by Shari Anton
“The fault is mine, my lord. I should have ensured the more experienced servants served you, not a lad who might be overawed by the honor of attending an earl. ’Tis not often we entertain such a grand personage in our humble hall.”
The honeyed words tasted foul in her mouth, but seemed to placate Kenworth somewhat. He leaned back in the chair, his scowl easing into contemplation. Of her. She wished she could read the thoughts in those narrowed eyes.
“No grand personages of late?” he asked.
“Nay, my lord.”
“No lairds?”
Eloise twisted her hands in her lap.
“No Scottish laird has ever visited Lelleford.”
“You will pardon me if I do not believe you. Your lie only puts you in collusion with your treacherous father. Not a surprise, I suppose. Indeed, I suspect an entire flock of traitors reside within these walls.”
God’s wounds, but she was tired of this odious earl and his horrid accusations.
“Then you would be mistaken, my lord.”
“I think not, but we shall see.”
Eloise quietly seethed as the page returned with the wine. She stretched out her hand, grabbed the flagon, and waved the boy off. Wishing she had the courage to poison the bastard, she filled the earl’s goblet.
“I believe you are mistaken about my father as well.”
“As for Sir John, I harbor no doubts of his guilt and should have further proof shortly.” He glanced about the hall. “I would likely have the proof in hand by now if that infernal cleric had not disappeared.”
Eloise put down the flagon. While irked that Brother Walter seemed to have disappeared, she was relieved he couldn’t be called upon to assist in the search through her father’s documents.
“The last I saw Brother Walter, shortly before your arrival, he was in the chapel. Where he went after, I know not.”
“St. Marten, come dawn, I expect you to flush out the elusive monk.”
Roland leaned forward to look around her. “As you wish, my lord. If he is within the walls, we will find him.”
’Twasn’t fair that even the man’s voice affected her, the deep rumble reverberating along her spine.
Now the earl leaned forward and Eloise, trapped between the two, tried to make herself small, with little success.
“He had best be within the walls or those who aided his escape will suffer.”
She nearly shivered at the threat.
“Perhaps the monk will appear of his own accord,” Roland answered in a voice Eloise decided lacked a hint of concern. “What of Sir John?”
Kenworth sank back in the chair and drummed his fingers on the arm. “I have given the matter much thought. Hamelin wants me to believe he has fled, just as he wanted everyone to believe he had merely gone hunting. A wily ruse befitting a traitor. I will not be fooled, however. He is nearby, waiting to see what I do next.” He leaned forward to grab hold of his goblet and took a healthy swallow. “On the morn we will again send out patrols. Among my men are two of the most skilled trackers in the kingdom. If Hamelin is in the area, we will find him.”
Eloise thought back on her brief talk with her father. He’d said ’twas best she didn’t know where he went. She’d only assumed he’d gone far and fast.
Kenworth speared a chunk of the odious eel. Her stomach roiled, again, worse now than before. ’Twas a breach of manners to leave the table before the person of highest rank finished his meal. But if she didn’t leave, she’d commit a worse offense.
“My lord, the day has been long and trying. If you will permit, I should like to retire.”
He regarded her with disapproval, then waved a dismissing hand. “You do look rather … worn. You are permitted the use of your bedchamber upon your oath you will stay within until morn.”
She wanted nothing more than a measure of privacy and the comfort of her bed. “You have my oath.”
“Be aware a guard will be posted in the upper hall to ensure you keep it.”
A guard at her door. Not to protect her from harm but to imprison her within. How many more insults must she endure, without recourse, before the loathsome earl left?
“Then I bid thee good eve.”
Eloise rose. On the edge of her vision she saw Isolde rise from her place at the lower tables to make her way to the stairs. With her stomach in complete rebellion, Eloise didn’t wait for her maid but bolted for her bed-chamber.
Once there she made straight for the narrow window and threw open the shutters. After several deep breaths of cool, misty night air, she thought she might avoid being sick.
