tall, regal woman disembarking from the carriage didn’t contradict that description.

  Except for one thing.

  The woman’s black clothing, dark veil and golden crucifix visible in a small gap between the edges of her cloak lined with red fox fur meant she was a nun.

  Her imperious gaze and slightly sneering lips warned that she was no ordinary nun, and given her age, as evidenced by the wrinkles at her eyes and the sides of her mouth, he suspected she must be of high office.

  “Greetings!” he declared. “Welcome to my estate. Please, enjoy the hospitality of my hall.”

  In spite of his friendly invitation, the woman regarded him as she might a toad. “I am the mother superior of Saint Agatha’s.”

  She paused as if expecting a response. All Sir Melvin could think to say was, “Is that so?”

  The woman frowned. “Yes, it is so.”

  “Won’t you come inside?” Sir Melvin asked. His cloak was not so fine and he was starting to shiver.

  She inclined her head and swept past him, leaving him to trot after her like an obedient puppy.

  Once in the hall, Sir Melvin waylaid the first servant he saw and urgently whispered, “Tell my wife we have a reverend mother in the hall, and have someone bring wine. The good wine. And some bread if it’s ready. May
be some cheese, too. Or apples. Both!” he added, before ridding himself of his cloak.

  The mother superior still wore hers. Indeed, she’d wrapped it around herself as if to protect herself from contagion.

  Rubbing his hands together and feeling a bit more sure of himself in his own hall, Sir Melvin approached her with his usual pleasant smile. “May I take your cloak?”

  “Not yet,” she replied.

  “Won’t you sit?” he asked with somewhat less good humor, gesturing at the finest chair they owned, drawn up near the fire in the central hearth.

  She did and then regarded him with the coldest, blackest eyes he had ever seen. “My servants and I require quarters for the night.”

  “Indeed? Yes, of course you’re welcome to stay here. I’m sure my wife and I will be only too—”

  “I also require information. I understand a woman in a nun’s habit recently stayed here. She was on her way to Dunborough, I believe.”

  “I, um, that is...” Sir Melvin was not a man for subterfuge, for he was honest to the marrow of his bones. Nevertheless, he was not keen to answer, although he was fairly certain he knew to whom this haughty woman was referring. “We often give shelter to people going to and from Dunborough. We had the honor of extending our hospitality to the new lord and his charming bride recently. Sir Roland—perhaps you’ve heard of him? His wife is a lovely woman, lovely! So charming and beautiful! And sweet! Really, he’s a very fortunate man.”

  “I have not stopped here to discuss the merits of Sir Roland or his wife,” the mother superior returned. “I wish to know if you did indeed give shelter to a thief pretending to be a nun.”

  He’d been thinking the young beauty had been a runaway, and now more than ever he could sympathize with anyone who sought to get away from this horrid woman. A thief, though. That was different.

  Yet he still found himself reluctant to answer.

  The mother superior rose. “If you did and refuse to tell me, the flames of hell await you.”

  “You must forgive my husband, as I’m sure God will,” Lady Viola said as she joined them. “He has a soft heart for all in need.”