Sweet mercy, but she hated eel. And the earl of Kenworth. And Roland St. Marten. And this whole nasty mess her father expected her to deal with.
Not until she eased down on the bed did she notice the scroll resting beside the bolsters.
Confused, she unrolled the parchment, the writing easily recognizable as her father’s.
Continue to follow my orders and all will be well. Take heart. I am watching and will return when Kenworth leaves.
Her hands shook.
How had her father managed to send her a message? But more important, how could she inform him that coming home wasn’t wise?
As the earl suspected, her father watched events at Lelleford. Perhaps he could continue to avoid capture as he had today. All well and good if that were the only problem.
Unfortunately, while the earl might leave soon, Roland St. Marten would not. He was to remain at Lelleford along with his squire and a small company of men-at-arms. The moment her father came home, Roland would feel it his duty to make the arrest.
From out in the hallway she heard Isolde’s awkward shuffle. The maid surely realized by now that her brother might well be in dire trouble for aiding Sir John. Now both lord and squire might return, thinking themselves safe, only to be arrested.
Eloise laid the parchment aside and stood, wondering how she should impart the bad news. When the door opened, all thoughts of preparing her maid fled.
Directly behind Isolde stood the one man whose presence, and duty, blocked her father’s safe return home.
Roland St. Marten.
Chapter Four
ELOISE’S APPREHENSION vanished so swiftly Roland almost doubted his eyesight and instincts. Before he could further contemplate her reaction, she looked away and busied her hands, casually picking up a parchment scroll from near the edge of her bed, then tucking it into the gold-link girdle belting her trim waist.
Her composure now under command, with tilted head and delicately raised brows, Eloise looked askance at his presence in the doorway.
He eased around the maid who blocked his path and entered the bedchamber, a richly appointed and pleasantly scented room appropriate for the woman who inhabited it.
’Twas a cozy chamber. Woven rush mats were scattered about the polished plank floor. Large, colorful tapestries of floral design hung on the whitewashed walls. A deep blue velvet coverlet matched the draperies—tied back with gold cord—adorning her bed. Isolde’s pallet occupied a corner, not far from two high-backed, ornately carved chairs flanking a claw-footed brass brazier.
He caught a glimpse of white porcelain under the bed—a chamber pot, likely—that matched the washbasin on a table strewn with feminine possessions. A silvered glass competed for space with ribbons, combs, and tiny colorful bottles.
A flash of lightning momentarily brightened the room, heralding an approaching storm. A whisper of cool breeze played with the crimson and gold ribbons woven into Eloise’s braid. He smothered the urge to capture them, unwind them until her tresses hung loose and flowing.
Roland knew Hugh had spent time in this bedchamber with his betrothed, insisting the two of them get to know each other better before they wed. He couldn’t help wonder if the couple had done more than talk. To his mortification he envisioned besotted Hugh and his willful bride-to-be, Eloise’s ribbons undone, bodies entwined on the blue velvet coverlet.
Whatever the
relationship between Hugh and Eloise, it had ended with Hugh’s death. Still, the erotic vision of Eloise pressed against the mattress beneath Hugh wasn’t easily put aside.
“I wish a word with you, Lady Eloise. You and I must come to an understanding.”
Her expression turned mocking. “An understanding, Sir Roland? You have invaded my home. In return for that offense, you expect me to feed and board you and your minions in grand style. Play the meek maid while you play lord of the castle. Pray tell, good sir, just what is it you believe I do not understand?”
He crossed his arms and summoned his patience, which he hoped would hold out over the next weeks. Dealing with Eloise Hamelin sorely taxed his usually amiable nature.
Keeping his attention on Eloise, he told the maid, “Isolde, you will wait in the passageway. Close the door behind you.”
Eloise’s eyes hardened. “My maid may stay.”
“You forget who is in charge, my lady. ’Twould be a mistake to condone your servant’s disobedience of my orders.”
“A ridiculous order.”
“But an order nonetheless. Isolde?”
With pursed lips Eloise nodded at the maid, and soon he heard Isolde’s distinctive shuffle and the door snicker closed.
Only the flicked tip of her pink tongue over her full bottom lip betrayed her nervousness. “Have your say and be done.”
He wanted nothing more than to quit the room, have no more to do with Eloise than he must.
“Both Sir Simon and I warned you of Kenworth’s volatile nature, yet you risked his wrath by leaving the hall before ’twas proper. I come only to caution you to do nothing more to displease him while he is here.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Tell me. Would I have displeased him less had I become violently ill while seated next to him? I should think him gratified I left.”
He saw no sign she suffered. Truth to tell, she appeared the very bloom of good health. “You are ill?”
“No longer. My stomach rebels at the smell of eel, so I thought it wise to leave before my affliction became apparent.”
“Then why serve eel?”
“Simon told me the earl is partial to it.”
So she’d served a dish she couldn’t tolerate as a placating gesture toward Kenworth, who Roland knew considered the grand meal no more than his due.
“A wasted gesture, I fear. The only thing that will appease the earl is Sir John’s capture. Unless you can serve your father up on a platter, no amount of eel, no matter how well prepared, will improve Kenworth’s humor.”
“So I am beginning to understand.” She glanced down at her clasped hands, where one thumb brushed restlessly over the other. “What will happen to my father should he be captured?”
Roland took a fortifying breath. She’d heard all this before. Nothing had changed.
“He will be taken to Westminster for trial.”
“Will he? Or will Kenworth decide to administer immediate justice?” The last word came out harshly, echoing his own reservations about Kenworth’s intentions. “Simon tells me my father is accused of conspiring with the Scots. I refuse to believe it. Father approves of the king. He thought Edward’s handling of the latest uprising most admirable. This charge of treason defies sense. Whoever accuses my father is gravely mistaken.”
Spoken like a loyal daughter, and Roland grudgingly gave her credit for her constancy.
“Truly, I know not who brought the matter to the king’s attention. I know only that Edward is in possession of a missive which indicates Sir John’s guilt.”
“Have you seen this missive?”
“Nay, only told of its existence. By the king. If it is any comfort”—and he had no idea why he thought offering comfort was necessary, nor did he have reason to think she’d accept it from him—“Edward is hard-pressed to believe Sir John a traitor. ’Twould be best if your father states his defense directly to the king as quickly as possible.”
She mulled that over for a moment. “Then if you were asked, you would advise my father to hie to the king?”
“I would.” Something in the tone and way of her question pricked at him. “Eloise, do you know where your father is? Can you send him that advice?”
She gave a disgruntled laugh. “I wish I had such knowledge and could pass along your counsel.” She tossed a hand in the air. “Verily, I suspect Kenworth will not allow my father the chance to give his defense.”
“You cannot know that for sure.”
“Nay, I do not. There is so much I do not know, except that my father is gone, Kenworth is bent on his capture, and you are now in charge of Lelleford. All three are beyond reason and understanding.”
Her bottom lip trembled. Her eyes misted, and damn if he didn’t feel a responding tremor in his innards, which he quickly squelched. She indulged in self-pity, ’twas all, an emotion he couldn’t abide.
“Perhaps you become overset because you remind yourself of your plight so forcefully.”
“I am not overset!”
With that she spun around and strode over to close the window shutters. One stuck open, and after she struggled with it to no avail, he reluctantly went to her aid.
A mistake. He’d forgotten how he’d battled throughout supper to ignore the tang of Eloise’s scent. How much willpower he expended to keep from drifting toward her in an effort to identify what spice or pungent flower emitted so keen yet pleasing a fragrance.
With a sharp, effective rap the shutter closed.
He should move away, except his feet refused to move.
Eloise looked up at him with moist eyes, reflecting her own befuddlement. She didn’t move either, simply stood still and silent in his shadow, too close and far too vibrant and tempting.
Eloise’s appeal drew male reaction as if iron to lode-stone, and Roland cursed the part of his body that swelled in perfectly understandable male response to an enticing female. The response might be natural, but succumbing wasn’t permissible. Not when he had to make her understand she must submit to his authority. Not when the vision of Eloise entwined with Hugh remained too fresh in his vivid imagination.
He stepped back. “Perhaps you will find the situation more easily tolerated on the morn.”
“Will you still be here? And the earl?”
“Aye.”
“Then the situation will still be intolerable. Pray send Isolde in when you leave.”
A regal dismissal. He should take umbrage, but couldn’t think of a good reason to argue, and hated that she was probably right about tomorrow, especially if Sir John continued to elude capture.
“Do you think they found a dry place in which to shelter, milady?”
From her cross-legged position in the middle of her bed, Eloise glanced over at where Isolde was tucked into her pallet. The only light in the room came from glowing coals in the elegant brass brazier they’d lit against the chill of a stormy night.
“Likely.” The weak assurance didn’t ease her worry over her father and undoubtedly wouldn’t satisfy Isolde’s concern for her brother.
“Sir John did right to take Edgar with him,” Isolde stated. “My brother knows these lands and the castle nigh as well as his lordship.”
Eloise heard both fear and pride. Whatever fate awaited Sir John, Edgar would share in it. When this was over, the squire would either be rewarded handsomely or hang beside the lord he served.
She shivered, blaming the thinness of her white linen nightrail, and glanced down at the parchment in her lap. Somehow, she’d concluded, Edgar must have snuck into Lelleford and placed the message on her bed. How, she didn’t know, but ’twas the only reasonable explanation.
“Both Father and Edgar are resourceful. I just wish I knew how to alert them to what goes on here.”
Especially to Roland St. Marten’s role in the affair. Even if, as her father seemed to believe, Kenworth would leave soon, Father shouldn’t return only to be caught unaware of Roland’s presence.
She’d certainly been caught u
naware earlier.
After managing to ignore him all through supper, she’d been forced to deal with Roland in her chamber, a place she never dreamed to encounter him. She might have successfully hidden the message from him, but not her unruly emotions.
Eloise couldn’t remember when she’d last allowed her tears to surface in anyone’s presence. Always, if tears threatened too hard, she sought privacy. Too, crying inevitably left her weak and drained, and she so detested losing control she’d learned how to ruthlessly maintain her composure.
She had not been overset. The tears had surfaced, but not flowed. But it had been damn hard to withhold them when Roland’s deeply timbered voice rumbled through her with a surprising offer of comfort.
Damn the man. She neither wanted nor appreciated his attempt at courtesy. He was the enemy, the invader. The despicable toad who’d tried to convince his half brother not to marry her.
One brief and oddly tender encounter didn’t absolve him of his sins against her. Nor did the few happier moments they’d shared before he’d proved false count in his favor.
She’d been so sure of his good opinion. On one occasion in particular. Roland had come into the stable while she was there, and at the time she fancied he’d sought her out apurpose. They’d spent a long time companionably admiring each other’s horses.
He’d appreciated the grace and heart of her elderly mare; she’d admired the elegance and power of his stallion. He’d impressed her with his charm and wit, and she’d basked in his gallantry. ’Twas a shame, she’d thought then, that Roland was the youngest of his bevy of siblings, still a squire with hardly a copper to his name, and not the immediate heir to his father’s barony.
Her disloyalty to Hugh had caused her a twinge of guilt, which worsened when she overheard how little Roland thought of her, then nearly became unbearable with Hugh’s death.
In her head she knew her unwise preference for Roland hadn’t brought on Hugh’s death, but her heart whispered of divine punishment.
Isolde sat up on her pallet. “Milady, ye do not think to try to warn them, do ye? ’Twould be foolhardy and dangerous.”
